Mubashir Khan
Stories (7)
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Tyranny of the British on the Helpless". AI-Generated.
The sun struggled to rise over Noorabad, its golden light dimmed by the haze of smoke that clung stubbornly to the sky. Just yesterday, the village had been alive with laughter and peace. Children chased each other barefoot through fields of golden wheat, mothers baked bread over clay stoves, and elders sat under the sprawling neem tree, their voices weaving stories of honor and faith.
By Mubashir Khan 4 months ago in History
The dance we promised . AI-Generated.
The rain began as a whisper against the tall windows of the reception hall, soft enough to be ignored at first. By the time the band launched into its third slow song, though, it was coming down in heavy silver streaks, drumming on the roof like an impatient heartbeat. Guests crowded under the awning, clutching champagne flutes, their laughter rising above the storm.
By Mubashir Khan 5 months ago in Humans
Midnight Delivery . AI-Generated.
The street was always quiet at midnight. The kind of quiet that made Alex’s shift feel heavier, as if the world itself was holding its breath. He’d just finished stocking shelves at the corner convenience store and was walking home, headphones in, hood up, trying not to think about how empty the town felt at this hour.
By Mubashir Khan 5 months ago in Humans
24 Hours Without My Phone: A Digital Detox Experiment . AI-Generated.
I can’t remember the last time I went more than an hour without checking my phone. From the moment I wake up to the minute I fall asleep, that small glowing screen is my alarm clock, my calendar, my news source, my entertainment, and my connection to the outside world. Like many people, I’ve often told myself, “I could stop anytime if I wanted to.” But deep down, I wasn’t so sure.
By Mubashir Khan 5 months ago in Humans
From Broken Shoes to Glory: The Inspiring Journey of a Village Boy”. AI-Generated.
In a small, dusty village surrounded by fields of wheat and mango orchards, lived a boy named Ayaan. He was no different from other children except for one thing—his love for running. Whenever the school bell rang or the evening sun dipped low, Ayaan could be seen racing barefoot across the fields, his laughter echoing in the air.
By Mubashir Khan 5 months ago in Motivation
A Mother’s Hand, A Million Dreams . AI-Generated.
The small mud-brick house stood at the edge of the village, its walls cracked, its roof patched with tin sheets that rattled whenever the wind howled. Inside, in the dim light of a single kerosene lamp, sat Amina, her hands busy sewing an old shirt, her eyes glancing at her son, Hamza, who was bent over his worn-out schoolbooks.
By Mubashir Khan 5 months ago in Motivation
The last kindness . AI-Generated.
It was the kind of rain that washed the world into shades of grey, as if even the sky had grown tired of colors. In a forgotten part of the city, under the dim glow of a broken streetlight, a boy stood — small, shivering, clutching a worn-out teddy bear with one ear missing.
By Mubashir Khan 5 months ago in Humans
