Abuzar khan
Stories (123)
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Death Came with a Loyalty Card
I was in line at the grocery store when I died. Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. Literally. There I was — holding a sad little basket with discounted hummus, three cans of tuna, and one overripe banana — when I heard a loud crack, saw a flicker of light, and the next thing I knew, I was standing beside myself.
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Horror
The House That Forgot Our Names
The house was waiting. But it didn’t remember who we were. It stood exactly where it always had — at the end of Wren Hollow Road, behind a gate that no longer latched, wrapped in ivy like an old secret. The windows were still cracked at the corners, like eyelids struggling to stay open. But something had changed.
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Fiction
We Were the Last Two Dreamers in a City That Stopped Sleeping
The city hadn’t slept in twenty-seven years. Sleep was outlawed after the Dream Collapse — when the government decided that dreams were dangerous, unpredictable, and treasonous. “Order is built in waking,” they told us. “Dreams make rebels of men.” And so, they erased them.
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Fiction
"Brenda Doesn’t Exist"
Everyone remembers Brenda. They remember the red hair, always damp like she’d just stepped out of rain. They remember the laugh that cracked the stillness of study halls, the notes she passed in class folded into intricate little hearts. They remember the way she walked—fast, like the world was trying to catch her and never could.
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Fiction
The Fire Inside the Statue
They say the statue in the old courtyard was sculpted by a man who had once loved a goddess. Not just any goddess, but a spirit of fire—brilliant, wild, and wholly untamable. The statue was his offering, a way to keep her close, even after her light had disappeared from the world.
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Poets
Things I Wanted to Say to You, but Wrote in the Margins Instead"
Your copy of The Bell Jar still sits on my shelf. The spine’s cracked now, the pages worn at the corners like they’ve been trying to fly away. I’ve read it too many times. Or maybe I’ve just read the parts where your handwriting lives.
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Humans
The Night We Pretended the Bombs Were Fireworks
The sirens started just after midnight. We were on the rooftop — barefoot, cold beer in hand, wrapped in one blanket between us. The city stretched below like a quiet beast, blinking its sleepy lights at the stars. You rested your head on my shoulder, and I remember thinking, this is what peace must taste like — not in nations, but in moments.
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Humans
The Woman on the Train Who Wasn’t There
I saw her every day on the 7:06 to Greystone. Same seat. Second row from the back. Window side. Always reading a book — not a Kindle, mind you, but a real one. Hardcover. Worn edges. She turned each page like it meant something.
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Fiction
"Yesterday, I Dreamed of You Again"
Yesterday, I dreamed of you again. And this time… you stayed. You were sitting on the porch — barefoot, coffee in hand, wearing that sweater I could never bring myself to donate. The one with the fraying cuffs and that faint trace of your cologne I can still catch if I hold it close enough. The sky behind you was that soft purple of early morning, and the breeze smelled like lavender — and something else I can’t describe. Maybe comfort. Maybe grief.
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Humans
