Fable

The Goat and the Lion
The Goat and the Lion – A Tale of Trust in the Heart of the Wild In the valley of Taramara, where tall pines brushed the clouds and silence hung like mist over the earth, a tale bloomed—one that the forest creatures still whisper on windy nights. It is the story of a goat and a lion. Two souls, so different in strength, in purpose, and in destiny—yet bound by something neither claws nor horns could touch: trust.
By Saeed Ullah 6 months ago in Fiction
The Last Roar
The Last Roar In the heart of an ancient jungle where time seemed carved into tree bark and whispered through leaves, two kings ruled in silence—the lion and the wolf. One was the traditional sovereign of the savannah, a creature of golden mane and commanding roar. The other, a shadow from the mountains—silver-eyed, silent, and ruthless.
By Saeed Ullah 6 months ago in Fiction
Echoes Across the Stream
Story: The scent of pine and musty wood rose from the forest floor, whispering secrets through the rain. A splintered stump lay beside a trickling stream, its jagged edges like broken memories carved into time. Rain drizzled gently through the canopy above, each drop falling like a heartbeat against the earth. One fell from a low-hanging branch, slipping down the back of an elephant’s ear and sliding down his thick grey skin. He did not flinch. He simply stood, unmoving, eyes staring ahead—toward something only he seemed to see.
By Saeed Ullah 6 months ago in Fiction
Little Red Sells Her Hood
They still call me Red. Never mind that I’ve worn black for a decade now—sharp black, tailored, the kind that says "I bite back." Never mind the PhD in Behavioral Economics or the four zeroes on my corporate retainer. In the minutes of every meeting, I’m still "Red."
By Alain SUPPINI6 months ago in Fiction
"Fukushima's Children: The Ghost Divers Who Fed the Beast Below"
Prologue: The Last Transmission March 11, 2011 — Fukushima Daiichi Control Room "Radiation spike in Reactor 4! Core pressure... impossible! It’s not decay heat—something’s alive in there! Kami, it’s—"
By Ahmed Abdeen6 months ago in Fiction
*The Great Goat Escape*
In the quiet village of Chamakpur, where the days passed like slow-moving clouds and the loudest sound was usually the rooster’s morning call, one creature had a talent for turning calm into comedy: Bakri No. 47.
By meerjanan6 months ago in Fiction
*The Mysterious Suitcase*
It was a quiet Tuesday morning in the village of Nangal, the kind where even the chickens seemed to yawn in slow motion. Shabir, the tea stall owner, wiped down his counter with a faded cloth, the kettle humming softly beside him. That’s when he saw it—a black suitcase, sitting upright on the wooden bench outside his shop, as if it had been waiting for someone important.
By meerjanan6 months ago in Fiction
The Last Bus to Terminal 9
The sky was never blue anymore. It hung low over the crumbling city like a rusted lid, filtering every ray of sunlight into a dull, sickly hue. People walked the streets with bowed heads and regulation-gray masks, their eyes hollow with routine. Screens blinked from the walls, reminding everyone: "Compliance Ensures Survival."
By Muhammad Bilal6 months ago in Fiction
*The Last Light*
In the quiet town of Crestwood, where mornings began with a soft veil of fog draping over the hills and the cobblestone streets held the echoes of generations, lived a woman named Elara. She wasn’t loud or bold, but people remembered her—her stillness, the way she listened like every word mattered, and the faint sadness in her eyes that somehow felt comforting, like the hush before snowfall.
By meerjanan6 months ago in Fiction
Gretel's Manifesto
They tell you I was lost. A child, all soft palms and frightened eyes, crumbs in her pocket, prayers on her tongue. They tell you I was brave, clever enough to push her into the oven. That I saved my brother. That I went home.
By Alain SUPPINI6 months ago in Fiction
A Letter from the Last Witch Left
I write this not with ink, but with ash and breath and the last heat of a dying fire. Child of the age to come, hear me. The trees remember what you have forgotten. The wind mourns what you silence. The stars keep turning, even as you blind your eyes to their warnings. You think you are alone. You are not. You think you are free. You are not.
By Alain SUPPINI6 months ago in Fiction
Big Horns, Bigger Lesson
Farmer Fred had just made an exciting new purchase for his farm — a young, strong, and remarkably large bull. He proudly named him Bill. With powerful legs, a broad chest, and two magnificent horns that curled gracefully from his head, Bill was an impressive sight.
By Junaid Shahid 6 months ago in Fiction