Classical
The Lighthouse Keeper’s Secret
The lighthouse stood at the edge of the cliff, its white paint weathered and worn, yet its beam cut across the ocean with unwavering precision. Generations of sailors had relied on it to find safe harbor, and villagers whispered stories of the keeper who tended its light—rumors, half-truths, and legends that danced like mist over the waves.
By Sudais Zakwan4 days ago in Fiction
Half-and-Half Story
Why would an innocent child ever belong among terrifying pirates? Mazhar Sahib was a writer who specialized in stories for children. One evening, he sat at his desk, lost in thought. He had to write a story for a special issue, but despite trying for a long time, no strong idea came to mind. Whenever this happened, he usually began by imagining something visually, because he was also very good at drawing.
By Sudais Zakwan4 days ago in Fiction
Waiting
Once upon a time, there was a fair maiden, trapped in a tower almost as lonely as her mind. She spent her days longing for companionship and her nights wishing upon the passing falling stars for anybody to come find her. The maiden did not know how she got to the tower, was not sure how long she had been there, and hadn’t the slightest clue how to leave. Days stacked high upon days as she waited and waited for a rescuer.
By Raine Neal4 days ago in Fiction
Manzoor: The Boy Who Healed Hearts.. AI-Generated.
When he was admitted to the hospital, his condition was very bad. On the first night he was kept only on oxygen. The nurse who was on duty thought that this new patient would die before morning. His pulse rate was uncertain. His body was soaked in sweat. Sometimes he lay on one side and sometimes on the other. When the restlessness increased, he would sit up and start taking long breaths. His color was yellow like a lump of turmeric. His eyes were sunken inward. The bridge of his nose was cold like a piece of ice. There was trembling over his whole body.
By Muhammad Haris khan 5 days ago in Fiction
“The Girl Who Broke Willowford”
It's currently the summer of 1955 my name is James Hale, I live in the small town of Willowford. I work at my local diner, taking the same customers every day, receiving the same meals and life is good. It feels like every week repeats but nobody questions it, that's just how life is in Willowford. There’s a comfort to the routine, a rhythm to the days that never changes. People wave the same way, smile the same way, live the same way. Maybe that’s why I’ve never questioned it — Willowford feels safe, even when it feels strange.
By Christian Sanchez5 days ago in Fiction
The Ghost on the Map: My 2,000-Mile Journey to a Paris That Isn’t There
If you type "Paris" into Google Maps, the algorithm will dutifully drop a pin on the City of Light. It will show you the winding Seine, the star-shaped sprawl of the Place de l’Étoile, and enough crêperies to feed a small army.
By George Evan7 days ago in Fiction
