Fable
The Blooom of Nature
Auther name (Hazratullah) When the chill of winter fades away and the air becomes softer, a fresh chapter opens in the story of the earth. Spring arrives not with noise, but with gentle signals—the budding of leaves, the fragrance of early blossoms, and the return of sunlight that feels warm rather than distant. It is a season that represents transformation, a reminder that the cycle of life continues, and that every ending carries within it the seed of a new beginning.
By Asmatullah6 months ago in Fiction
The Price of Feelings
The Price of Feelings On the edge of a bustling city lay an old neighborhood. The streets were narrow, the walls peeling, the houses worn out. After every rain, puddles filled the crooked lanes. Yet, the true identity of this neighborhood wasn’t its poverty but its people. They were poor in wealth, but rich at heart. Their homes lacked gold and silver, but their faces carried smiles, and their hearts carried softness.
By New stAr writer 6 months ago in Fiction
Heroes Don’t Always Wear Badges
Heroes Don’t Always Wear Badges “Sometimes courage comes on two wheels, and kindness wears leather.” The rain pounded against the neon sign of Rust & Chrome, a biker bar tucked into the edge of town, the kind of place parents warned their children about. Inside, the air was thick with smoke, the clink of beer bottles, and the low growl of motorcycles idling outside. Men with tattoos, leather jackets, and faces hardened by life filled the bar, laughing, arguing, and daring one another to drink shots faster than their stomachs could handle.
By waseem khan6 months ago in Fiction
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 khan6 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 Asmatullah6 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 Asmatullah6 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 Stone6 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 Ullah6 months ago in Fiction
