Microfiction
Hearts against the Storm
Two weeks later, the world had changed — or maybe we had changed enough to see it clearly. The headlines were still buzzing. Investigations were underway. Arrests had been made in the land fraud case tied to my uncle’s death. My father's political allies had started to disappear like shadows under sunlight.
By Mehmood Niaz7 months ago in Fiction
Hearts against the Storm
The night was colder than usual, with a restless wind scraping across the empty roads as I rode toward the old farmhouse. I had no backup. No phone. Just the folded copy of the evidence Hamza had given me, tucked in my inner coat pocket. And a flicker of hope that somehow, this meeting — this trap — might be the end of it all.
By Mehmood Niaz7 months ago in Fiction
Hearts against the Storm
The sun had barely risen over the horizon when I opened my eyes in Hamza’s small apartment. The air was still, heavy with tension. Alya lay beside me on the mattress, curled up, clutching the shawl Hamza had given her the night before. I could see the bruise on her arm — Azeel’s mark. My blood boiled at the sight.
By Mehmood Niaz7 months ago in Fiction
Hearts against the Storm
The SUV disappeared into the dust of the road before I could even take a step. I stood there frozen, the world spinning around me. Alya had been crying. Her eyes had locked with mine. She wanted me to stop him. To save her. But I was too slow.
By Mehmood Niaz7 months ago in Fiction
The Lighthouse Keeper’s Promise. AI-Generated.
In the sleepy village of Merrow’s Cove, tucked against a rugged coastline, the lighthouse stood tall—weather-worn but proud. Its white stone walls bore the salt and storms of a hundred seasons, and within it lived the last lighthouse keeper: Elias Wren, a man of habit, of silence, and of unshakable devotion.
By Adil Nawaz7 months ago in Fiction
Blank page bites back
What do you write on a blank page? Oh the fear, the excitement, the anticipation of that first word, the first sentence. Fear of getting it wrong. Ordinarily, I would not be particularly phased by the prospect of a blank page or, as in my case, a blank screen. On this occasion I had taken myself away for a one-man author's retreat to a lonely cottage on Dartmoor. Birthplace of many an Agatha Christie Mystery and bleak setting of The Hound of the Baskervilles, my least-favourite work by Arthur Conan-Doyle.
By Raymond G. Taylor7 months ago in Fiction
Digital Dust
The data morgue smelled like ozone and loneliness. Maya adjusted her luminescent hazmat suit’s hood, the hiss of filtered air her only companion. Before her stretched Server Vault 7—miles of abandoned user profiles, decaying chat logs, and forgotten memories scheduled for permanent deletion. Her job: scrub digital graves clean.
By Habibullah7 months ago in Fiction
