Excerpt
Letters My Future Self Forgot to Send
Story Letters My Future Self Forgot to Send The first letter arrived on a Tuesday. It was tucked neatly between a credit card bill and a grocery flyer, its envelope yellowed at the edges, the paper thick and almost too formal for the times. My name was written in looping handwriting I didn’t recognize, but the strangest part was the postmark: March 14, 2045.
By waseem khan5 months ago in Fiction
The Woman Who Spoke in Weather
Story The Woman Who Spoke in Weather Harold Linton had been the city’s morning weatherman for nineteen years. He was steady, reliable, and rarely surprised — the kind of man who could read a sky like a favorite book. His office sat on the eleventh floor of a squat, concrete building downtown, where he had a perfect view of Ashbury Street.
By waseem khan5 months ago in Fiction
Shadows on the Edge of Tomorrow
By Nadeem Shah The rain had a way of softening the city’s edges. Buildings that normally looked sharp and unforgiving now blurred into a watercolor of gray and silver. Streetlights bled into the puddles, their glow stretching out in ripples with every raindrop that fell.
By Nadeem Shah 5 months ago in Fiction
Shadows on the Edge of Tomorrow
By Nadeem Shah The rain had a way of softening the city’s edges. Buildings that normally looked sharp and unforgiving now blurred into a watercolor of gray and silver. Streetlights bled into the puddles, their glow stretching out in ripples with every raindrop that fell.
By Nadeem Shah 5 months ago in Fiction
The Last Letter She Never Sent
By Nadeem Shah The envelope had yellowed with time, the edges curling slightly as if it had been holding its breath for years. It sat at the bottom of the box, beneath a stack of old photographs and forgotten receipts, as though it had been waiting—patient, quiet—for someone to finally notice it.
By Nadeem Shah 5 months ago in Fiction
A Stranger in Every Photograph
A Stranger in Every Photograph I found the photo album on a rainy Sunday afternoon, tucked behind boxes in the attic of my late grandmother’s house. Its leather cover was cracked and worn, the pages yellowed, and the smell of old paper and faint perfume clung to it like a ghost.
By waseem khan5 months ago in Fiction
The Day the Colors Fled
The Day the Colors Fled It started quietly, as if the city had taken a deep breath and let all color escape. I woke to gray skies and streets stripped of vibrancy. My walls, my clothes, the garden outside—everything was a shade of ash, steel, and stone. Even the sunlight seemed pallid, like paper left too long in the sun. I rubbed my eyes, convinced it was a trick of sleep. But the world outside my window confirmed my fear.
By waseem khan5 months ago in Fiction
