Fable
The Library That Erases You
The Library That Erases You The first time I stumbled upon the library, it wasn’t there. I had walked past the crumbling brick building on the corner of Sycamore Street hundreds of times, always noting the “FOR SALE” sign that had been hanging crooked in the window for years. But that night, something was different. A warm light glowed behind the dusty panes, and a polished brass plaque gleamed faintly in the moonlight. It read:
By waseem khan5 months ago in Fiction
The Mountain and the Squirrel
Auther name (Hazratullah) High in a distant land, where the air was clear and the wind carried the sound of eagles, there stood a mighty mountain. Its peak rose so high that clouds often rested on its shoulders, and its sides were marked with rivers, forests, and sharp stones. To many creatures, the mountain seemed eternal, unshakable, and proud. It had witnessed storms, earthquakes, and the rise of countless seasons, yet it remained strong, towering above everything around it.
By Asmatullah5 months ago in Fiction
The Deceiver of the Wild
Auther name ( Hazratullah) The forest is a place where every creature struggles to survive, a land where strength, patience, and wisdom decide who thrives and who perishes. Among all the animals that roamed the dense woodland, there lived a fox whose name was whispered with equal parts fear and admiration. He was not the largest beast, nor the strongest, but his clever mind and quick thinking allowed him to escape the sharpest claws and the deadliest fangs. He was known as the deceiver of the wild, the one who turned danger into opportunity.
By Asmatullah5 months ago in Fiction
The Dream Breaker. AI-Generated.
POV: Irios "Some stones sleep. Others dream. A few remember." — Inscription inside the 13th Pillar I try to breathe and inhale only dust. My lungs seize. Not from pain, not from breathlessness. Just the shock of trying at all. For a long moment, I hang there—not standing, not lying, but suspended in some crooked, tilted place, my mouth full of grit and silence.
By Morpheus of Stone5 months ago in Fiction
The Language of Love
Emma Whitman, a travel blogger from Seattle, had always been drawn to languages that spoke to the soul. Urdu, with its poetic elegance, fascinated her deeply. She enrolled in a three-week course in Islamabad, not knowing that this journey would lead her to something far beyond alphabets and grammar – it would lead her to love. Her instructor, Zayan Ali, was a man of quiet charm, deeply rooted in his culture. Their first meeting was simple – a polite greeting and a shared smile – yet an invisible thread seemed to pull them toward each other. Each day, Zayan introduced Emma to new words, but more than the language, it was his passion for poetry, art, and the beauty of expression that captivated her. “This word,” he said one afternoon, writing محبت (mohabbat) on the board, “means love. But in Urdu, it is more than a word. It is a feeling you carry in your soul.” Emma repeated softly, “Mohabbat…” and Zayan felt the syllables echo in his chest like a whisper he could not ignore.
By Aman Ullah5 months ago in Fiction
The Golden Diary
The attic had always been a forbidden place in the house. Dusty, dim, and filled with relics that no one cared about anymore, it seemed like a graveyard of forgotten objects. Yet, one late afternoon, curiosity pulled Zara toward it. The wooden stairs creaked beneath her feet, as though warning her to turn back. But she didn’t. Something in her heart told her that there was a story hidden there, waiting for her.
By Vocal Member 5 months ago in Fiction
Tales From The Royal's Summer Stock Theater Scene
At first the man with the money, who really was out of the money, thought he was defending turf but when Tartarian arrived at tranquil Magic Bay, the destination showed its beauty. Suddenly, a maiden, claiming screamed ‘surf’s up’ declaring a winning experience.
By Marc OBrien5 months ago in Fiction
The Borrowed Face. Top Story - August 2025.
Elisabetta was woken by shivers that ran up and down her spine. She found herself lying on the dew covered, lush grass. Her head was pulsing with pain. She must have hit it — why else would she hear music shimmering like bells? She was still in the forest.
By Imola Tóth5 months ago in Fiction
Memory
All he had in his life was memory. The house sagged beneath the weight of years, timber groaning under rain and neglect. He moved through its narrow halls like a ghost, brushing dust from the shelves, touching remnants of lives once lived. Each object held her imprint, every shadow whispered her name.
By Vincent Otiri5 months ago in Fiction
