shakir hamid
Bio
A passionate writer sharing well-researched true stories, real-life events, and thought-provoking content. My work focuses on clarity, depth, and storytelling that keeps readers informed and engaged.
Stories (178)
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The Snow Outside Never Stopped. AI-Generated.
Elias Rowe hated winter, not because of the cold, but because winter remembered things he tried to forget. His cabin sat deep in the northern woods, isolated by design. No neighbors. No roads once the snow piled high enough. Just trees, silence, and the slow ticking of time inside his head.
By shakir hamid24 days ago in Horror
The Snow That Knows Your Name. AI-Generated.
The first snow fell too early that year. In Hollowridge, winter was expected to arrive slowly — teasing the town with frost before committing. But this time, it came overnight. By morning, rooftops were buried, roads erased, and the forest surrounding the town stood frozen in a thick white silence.
By shakir hamid24 days ago in Horror
The Last Café Before Midnight. AI-Generated.
The Last Café Before Midnight Rain didn’t usually scare anyone in the city. But that night, it seemed heavier—like the sky was trying to wash away something it couldn’t name. The streetlights blurred into long yellow streaks, and the wind carried the smell of wet asphalt and loneliness.
By shakir hamid29 days ago in Fiction
The Lantern of Quiet Choices. AI-Generated.
In the bustling town of Auravale, where neon lights gleamed against glass towers and drones painted the sky with streaks of silver, lived a 14-year-old boy named Rian Solis. Auravale was a place that believed louder was better—louder advertisements, louder opinions, louder celebrations. Yet, amid the constant clamor, Rian preferred quiet places, quiet thoughts, and quiet choices.
By shakir hamidabout a month ago in Fiction
The Man Who Repaired Sunsets. AI-Generated.
Every evening at precisely 6:21 p.m., the sky above Old Harbour performed the same tired ritual. The sun dipped low, the clouds gathered in a half-hearted formation, and the horizon glowed in a colour that looked incomplete—like an artist who left the canvas unfinished and simply walked away.
By shakir hamidabout a month ago in Motivation
The Last Café Before Midnight. AI-Generated.
Rain didn’t usually scare anyone in the city. But that night, it seemed heavier—like the sky was trying to wash away something it couldn’t name. The streetlights blurred into long yellow streaks, and the wind carried the smell of wet asphalt and loneliness.
By shakir hamidabout a month ago in Confessions
The Night the Stars Forgot Their Names. AI-Generated.
On the night the stars forgot their names, Rayan was the only person awake on the rooftop. He stood there with a mug of warm chai, expecting the usual comforting view—the stitched blanket of constellations he had admired since childhood. But tonight, the sky felt strangely empty.
By shakir hamidabout a month ago in Fiction
The Man Who Repaired Sunsets. AI-Generated.
Every evening at precisely 6:21 p.m., the sky above Old Harbour performed the same tired ritual. The sun dipped low, the clouds gathered in a half-hearted formation, and the horizon glowed in a colour that looked incomplete—like an artist who left the canvas unfinished and simply walked away.
By shakir hamidabout a month ago in Fiction
The Wabi-Sabi of Time. AI-Generated.
In the near future, memory is no longer something fragile, fading, or human. It is editable. The world calls it The Polisher—a sleek, palm-sized device that can smooth out the rough edges of any memory. A heartbreak becomes a polite farewell. A failure becomes a valuable lesson. A lonely night becomes a quiet moment of “self-reflection.” In this era, no one carries emotional scars. No one remembers the rawness of living. Everything is curated. Everything is clean.
By shakir hamidabout a month ago in Fiction
The Lanterns of Taal Ridge. AI-Generated.
The path to Taal Ridge was a stitched scar along the mountainside — narrow, ancient, and always whispering. Locals said the wind carried the voices of those who had climbed before, a soft chorus urging every traveler not to turn back. But for Arel Vazim, turning back was not an option.
By shakir hamidabout a month ago in Fiction
