Classical

“Flash Fiction Fridays”
Flash Fiction Fridays By [Ali Rehman] Every Friday evening, like clockwork, the small community of writers gathered online for “Flash Fiction Fridays.” It was a tradition born from a shared love of bite-sized stories — short tales packed with emotion, surprise, and meaning, each no longer than a few hundred words but heavy with impact.
By Ali Rehman2 months ago in Fiction
“Voices of the Creators”
Voices of the Creators By [Ali Rehman] In a small, sunlit café tucked away from the noisy streets of the city, a group of creators gathered once a month to share their stories — the stories behind their stories, the voices that shaped their art. They called it the “Voices of the Creators” series: intimate conversations that brought light to the hidden moments, the doubts, and the triumphs of those who create.
By Ali Rehman2 months ago in Fiction
“Whispers of the Unknown”
Whispers of the Unknown By [Ali Rehman] The village of Eldermoor sat at the edge of the world — or at least, that’s what the locals believed. Nestled between misty woods and an endless stretch of twilight sky, it was a place forgotten by time, where strange things whispered on the wind and shadows danced just beyond sight.
By Ali Rehman2 months ago in Fiction
Glass Danse Macabre
The stillness. The steely stillness that stole my breath was ever present. For so long, it had claimed my heart and devotion, and felt alive. Now it felt empty.
By Paul Stewart2 months ago in Fiction
The Call of the Minaret
The early sun had just started to rise from behind the house tops of Medina when Bilal woke up. The air was still cool and heavy with the smell of sand and date palms. For a moment, he listened to the faint sounds of the city waking -- the distant bleating of goats, the clatter of water pots and the quiet hum of life returning after the silence of the night.
By Nusuki2 months ago in Fiction
The Light of the Desert
And the wind sang along the dunes, and Malik took a brush against his shabby cloak, and the desert sand was like tiny sparks on his face. This was hours of walking on part of him, in pursuit of the horizon that kept on pushing away. The sun was now setting, and coloured the sky with fire and gold.
By Nusuki2 months ago in Fiction
The Weight of Memories. AI-Generated.
As I walked away from the house, the fading light of the sun cast long shadows across the neighborhood. I felt a sense of peace wash over me, as if the weight of memories I'd carried for so long had finally begun to lift. The conversation with Mrs. Jenkins had been a balm to my soul, and I was grateful for her kindness.
By Muhammad Kashif 2 months ago in Fiction
The True Story of Byron Baker Wolf
Let me start by saying that my name is Byron Baker Wolf. It’s not Big Bad. I hate that nickname. Look at me—do I look that big or bad to you? Think about it. I’m the smallest in my whole pack and the kindest wolf in the entire forest. Big. Bad. It doesn’t even fit me.
By David E. Perry2 months ago in Fiction
Ada
Our humble homestead was much like the others in our town — bricks and mortar, hard work and sweat, the fruits of diligent labour and precise planning.
By Paul Stewart3 months ago in Fiction
The Night I Realized Love Wasn’t Meant To Save Me
I used to believe love was supposed to be the thing that rescued us. The thing that filled every empty space inside a person. The thing that fixed the parts of life that felt broken. I believed that love was the answer to loneliness, to fear, to the type of quiet sadness that sits in your chest like permanent weight.
By Umar Farooq3 months ago in Fiction
“Umrao Jaan Ada: The Woman Who Turned Pain into Poetry”
Some stories don’t fade with time — they breathe through generations. Among the timeless voices of Urdu literature stands one unforgettable woman: Umrao Jaan Ada.
By hamad khan3 months ago in Fiction
Laid To Rest. Runner-Up in Through the Keyhole Challenge. Top Story - November 2025.
His blood pulsed in his ears. The treasure of a lifetime might have been right before him, right beyond this final barrier. In a vain attempt to steady his sweaty, shaking palms, he wiped them against his field khakis before making the tiniest of incisions in the door’s upper-left-hand corner with his small hand-drill. It was warm, so very warm, and things were so very delicate, more than he ever imagined possible. With a small match, he tested the incision for noxious gases before peering through the peephole.
By Matthew J. Fromm3 months ago in Fiction