Fable
The Ghost in My Reflection
π ππ©π°πΆπ¨π©π΅ π ππ’π΄ πππ°π―π¦βππ―π΅πͺπ π ππ’πΈ ππ¦π³ ππ΅π’π³πͺπ―π¨ ππ’π€π¬ ππ΅ ππ¦ It happened on a night when everything felt too heavy to carry.
By Fazal Hadi2 months ago in Fiction
A Selkie's Return to the Deep
Growing up in rural Ireland, I never knew my father. Or rather, I knew of him, but we had never met. When pressed, all my mother would say was that he was an officer in the navy, and that it was better for everyone if he stayed an ocean away. But I never felt the absence of a parent; Mamma was the kind of person who took up all the space in the room. Everyone who met her commented on her breathtaking beauty and captivating charm. I loved listening to her sing the old lullabies and ballads while she danced around our home, graceful even when doing something as simple as washing the dishes.
By Call Me Les2 months ago in Fiction
The Night the Drones Returned
The Night the Drones Returned The night was colder than usual in the small Afghan border village of Sarkha. Winter had already settled into the valley, and people were trying to sleep early under heavy quilts. But on this night, no one would rest. Shortly after 11:43 PM, the familiar and terrifying sound returned to the skies. A faint hum, a trembling vibration, a noise that every villager had learned to fear. The drones had come back.
By Wings of Time 2 months ago in Fiction
The Day Three Borders Burned
When Pakistan Faced Two Fronts Nobody expected the morning of 26 November to become the most frightening day in recent memory. Life in northern Pakistan began as usualβchildren preparing for school, shopkeepers opening their shutters, farmers heading toward fields still wet with dew.
By Wings of Time 2 months ago in Fiction
The Ballads of Trees. Top Story - March 2024.
~*~ Between Here and There lay a mixed-woods forest. Of an age unknown, its existence was wedged between sandy fields of tobacco, deer filled plains and a sheer drop into a meandering river with which it battled daily to hold its ground.
By Call Me Les2 months ago in Fiction
Imposter in a gingerbread house
The first snowfall of winter had just begun when the small village of Frostwhistle prepared for its most loved celebrationβthe Grand Gingerbread House Contest. Every home glowed with colorful lights, and the warm scent of cinnamon drifted through the chilly air. Bakers, children, and even elders spent days crafting the sweetest, most magical gingerbread creations imaginable.
By waseem khan2 months ago in Fiction
π βGrandmaβs Last Petalβ
---Story Begins I was eleven years old when my grandmother first showed me the flower. It lived in an old glass jar, the kind that used to hold honey years before I was born. The jar sat on the smallest shelf in her room β the one I wasnβt allowed to touch unless she was with me.
By Muhammad Kashif 2 months ago in Fiction
