thriller
The Greedy Fox and the Wise Camel. AI-Generated.
Once upon a time, in a land where golden sands stretched far and wide, there lived a greedy fox named Faro and a wise camel named Kareem. Faro was known throughout the desert for his clever tricks and sneaky ways. He was quick-witted and fast on his paws, but he often used his smarts to fool others for his own gain.
By Faraz Shahid10 months ago in Fiction
Surprising Signs of Perimenopause in Women in Their Thirties
The majority of people imagine women in their late 40s or 50s navigating hot flashes and mood swings during menopause. However, what many don’t realize is that perimenopause—the transitional phase before menopause—can begin much earlier. Some women begin experiencing symptoms as early as their 30s, frequently without them realizing they are in perimenopause. When unexpected and sometimes shocking symptoms begin to appear, this can be both confusing and worrying. A look at some of the less well-known and surprising symptoms of perimenopause that can occur in women in their 30s.
By Md Ebrahim Ali10 months ago in Fiction
The Fragile Thread
The fluorescent lights buzzed like angry wasps in the ER as the stretcher crashed through the doors. The patient, a man in his fifties, was gray as ash, his chest still. Cardiac arrest. No pulse. “Code blue!” I barked, my voice cutting through the chaos.Ryan, my assistant surgeon, was at my side, his hands steady despite the sweat beading on his brow. Sayema, the nurse, darted in, her eyes sharp, already prepping the crash cart. The patient’s wife sobbed in the corner, her wails a haunting backdrop to the ticking clock. Every second was a thief, stealing his life.“Start compressions,” I ordered. Ryan leaned over, his palms slamming into the man’s sternum with rhythmic force. Crack. A rib gave way under the pressure, a sickening sound that made my stomach lurch. I ignored it, focusing on the monitor’s flatline, that merciless green streak mocking us.“Sayema, push epi!” I called. She jammed the syringe into the IV, her hands trembling but precise. The drug surged in, a desperate plea to the heart. Nothing. The monitor stayed flat, the beep a funeral dirge.“Switch!” I took over compressions, my arms burning as I drove my weight into his chest. Another crack—more ribs. Blood seeped from his mouth, staining his lips crimson. I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. His wife’s screams clawed at my ears, each one a knife. “Please, save him!” she begged.“Bag him, Ryan!” I grunted. Ryan grabbed the Ambu bag, forcing air into lungs that refused to rise. Sayema shocked the paddles, her voice steady: “Clear!” The body jolted, a puppet on strings, but the monitor didn’t flinch. Flat. Still flat.Time bled away—five minutes, ten. My shoulders screamed, sweat stung my eyes. Doubt crept in, cold and heavy. Was this it? Another life lost under my hands? No. I shoved the thought down. “Again!” I roared. Sayema hit the paddles. Zap. The room held its breath.A blip. Then another. The monitor flickered—a weak, stuttering rhythm. Sinus tachycardia. “We’ve got him!” Ryan gasped, his voice raw. I kept compressions, gentler now, coaxing the heart to remember its job. Sayema pushed more meds, her hands a blur. Slowly, the pulse steadied, a fragile thread we’d yanked back from the void.The wife collapsed, sobbing thanks. We stepped back, panting, blood and sweat on our gloves. The man’s chest rose, fell—alive. But those cracks, that blood, lingered in my mind. Saving him cost something, left scars we couldn’t see. As we wheeled him to ICU, I wondered if we’d truly won or just delayed the inevitable.In the ICU, the man—Mr. Carter, his chart said—lay under a tangle of tubes and wires. His wife, still trembling, clutched his hand, whispering prayers. I checked his vitals: stable, for now. But the broken ribs, the trauma… recovery would be brutal. I stepped out, peeling off my gloves, the weight of the night settling into my bones.Ryan slumped against the wall, his face pale. “That was too close,” he muttered. Sayema nodded, her eyes distant. “He’s alive. That’s what matters,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction. We all knew the truth: survival wasn’t the same as living.Later, I sat in the break room, staring at a cold cup of coffee. The adrenaline had faded, leaving a hollow ache. I’d saved lives before, but this one felt different. The blood, the cracks, the wife’s screams—they clung to me like shadows. I thought of my own family, my daughter’s laugh, my husband’s quiet support. What if it had been them on that table?The next morning, Mr. Carter was awake, groggy but coherent. His wife’s tear-streaked smile was a small victory. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. I nodded, but the words felt heavy. He’d live, yes, but the road ahead was long—physically, emotionally. As I left his room, I glanced back at the fragile thread we’d fought for. It held, for now. But in this job, I knew how easily it could snap.
By Md Nafiz Iqbal10 months ago in Fiction
Transformation
In a world teeming with magic, where every childhood monster was known to exist, humans could only rely on one of two things to survive. Most common was hiding. While those who hid could endure the worst of life and make it to the other side, those who followed their instincts were often transformed beyond recognition. This was especially true for those who were hungry for knowledge. Those who researched and honed their minds for survival to be but a stepping stool toward a better future.
By Shequinah Nanshanapa10 months ago in Fiction
The Hidden Heartbeat
A cool draft slithers its way down Damien's spine though sweat runs between his aching shoulder blades. He shifts uncomfortably as he crouches below an air vent. Why must the damn air conditioning be on full blast at the end of September, especially when the place is empty?
By Alyssa Musso10 months ago in Fiction
Roses
On Sunday morning the house seemed normal, except that mom wasn’t there. When Dad answered the door, his shirt was untucked, and he had small streaks of dirt on his face. I’ll never forget how confused he was to see me despite it being a Sunday. We exchanged our usual loving words while he almost reluctantly stepped aside to let me in. I followed the familiar path to the living room that mom had so carefully decorated with photos, mostly of me. Dad never really liked having his picture taken and seemed content to have mom fill it with photos of me, Mom, and his roses. He would always say that it was “A wall full of the most important things”.
By Mary Arlock10 months ago in Fiction
The Last Echo of the Mountain
The Last Echo of the Mountain By [Zain Ali Khan] In the haunting silence of the snow-veiled mountains, where the whisper of the wind often carried secrets untold, a tale of lost justice, rebellion, and redemption unfolded in June of 1995. A narrow-gauge train, an iron serpent winding through treacherous cliffs and icy ravines, carried more than passengers and coal—it bore the weight of a nation’s forgotten struggle. This route, connecting the vital Coal City with the rest of the country, had become a battlefield cloaked in shadows.
By Zain Ali Khan10 months ago in Fiction
