Satire

The Silent Bell of Khorasan
Once, in the dusty and sun-scorned province of Khorasan, when the crescent moon hung like a blade in the heavens and kings were named after lions but ruled like foxes, there lived a monarch known as King Zulfiqar the Just—a title given not by the people, but carved in golden plates by his own court poets.
By Muhammad Abdullah7 months ago in Fiction
The Cursed Goblet of Ghumra
Once, in the sun-baked kingdom of Ghumra, ruled a king whose name was Gharsheed—adorned in jewels, feared by thousands, praised by poets who were whipped if they dared otherwise. The throne was carved of tusks, the court was of gold, and the prisons—of bone. Justice, in his realm, was a servant that limped. Mercy was blind, and wisdom wore shackles.
By Muhammad Abdullah7 months ago in Fiction
The Perfume of the Slave
Once, in the time when kings ruled with iron fists but claimed to wear velvet gloves, there was a land called Khumyar, veiled in gold but rotting beneath. Its courtyards echoed with poetry while its prisons bled with silence. The king, Jalib the Proud, had a beard as thick as his cruelty and eyes that glistened with suspicion. His court was filled not with wise men but with flatterers dressed as philosophers. The pen was praised, but the sword decided justice.
By Muhammad Abdullah7 months ago in Fiction
The Last Garden Beneath Glass
In the Year 2149, under the sterile gleam of steel skies and synthetic suns, the world was no longer earth—it was Earthware™, trademarked, monetized, and managed by the United Nations of Automation. The rivers were silicone, the trees were polycarbonate, and the clouds floated not on water vapor but on encrypted data packets.
By Muhammad Abdullah7 months ago in Fiction
The Probably Probable Probabilities of Person A, Person B, Person C, and Person D
We are taught to not make assumptions, yet we live in a world where despite our knowledge of this idea, we still choose to judge those that we cannot understand. What we cannot understand we laugh at, ridicule, tease, make an entire calamity of it.
By Slgtlyscatt3red7 months ago in Fiction
Time is Money 💰
In the city of Chronovale, time wasn’t just measured—it was currency. Every citizen wore a sleek, silver wristband that ticked down their life’s seconds, each tick a coin spent on survival. Rent, food, love—everything cost time. The wealthy hoarded years, their wristbands glowing with surplus, while the poor scrambled, their bands dimming toward zero. Elias Kane was one of the latter, a street artist whose wristband flickered at 3 days, 7 hours, and 42 minutes.
By TrueVocal7 months ago in Fiction
Her Smile Was the Last Clue
The Girl Who Smiled at Rain It all began in the quiet town of Willowbrook, where the rain fell almost every afternoon, and the streets smelled of old books and roses.
By Muhammad Hayat7 months ago in Fiction
The Revolution Will Not Be Martinized
The revolution... ...will not be available in an hour in a cardboard box or on hangers that you can save for emergencies and those extra coats.
By Kendall Defoe 8 months ago in Fiction
Your Friend Mohammad
Light cast a glow on the Hadith. Then the shadow came and all was dark. Mohammad Abbas collected the ancient text. He walked out of the mosque.
By Skyler Saunders8 months ago in Fiction
Theriocentricity
“Ahh Rupert, welcome! Welcome! Come in. Set that down.” Rupert did as he was commanded and set down the saucer adorned with a single glass of Port. He should have known–Lord Hood only ordered Port when he wanted to play the game. The study was stuffy, a poor imitation of a bygone era. Mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, almost certainly never opened, intermixed with mounted heads of wild lions and zebras, almost certainly killed by someone else.
By Matthew J. Fromm8 months ago in Fiction
The Keeper of Forgotten Colors
The world had forgotten color when Elara was a child, the Fade stealing hues like a thief in the night. Skies turned to ash, forests to charcoal, and eyes saw only gray. Paintings crumbled, flowers withered, and the word “blue” became a myth. Elders spoke of a time when rainbows arced and sunsets burned, but to Elara’s generation, it was folklore. Yet Elara, now twenty-three, was different. She remembered. In a crumbling lighthouse on a jagged cliff, she became the Keeper, weaving colors from memories in a world that had none.Each night, Elara climbed the lighthouse’s rusted spiral stairs, her hands stained with impossible shades. In a room of shattered mirrors, her loom—a relic of bone and wire—hummed with power. She wove blue from her mother’s shawl, its sapphire folds swaying as she sang lullabies. Red came from the apple she’d stolen at seven, its juice sharp on her tongue. Gold flared from sunsets she’d chased across cliffs, their warmth lingering in her chest. Every thread cost a memory, erased forever. Her mother’s voice faded, then the apple’s taste, then those sunsets’ glow. Elara gave them willingly. The world needed color more than she needed her past.Below, the town of Graysill scoffed. “Colors?” fishermen muttered, kicking gray pebbles. “Delusions.” But children left offerings at the lighthouse—pebbles smeared with charcoal, chalk, anything resembling hue. Elara collected them, her heart aching for their hope. One stormy night, a girl slipped inside. Kiv, ten years old, with slate-gray eyes, stared at Elara’s glowing threads. “You’re real,” she whispered. “Can you make green?”Elara’s breath caught. Green was her last untouched memory: her father’s laugh, fishing on a lake under emerald pines. “It costs me,” she said, voice like sea fog. Kiv stepped closer, her small hand brushing Elara’s. “Then let me help.”No one had offered before. Elara hesitated, then taught Kiv to weave—not with threads, but stories. Kiv spoke of a kite she’d flown, its tail a ghost of green in her mind. The loom sparked, green shimmering, but Kiv’s eyes stayed gray—she couldn’t see it. “Keep telling,” Elara urged. Kiv’s voice grew bold: meadows where she’d run, limes she’d tasted, a jade pendant her mother once wore. The green thread thickened, vibrant, alive, curling like vines in the air.Rumors spread. Children crept to the lighthouse, then adults, each carrying fragments—memories of crimson roses, violet storms, amber dawns.
By TrueVocal8 months ago in Fiction
Sunday Night Arena. Content Warning.
“A brilliant maneuver by Mr. James dispatches Mr. Marne, once of Kansas. He’s now all alone at Agromarch Castle’s main arsenal.”
By Matthew J. Fromm8 months ago in Fiction