Classical
The Place Where Evenings Pause. AI-Generated.
The bus arrived later than promised, which felt appropriate to Naila. The town had never been good at keeping exact time. It preferred approximation—late afternoons, early evenings, moments that drifted rather than arrived.
By Mehwish Jabeen21 days ago in Fiction
The Weight of Ordinary Days. AI-Generated.
Every morning at exactly seven-thirty, Imran unlocked the shop. Not earlier. Not later. The key turned with a soft resistance he had memorized years ago. The bell above the door rang once, then settled. He switched on the lights, straightened the counter, and placed the ledger in the same position it had occupied for as long as he could remember.
By Mehwish Jabeen21 days ago in Fiction
The Day the Clock Stayed Silent. AI-Generated.
On the morning the clock stopped, no one noticed right away. The town had never been ruled by urgency. People woke when light reached their windows, not when alarms demanded it. Shops opened when the owners arrived. Conversations ended when they felt complete, not when schedules insisted.
By Mehwish Jabeen22 days ago in Fiction
Bloodless Tomorrow
The world did not end when the virus turned humanity into vampires, it changed, adapted, hardened, the transformation happened slowly at first, a mutation triggered by synthetic blood substitutes created to end famine, the irony was cruel, the cure for hunger became the curse of immortality, millions transformed into nocturnal beings who no longer aged, no longer slept, and could no longer survive without blood, governments collapsed, cities were sealed, and science replaced religion as the last hope, and in the underground districts of what used to be Europe, a small group of vampires clung to a rumor whispered through encrypted networks and black-market data streams, a cure existed, not a myth, not faith, but a real scientific solution hidden beneath the ruins of an abandoned research complex, buried under kilometers of reinforced earth, accessible only through a single tunnel that no one who entered had ever returned from, and yet they decided to go, because immortality without choice was just another kind of death.
By Diab the story maker 22 days ago in Fiction
He Hurt Her. I Ended Him
She learned early how to hide bruises, how to smile with her eyes while her body ached, how to apologize for things she never did, her fiancé was admired in public, polite, charming, the kind of man mothers trusted and friends defended, but behind closed doors he turned love into control and silence into punishment, his hands never left marks where people could see at first, and when they did, he called them accidents, called her clumsy, called her dramatic, and she believed him longer than she should have because fear has a way of convincing you that survival is love, the night she finally left the apartment in a torn dress and shaking hands, she didn’t leave to escape him forever, she left to breathe for one evening, just one, she went to a classical concert downtown because it was dark and crowded and loud enough to drown her thoughts, she sat in the back row hoping no one would notice her, unaware that someone very powerful already had.
By Diab the story maker 22 days ago in Fiction
The Cinder’s Weight
The hearth has stopped its singing.white-ribbed and glowing with a soft, pulsing ache. I am watching the last flame— a tiny, blue-tongued ghost licking the underside of a charred knot. It is fragile, a translucent ribbon fraying against the weight of the coming dark. There is a specific silence that lives here For hours, it was a roar of gold and defiance, consuming the dry cedar of our history, the splinters of every word we ever threw into the heat to keep the room alive. But the wood is spent now. The logs have collapsed into a skeletal geography,
By Awa Nyassi25 days ago in Fiction
