Classical
The Train I Almost Missed. AI-Generated.
The 7:45 train was late again — just like it always was on Mondays. The platform was crowded with tired faces and the smell of burnt coffee. Everyone looked impatient, as if being late was the greatest tragedy of their day.
By shakir hamid3 months ago in Fiction
Beyond the Door
In a quiet village in Norfolk, an old cottage stood near the edge of the fields. The sea breeze often reached it, carrying the smell of salt and damp wood. In the southern room of the house, there was a door that was never fully closed. It always stayed half open, as if someone had left it like that on purpose, or simply forgotten to shut it.
By Mansoor Afaq3 months ago in Fiction
Overcoat of Ghulam Abbas
On a January evening, a well-dressed young man walked down Davis Road, turned onto Mall Road, and began strolling leisurely along the tramline toward Charing Cross. From his appearance, he looked quite fashionable: neatly trimmed long sideburns, shiny hair, and thin mustaches so fine they seemed drawn with a kohl stick. He wore a light brown overcoat with a pale rose tucked into the buttonhole, a green flat hat tilted stylishly on his head, and a white silk scarf wrapped neatly around his neck. One hand rested in his coat pocket, the other held a small cane which he twirled playfully from time to time.
By Mansoor Afaq3 months ago in Fiction
The Coffee Cup. AI-Generated.
Every morning at exactly 7:10, Elias Mwangi opened the doors to his tiny café on River Street in Nairobi. The brass bell above the door jingled softly, echoing through the narrow shop that smelled of roasted beans, cinnamon, and rain-soaked wood.
By shakir hamid3 months ago in Fiction
The Sound of Rain. AI-Generated.
It had been raining for three days straight in Lusaka, and the sound had become a kind of background music to Naomi’s thoughts. She sat by the window of her late father’s house, watching water run down the glass, tracing the same paths over and over again — like memories replaying themselves.
By shakir hamid3 months ago in Fiction
The Last Train to Miray. AI-Generated.
The train station of Miray hadn’t seen a real crowd in years. The walls were cracked, the benches splintered, and the ticket window covered in dust. Once, this place had been the heart of a small but thriving mining town. Now, it was only the heart of one old man who refused to let it die.
By shakir hamid3 months ago in Fiction
The Lighthouse Keeper’s Letter. AI-Generated.
The wind howled along the cliffs of Cape Town, tearing at the edges of the lighthouse like it wanted to knock it into the ocean. Inside, an old man sat hunched over a wooden desk, pen in hand, paper worn and yellowed.
By shakir hamid3 months ago in Fiction
