Script

Behind the Locked Door
Author: Nadeem Shah The door had been there my whole life. At the end of the upstairs hallway, just past the faded family photographs and the creaky floorboard, it stood — tall, heavy, and always locked.
By Nadeem Shah 5 months ago in Fiction
The Last Field
In a quiet village cradled between gentle hills and a winding river, there lived an old farmer named Karim. His back was bent from years of tending the earth, his hands rough and cracked like the dry soil after summer. But his eyes—deep and calm—still held a quiet fire.
By meerjanan5 months ago in Fiction
The Photo I Found in My Attic Wasn’t Supposed to Exist
I was cleaning out the attic last weekend, something I’d been putting off for years. The summer heat made the air up there heavy and still, and the dust clung to my skin as I pushed aside old boxes. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just trying to make space.
By ETS_Story5 months ago in Fiction
A Stranger in Every Photograph
A Stranger in Every Photograph I found the photo album on a rainy Sunday afternoon, tucked behind boxes in the attic of my late grandmother’s house. Its leather cover was cracked and worn, the pages yellowed, and the smell of old paper and faint perfume clung to it like a ghost.
By waseem khan5 months ago in Fiction
The Day the Colors Fled
The Day the Colors Fled It started quietly, as if the city had taken a deep breath and let all color escape. I woke to gray skies and streets stripped of vibrancy. My walls, my clothes, the garden outside—everything was a shade of ash, steel, and stone. Even the sunlight seemed pallid, like paper left too long in the sun. I rubbed my eyes, convinced it was a trick of sleep. But the world outside my window confirmed my fear.
By waseem khan5 months ago in Fiction
The Café That Served Emotions
The Café That Served Emotions The café wasn’t on any map. Not in guidebooks, not on GPS, not even on the neon-lit streets of downtown. You stumbled upon it when you weren’t looking, through a narrow alley framed by ivy and flickering lanterns. The sign read simply: “Café Émotion”, its letters curling like smoke.
By waseem khan5 months ago in Fiction
Letters to the Future Me
Letters to the Future Me It started on a Tuesday. I was pouring cereal at my tiny kitchen table when I noticed the envelope lying beside my bowl. Brown paper, neatly folded, with my name written in cursive I didn’t recognize. I opened it with cautious curiosity.
By waseem khan5 months ago in Fiction
Bitch The Witch
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. So they come to earth on a broomstick, sit and stir up problems all day. And night! At night is when they really play. They are conning and conniving. Mysterious and magical. Beautiful and bold. A lot of the "norms", is what they call them, can't take them. They are the odd balls who can make balls appear out of thin air. Of course many will fear what they do not understand. But understanding is the last thing these "Witches", or so the Norms call them, care for because they blend in so well. They work hard and love even harder. They are one of a kind and a force to be reckoned with when attacked.
By Ahnesia Johnson5 months ago in Fiction
*The Whispering Library*
In the quiet corner of a forgotten town stood a library older than memory. Its stone walls were veiled in ivy, its windows perpetually misted, as though the building breathed in secrets and exhaled silence. Most people passed it without a glance. Few dared to enter. But Amina did.
By meerjanan5 months ago in Fiction
The Chair by the Window. AI-Generated.
Mara had been in the apartment for three days before she noticed the chair. It wasn’t an extraordinary chair—wooden, low-backed, scuffed on the legs—but it sat in the far corner by the window as though it had been put there deliberately. The cushions were sun-faded on one side, as if someone had sat there for years, facing the street.
By Mohammedseid Ahmedin5 months ago in Fiction
*The Clockmaker's Promise*
In a quiet town nestled between rolling hills and a slow-moving river, there stood a small shop with a crooked sign that read “Timeless Hands.” Inside, the air was warm and still, filled with the soft, steady rhythm of ticking clocks. Wall clocks, pocket watches, mantel clocks—they all chimed and clicked in quiet harmony, each keeping time in its own way.
By meerjanan5 months ago in Fiction
Operation Lassi Spill
It was one of those golden Punjabi afternoons—the kind where the sun hangs warm in the sky, the air smells of cardamom and fresh roti, and every lane in the village hums with celebration. A wedding was in full swing, the biggest the village had seen in years. Banners fluttered above the courtyard, children darted between guests with sticky fingers, and uncles danced with the kind of energy that defied their age.
By meerjanan5 months ago in Fiction