Historical

The Light of the Desert
And the wind sang along the dunes, and Malik took a brush against his shabby cloak, and the desert sand was like tiny sparks on his face. This was hours of walking on part of him, in pursuit of the horizon that kept on pushing away. The sun was now setting, and coloured the sky with fire and gold.
By Nusuki3 months ago in Fiction
The Weight of Memories. AI-Generated.
As I walked away from the house, the fading light of the sun cast long shadows across the neighborhood. I felt a sense of peace wash over me, as if the weight of memories I'd carried for so long had finally begun to lift. The conversation with Mrs. Jenkins had been a balm to my soul, and I was grateful for her kindness.
By Muhammad Kashif 3 months ago in Fiction
The Night I Realized Love Wasn’t Meant To Save Me
I used to believe love was supposed to be the thing that rescued us. The thing that filled every empty space inside a person. The thing that fixed the parts of life that felt broken. I believed that love was the answer to loneliness, to fear, to the type of quiet sadness that sits in your chest like permanent weight.
By Umar Farooq3 months ago in Fiction
Dorgan Life. AI-Generated.
Introduction Everyone in Gray Harbor knew Dorgan by the sound of his boots. They were old logger soles, heavy as memory, and they thumped the pier in a steady metronome as the sun dragged itself over the water. On mornings when fog ate the shoreline and gulls screamed like unpaid debts, you could follow that rhythm from the bait shed to the last mooring and know: life was moving forward, whether you felt ready for it or not.
By Aaina Oberoi3 months ago in Fiction
The Princess's Sleeves
The end of summer always meant two things to Tamar: the season to pick pomegranates was being left behind and the week of celebrating her birthday was near. She'd requested yards of silk and linen for gifts this year, in hopes to make garments for the other women in the palace, yet she couldn't stop thinking of the "surprise" her father had promised. Today, she was determined to find where he'd hidden it, or at least get a hint.
By Jessica Flayser3 months ago in Fiction
“Umrao Jaan Ada: The Woman Who Turned Pain into Poetry”
Some stories don’t fade with time — they breathe through generations. Among the timeless voices of Urdu literature stands one unforgettable woman: Umrao Jaan Ada.
By hamad khan3 months ago in Fiction
Laid To Rest. Runner-Up in Through the Keyhole Challenge. Top Story - November 2025.
His blood pulsed in his ears. The treasure of a lifetime might have been right before him, right beyond this final barrier. In a vain attempt to steady his sweaty, shaking palms, he wiped them against his field khakis before making the tiniest of incisions in the door’s upper-left-hand corner with his small hand-drill. It was warm, so very warm, and things were so very delicate, more than he ever imagined possible. With a small match, he tested the incision for noxious gases before peering through the peephole.
By Matthew J. Fromm3 months ago in Fiction
A Keyhole Into A Reflective Patriotic Past
Before the eleventh strike sounded, warning the midnight clock, Jim Doodling Dandy’s computer screen flashed a website retrieving google search data, requesting voyeuristic observations sites and the leg work revealed musing results.
By Marc OBrien3 months ago in Fiction
Festival of Shadows: The Lost Truth of Halloween
The wind crawled through the hollow streets of Ravenshollow, a forgotten village in Northern England. Every year, as October bled into its final night, the townsfolk lit carved pumpkins, wore masks, and spoke the ancient words—“Trick or Treat.”
By Wellova 3 months ago in Fiction
The Light of the Desert: The Story of Bilal ibn Rabah (RA)
Heavy with the sun, with its rays scorching the desert into an oven of light and heat, the sun stood over Mecca. In a small corner near the Kaaba, a man was lying on the ground chained to the burning sand, his back raw from the whip, his lips dry and cracked. Each inhalation was punctuated by pain but from his shaking lips was uttered a word that would not die.
By Nusuki3 months ago in Fiction
THE LAST HARVEST
The crypt door slammed shut behind him, echoing like the closing of a tomb, and Liam’s heart hammered against his ribs. Darkness pressed in from every side, thick and suffocating, broken only by the faint, sickly green glow emanating from Eleanor Kincaid’s eyes. She stood over Chloe, who lay motionless on the cold stone floor, her breathing shallow, her face pale as wax. In Eleanor’s hand, a ritual knife gleamed, as if thirsting for more than blood.
By Wellova 3 months ago in Fiction
Renaissance Room
I was an old man by the time I returned to the house, long after the war had emptied its lungs and fallen quiet. The stairwell leaned as if age were a weight it could no longer disguise. Still, the shape of my childhood waited for me at the top floor, patient as only the past can be.
By Hyde Wunderli 3 months ago in Fiction