Ayub khan

Joined August 2025

11 stories

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Stories (11)

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**Whispers from the Precipice: A Love Reborn in Twilight**. AI-Generated.
### Echoes of the Eternal Dawn In the hush of awakening, where dreams dissolve into the tangible warmth of flesh, I stirred from the velvet depths of slumber. My eyelids, heavy as forgotten secrets, fluttered open to a world softened by the afterglow of our shared ecstasy. A languid bliss coursed through my limbs, a sweet inertia that cradled the soul like a lover's sigh. The room swam in a haze of golden light filtering through half-drawn curtains, and there, emerging from the blur like a vision etched in moonlight, was Vibha's face—serene, luminous, her dark eyes holding the quiet wisdom of ancient rivers.
By Ayub khan2 months ago in Marriage
Shadows of the Black Cat. AI-Generated.
# The Black Cat In the dim, fog-shrouded streets of Eldridge Hollow, where the gas lamps flickered like dying stars, lived Elias Crowe. He was a man of middling years, a bookseller by trade, whose shop on Marrow Lane was a repository of forgotten tomes and whispered secrets. Elias had no family, no friends to speak of—only the shadows that clung to his walls and the relentless patter of rain against his warped windowpanes. But he had Mortimer, his black cat.
By Ayub khan3 months ago in Horror
The Moonlit Thread. AI-Generated.
Aisha lived in a modest mud-brick house at the edge of her village, where the mountains loomed like silent guardians. Her days were filled with routine—helping her mother, Amna, with household chores, tending to their small vegetable garden, and watching over her younger brother, Arif, whose laughter was the only music in their quiet life. Their father had died in a landslide when Aisha was just a child, leaving behind a void that Amna filled with resilience and love. Yet, despite the warmth of her family, Aisha felt a restless stirring in her soul, a longing for something she couldn’t name.
By Ayub khan4 months ago in Motivation
Echoes of the Forgotten
“You’re insane, and I’m going to kill you,” I say. She kisses my neck, her teeth scraping my throat, and the scent of her is so heady my knees almost bend.
By Ayub khan4 months ago in Families
A Night of Farewells
You spent the whole evening of this Friday, May 22nd, 1997, with her. After dinner, you followed her back to her apartment, a small unit tucked inside a 1970s residential tower. The city outside feels unusually still, as if it, too, has surrendered to the late hour, but here, in this dimly lit room, time moves differently. The hours stretched on, and neither of you wanted to sleep. Now, in the morning’s earliest breath, the weight of exhaustion presses against your limbs, and the slow, heady fog of alcohol lingers between you. The air inside is thick with the scent of cigarettes and stale liquor, the remnants of the drinks you’ve shared since returning.
By Ayub khan4 months ago in Marriage
The First Lesson of My Story. AI-Generated.
I was seven years old when I first felt I could do something special. Our home was a modest house in a quiet neighborhood of Kanpur, where the streets smelled of earth and the evenings carried the clink of teacups from rooftops. Behind the house was a small garden where my grandmother, Nani, tended to her beloved tulsi plant, talking to it as if it were an old friend. And there I was, sitting nearby, scribbling fragments of dreams in a little notebook—a tattered diary where Nani once kept track of her medicines. That diary was the beginning of my first “novel.”
By Ayub khan4 months ago in BookClub
The Lantern Keeper. AI-Generated.
The fog clung to the cliffs like a shroud stitched from ghosts, wrapping the lighthouse in a silence so thick Amara could hear her own heartbeat. She’d come to this forgotten corner of the coast to escape—her sister’s laugh, sharp as a blade, still echoed in her dreams, alongside the guilt that gnawed at her bones. The village of Greyhaven, with its salt-worn cottages and whispering tides, seemed the perfect place to disappear. The lighthouse, long abandoned, needed a caretaker. No one asked why she took the job, and she offered no answers.
By Ayub khan5 months ago in Families
The Cosmic Bowling Match
By E. J. LISTON [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories November 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
By Ayub khan5 months ago in BookClub
A House in Peshawar. AI-Generated.
The old house on Kohat Road had been abandoned for decades. Its wooden shutters hung loose, its stone walls bore cracks wide enough for the wind to whistle through, and the locals swore that after dusk, a dim light flickered in its upper window. Children dared each other to throw stones at its broken gate, but no one had ever stepped inside and returned with a smile. The place had a reputation: cursed, haunted, and dangerous.
By Ayub khan5 months ago in Horror
The Island of death. AI-Generated.
Every culture has its own crime and detective stories that shape the way readers think about justice, courage, and truth. For Urdu readers, few names carry as much weight as Ishtiaq Ahmed. His novels introduced generations to mysteries full of suspense, danger, and moral lessons. One of his most memorable works is Maut Ka Jazeera (The Island of Death), a story that blends adventure with crime in a way that keeps you turning the pages late into the night.
By Ayub khan5 months ago in Criminal
Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde
Mr. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary and yet somehow lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste, something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; drank gin when he was alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; and though he enjoyed the theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. “I incline to Cain’s heresy,” he used to say quaintly: “I let my brother go to the devil in his own way.” In this character, it was frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in the lives of downgoing men. And to such as these, so long as they came about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour.
By Ayub khan5 months ago in Horror