Classical

The Final Signal – Part Two
It had been ten days since the murder of Fizan Shafiq. Lahore's skies had returned to a humid stillness, but for DSP Hammad Rizvi, the storm was far from over.
By Ameer Gull7 months ago in Fiction
Better Sky Somewhere
The morning Nora left Chicago, the sky was the color of ash. Cold and heavy, like grief itself. She stood at the train station clutching a worn leather backpack, a secondhand suitcase, and a bundle of emotions too tangled to name. Behind her was a crumbling apartment filled with memories of Daniel. In front of her—a small town called Waverly she’d found on a whim, bookmarked during one of those 3 a.m. searches for "cheap towns to disappear into."
By Kippler7 months ago in Fiction
The Flowers Never Wilted.
Every Tuesday at 9:00 AM sharp, he walked into the flower shop on Fifth Street. He never needed to speak. The florist already knew.
By Muhammad Usama7 months ago in Fiction
The Roar and the Whisper
The Roar That Ruled "eep in the heart of the forest where sunlight cracked through tangled canopies and shadows held secrets, ruled the mighty lion, Ragnar. His mane was like flame, his roar like thunder, and no creature dared question his rule. He hunted when he pleased, roamed where he chose, and took what he wanted.
By Arshad khan7 months ago in Fiction
Unsent
He stared at the phone screen, thumbs hovering above the keyboard. The message had been typed and deleted five times already. Every version felt wrong — too soft, too late, too honest, too full of regret. And yet, none of them felt like enough.
By Muhammad Usama7 months ago in Fiction
The Room Without a Door
There’s a room I don’t talk about. It doesn’t exist in any house I’ve lived in, and yet, it lives inside me—quiet, waiting, with wallpaper that peels in dreams and a light that never fully turns on.
By Ghani7 months ago in Fiction
Last Wish. Content Warning.
This story was narrated on a podcast, if you would like to give it a listen: --- The clouds fade into a dark grey above the foggy village already blackened by its own rain clouds. A somber setting where water drops are replaced with a crimson shower. The shops of commoners and the buildings in the Queen’s name bleed onto the uneven streets, puddles of despair forming in the dips of dirt. The statue of their Founder’s finger drips blood onto the victims of mourning.
By Krystyna Kwiatkowska7 months ago in Fiction
"My Dead Grandfather Knocked on Our Door — What Happened Next Changed My Life Forever"
> “Some stories are not fiction. They are warnings… whispers from the other side.” --- The Midnight Knock It was a cold winter night in our old family house in the village. I was just 14. The electricity had gone out, and the entire house was quiet, wrapped in the kind of stillness that makes your skin crawl.
By James World 8 months ago in Fiction
"What If You Woke Up in a Parallel Universe?"
I’ve never believed in alternate realities. Time loops, multiverse theories, Mandela effects—it was all just science fiction for me. Until the morning I woke up and realized I wasn’t in my world anymore.
By Hamad Haider8 months ago in Fiction
When Fire Met the Flame: A Dialogue Between Rumi and Shams of Tabriz
"Do not seek the water. Become thirsty. Only then will the water seek you." — Shams of Tabriz The sun was tilting toward the horizon when Shams of Tabriz walked into the small courtyard where Rumi was seated, deep in contemplation. The air was still, as though listening. The sky, a burning tapestry of gold and crimson, mirrored the inner fire both men carried—one seeking, the other, flame.
By Khalid Khan8 months ago in Fiction
A Shepherd Promise. AI-Generated.
I. The Boy from the Mountains High in the emerald folds of the Azurian Mountains, where eagles soared and wildflowers whispered to the wind, lived a boy named Aurel. He was just twenty, with sun-golden skin, unruly black curls, and eyes the color of storm clouds—eyes that had seen the dance of wolves and the cry of hawks, but never the velvet hush of courtly halls.
By Kippler8 months ago in Fiction
The Man Who Sat at Table Seven
There’s a quiet little café on East 41st Street, nestled unceremoniously between a secondhand bookstore and a flower shop that always smells of jasmine and damp stems. Blink, and you might miss it. No neon signs. No whimsical chalkboard menus boasting fancy lattes or turmeric infusions. The awning just reads “Mira’s Café” in fading gold letters. Inside, it smells like toasted bread, warm milk, and stories too old to tell.
By Arshad khan8 months ago in Fiction