Classical
The Man Who Spoke to the Night. AI-Generated.
They said he only came out after midnight. In a city that never slept, Noctis Varen was the quiet pulse between the ticking hours — a man of silence, a shadow among neon lights. He ran a small photography shop near the harbor, open from dusk till dawn. Most people thought it strange, but he said the world only shows its truth at night.
By shakir hamid4 months ago in Fiction
The Day I Decided the Universe Was Listening
For most of my life, I thought positive thinking was a polite way of denying reality. People who said “you attract what you believe” seemed to live in a fantasy world. Meanwhile, I was stuck in mine — overworked, underpaid, and constantly anxious. I wasn’t unhappy because I lacked things; I was unhappy because I believed I didn’t deserve more.
By Atif khurshaid4 months ago in Fiction
The Shelter of Urban Decay?
You know the address. You know where "that" area is. What do you call it? The ghetto? The bad neighborhood? Gangsta's Paradise? Was it you who said, "I wouldn't be caught dead there?" Yeah. I was morbidly curious, but that's not how I got there.
By Shanon Angermeyer Norman4 months ago in Fiction
The Day the World Went Quiet. AI-Generated.
It happened on a Tuesday — the kind of Tuesday you forget as soon as it ends. Until you don’t. I woke up and the world was... silent. Not metaphorically — literally. No cars outside. No dogs barking. Not even the hum of the refrigerator that usually filled the space between my thoughts.
By James Taylor4 months ago in Fiction
The Clock That Moved Too Fast. AI-Generated.
I realized this on the morning of my thirteenth birthday. I woke up, groggy and disoriented, only to discover that the hour hand had jumped three hours ahead while I slept. I rushed to school, late by my own watch but early by the world’s. Nobody seemed to notice.
By James Taylor4 months ago in Fiction
DNA
It was 1970. In one part of the city, the night always seemed darker than the day. The lanes were narrow, the shopfronts sealed with iron shutters, and old brass nameplates on the walls still bore the names of long-gone dons. In that part of town stood the house of Don Megatre, a place that looked like a small palace. The walls were high and polished, the doors heavy with bolts and locks. From the outside it appeared grand, almost majestic, but inside it was hollow and cold. When people heard his name, they stepped aside. He was power and fear made flesh, tall, dark, a face carved in stone, a voice that sounded like an order you couldn’t refuse.
By Mansoor Afaq4 months ago in Fiction
Ember of Unlit cigarette
It was the year 2000. My car was running along the M1 from London to Bradford, and my mind was wandering toward the life ahead. I was thinking about opening a business account, getting my name on the electoral roll. A hundred pounds had just gone into road tax, and as I handed it over, I couldn’t help missing Pakistan. That, I thought, was a free country. Here, you even had to pay to use the road before your car could touch it.
By Mansoor Afaq4 months ago in Fiction
The Bench Beneath the Willow. AI-Generated.
I first saw her sitting beneath the willow tree in the park, the kind of tree that drooped gracefully over the pond, casting long shadows like protective arms. She had a book open on her lap, and her hair caught the sunlight in a way that made it seem like the branches themselves were holding her there.
By James Taylor4 months ago in Fiction
The Letters Between Us. AI-Generated.
I found the first letter in the mailbox on a Tuesday, though it had clearly been written months before. It was in his handwriting — small, careful, and deliberate — the way it always had been when he was trying not to spill too much of himself at once. I didn’t recognize the postmark; he had moved to another city a year ago.
By James Taylor4 months ago in Fiction
