Love
Everything Looks Better From Far Away
Author : shams khan Ayesha had always loved the view from her apartment balcony. From the tenth floor, the city stretched like a glowing canvas—streets glittering with headlights, rooftops layered like uneven puzzle pieces, and crowds moving below like restless shadows. From up here, everything looked orderly, even beautiful.
By Muhammad Haris khan afridi5 months ago in Fiction
Spider and Fly
It all started before lunch. Usually, when we had lunch at Cicero’s, our table would be waiting for us, our menus set on the table, and a little peace of mind for an hour and half would be available. From our office, the walk would be about ten minutes, even if I had to walk with her and take into consideration her slower gait.
By Kendall Defoe 5 months ago in Fiction
DeNero, Lucille and The Triplets
I first saw DeNero while at the medical mall for an appointment. His swagger and occasional meanness resembled those of many characters Robert De Niro has played, so everyone started calling him DeNero. He and his life mate, Lucille, have their own care team, including a veterinarian. In just two seconds and two strokes (which I can't see because his webbed feet are underwater), pure white DeNero crosses the pond to chase away the drab Canadian geese he hates. They scramble out of the pond, honking loudly.
By Andrea Corwin 5 months ago in Fiction
The Precipice Calls
My outstretched arms felt like failing vines as I held on for dear life. I tried to avoid looking down, but the pull of the descent was too much. I could hear it talking to me, telling me in grotesque detail of the various victims of death by misadventure it had caused.
By Paul Stewart5 months ago in Fiction
Kira Volkanova: Shadows of the Eternal Dream
Prologue: Time, the Unforgiving The rain was relentless, a sorrowful sigh against the ancient wood of the temple. Seven-year-old Kira knew she was dreaming—the air was too heavy with cedar and ozone, the reflections in the countless mirrors too sharp, too infinite. Barefoot, in a white yukata that smelled faintly of her mother’s lavender soap, she wandered the labyrinth of polished corridors.
By Stefano D'angello5 months ago in Fiction
The Iron Garden
🌿 A short story born from this art… The quiet came first, always. It settled in the hollow spaces between her ribs like morning mist, thick and deliberate. Then the weight — the familiar press of steel against collarbone, the slow ache in her shoulders where the pauldrons had learned the exact curve of her bones. She had forgotten what it meant to breathe without the armor’s permission.
By Prompted Beauty5 months ago in Fiction
"Shadows of love". AI-Generated.
Chapter One – The Quiet Mechanic The town of Rivermist lay by the sea, its cobblestone streets winding lazily past pastel-colored houses and small cafés. It was the kind of place where time seemed slower, where strangers always smiled, and the horizon blazed golden every evening as the sun dipped into the ocean.
By Ihtisham Ulhaq5 months ago in Fiction
The Day Colors Vanished. AI-Generated.
1. The Morning of Silence It happened without warning. One morning, the sun rose over the city of Miran, but the light it spilled carried no warmth, no glow, no beauty. The sky was not blue. The flowers were not red. The trees were not green.
By Ihtisham Ulhaq5 months ago in Fiction
The Forest of the Forgotten
Amnity sat on the old tree stump. Her face was gentle and fair against the light blue and orange hue that engulfed the early morning hours surrounding her friendly metaphysical shop when I came walking up. Amnity had her nose deep in her white oak magic book with the golden-rimmed sheets of paper, and she was reading from it calmly. Crickets broke the silence, but not her attention as she read.
By Parsley Rose 5 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
