MUHAMMAD FARHAN
Bio
Muhammad Farhan: content writer with 5 years' expertise crafting engaging stories, newsletters & persuasive copy. I transform complex ideas into clear, compelling content that ranks well and connects with audiences.
Stories (12)
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The Gap.
The Pan-American Highway is one of humanity’s greatest triumphs of will. It is a ribbon of asphalt stretching over 19,000 miles, a nearly unbroken line connecting the frozen tundras of Alaska to the windswept plains of Argentina. I say *nearly* unbroken, because there is one place where the asphalt crumbles to dirt, the road signs vanish, and civilization itself gives up. This place is a 66-mile stretch of raw, primordial wilderness separating Colombia from Panama. It has a name spoken in whispers by travelers, a name that has become synonymous with a very specific kind of hell: the Darién Gap.
By MUHAMMAD FARHAN6 months ago in Proof
The Sight.
The day they removed the bandages, my first-ever sight was of Anna’s face, wet with tears, her eyes the color of a summer sky—a color I was only just learning the name for. The world exploded into my consciousness in a brilliant, overwhelming flood of light, shape, and hue. For weeks, I was like a child, rediscovering the universe. I’d spend hours just staring at the vibrant green of a single leaf, the deep, impossible blue of the ocean, or the unfamiliar face that looked back at me from the mirror. I was euphoric, drunk on the beauty of a world I was finally, truly a part of.
By MUHAMMAD FARHAN6 months ago in Horror
The Margin.
In the autumn of 1941, London was a city holding its breath. By day, we swept up the glass and brick from the previous night’s terror. By night, we huddled in shelters, listening to the symphony of death from above—the mournful drone of bombers, the sharp bark of anti-aircraft guns, and the deafening roar as another piece of our world was torn away. My sanctuary in this chaos was the library. I was a librarian, a guardian of stories in a world that seemed intent on erasing them. My job, I thought, was to protect our books from the bombs.
By MUHAMMAD FARHAN6 months ago in Proof
The Tally Man.
The summer of 2005 was long, hazy, and smelled of cut grass and impending thunderstorms. For my friends—Liam, Sarah, David, and me—it was a season of boundless freedom, spent in the woods behind our suburban neighborhood. Our days were a blur of scraped knees and shared secrets, but it was the twilight hours that we lived for. That’s when we played the game.
By MUHAMMAD FARHAN6 months ago in Horror
The Sleep Recorder.
I’ve always been a bit of a data junkie. I track my steps, my heart rate, my screen time—all in the name of self-optimization. So, when I found "Somnus," a sleek new sleep-tracking app, I downloaded it instantly. The interface was clean, the promises were grand: it would analyze my sleep cycles, identify disturbances, and record any nocturnal sounds to give me a complete picture of my rest. For the first two weeks, it was boringly brilliant. It produced clean graphs of my REM cycles and a few pathetic audio clips of my own snoring. It was exactly what I wanted: predictable, sterile data.
By MUHAMMAD FARHAN6 months ago in Horror
The Zone of Silence.
In our modern world, we are drowning in signals. Wi-Fi, GPS, radio waves, and cellular data form an invisible, inescapable web that connects us all. We are never truly lost, never truly out of touch. But what if there was a place where that web simply… broke? A place where the modern world falls silent, where technology dies, and something much older and stranger whispers in the quiet. Such a place exists. In the stark, beautiful emptiness of the Mapimí Biosphere Reserve in Durango, Mexico, lies a patch of desert known as La Zona del Silencio—the Zone of Silence.
By MUHAMMAD FARHAN6 months ago in Proof
The House That Remembers.
The old Victorian house on Chestnut Street was our dream, or at least the skeleton of it. It was a fixer-upper, with peeling paint and floors that groaned like a sleeping old man, but my husband, Ben, and I saw its potential. We were young, in love, and naively optimistic about how far a few coats of paint and a lot of hard work could go. We bought it for a steal, blissfully unaware that the house came with a feature not listed in the realtor’s description.
By MUHAMMAD FARHAN6 months ago in Fiction
I Ended My "Perfect" Relationship Because of a Single, Quiet Realization.
From the outside, Liam and I were the couple everyone wanted to be. We were the "forever" couple, the ones who had met in college and seamlessly built a life together over six years. Our apartment was a gallery of our shared memories: photos from trips to the coast, ticket stubs from a dozen concerts, a ridiculous coffee mug we’d fought over in a thrift store. Our love was a comfortable, well-worn sweater—warm, familiar, and something I thought I would wear for the rest of my life.
By MUHAMMAD FARHAN7 months ago in Humans
The Ship That Vanished: The Unsolved Mystery of the Mary Celeste.
The ocean keeps its secrets better than any soul on earth. On December 5, 1872, in the vast, rolling expanse of the Atlantic between the Azores and Portugal, the crew of the Canadian brigantine *Dei Gratia* spotted a ship drifting aimlessly. Her sails were set but tattered, and she moved with an unnerving, erratic grace, like a phantom dancing to a song no one could hear. She was the *Mary Celeste*, and she was utterly, eerily alone.
By MUHAMMAD FARHAN7 months ago in Proof
I Worked as a Food Delivery Driver for a Month. Here Are the 3 Harsh Truths I Learned About People.
I took the job for the reasons most people do: my car was reliable, my savings account was not, and I was between projects with too much time on my hands. "It'll be easy," I told myself. "Just me, my playlist, and the open road." I imagined it as a kind of urban exploration, a simple transaction of picking up a bag from point A and dropping it at point B.
By MUHAMMAD FARHAN7 months ago in Humans
The Little Girl in the Hospital Waiting Room Who Taught Me How to Be Brave.
The air in a hospital waiting room has a weight of its own. It’s a thick, heavy blanket woven from sterile antiseptic smells, hushed whispers, and the collective anxiety of strangers. On that Tuesday afternoon, I was suffocating under it. Every tick of the clock on the wall was a hammer blow against my sanity. I sat on a stiff, vinyl chair, twisting a loose thread on my sleeve, my world having shrunk to two terrifying words: “benign” or “malignant.”
By MUHAMMAD FARHAN7 months ago in Humans
