Short Story
Bahlool and the Lesson at the Bathhouse
Bahlool was a man who many people called "the wise fool." He lived simply, often wearing dusty clothes and wandering the streets, but those who truly knew him understood that every action he took had a deep meaning. He had a way of teaching people lessons without ever raising his voice.
By Amir Husena day ago in Fiction
The Selfish Horse and the Price of Arrogance
A long time ago, in a quiet village tucked away near the mountains, there lived a farmer who owned two very different animals: a horse and a donkey. The horse was a beautiful creature, with a sleek, shiny coat and powerful muscles. He was the farmer’s pride, often used for riding into town or showing off to neighbors. Because of this, the farmer rarely gave him any hard work to do. On the other hand, the donkey was small, grey, and dusty. His life was far from glamorous. From sunrise to sunset, he was the one carrying heavy sacks of grain, pulling the plow through the muddy fields, and doing all the "dirty work" around the farm.
By Amir Husena day ago in Fiction
The Envious Man and the Man of Light
In a quiet town of modest size, where neighbors knew each other by name and life moved at a gentle pace, there lived two men in adjoining houses. At first glance, they seemed ordinary—just two residents sharing a boundary wall. But behind that wall grew a darkness that would soon change both their lives forever.
By Mariana Fariasa day ago in Fiction
Wasp Talk. Content Warning.
Introduction This is inspired by a few things: My friend Chris said wasps were the football hooligans of the insect world, my recent post where I stated that some people are only happy when they are miserable or have something to complain about, and the book I am reading, "The Roaches Have No King" by Dabiel Evan Weiss which is about New York Apartment life observed by cockroaches.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred a day ago in Fiction
The Overnight Bus Where a Random Man Explored Every Inch of Me in the Back Seat (True Story). Content Warning.
Hi… it’s me, Lila. Twenty-five, sitting here in my little apartment with the rain tapping the window, thighs pressed together just thinking about it. This is what really happened on that long, sweaty overnight bus from Toronto to Montreal last summer. I never thought I’d do this. But my body betrayed me the second the engine started rumbling, and I couldn’t stop it if I tried.
By Chahat Kaura day ago in Fiction
The Letter I Never Meant to Open
I had always believed my life was ordinary. I worked at a small bookstore, went home to my tiny apartment, and rarely spoke to anyone outside my circle. But everything changed the day I found that letter. It wasn’t hidden, exactly. It was leaning against my apartment door, with my name written in a careful, almost familiar hand. There was no return address. Curiosity pried it open before I could even think twice. Inside was a single page, filled with messy handwriting: "I know what happened that night. I’ve been trying to tell you for years. Meet me at the old pier at 7 tonight if you want answers." I froze. My heart thudded. What night? Years ago, when I was seventeen, my best friend, Clara, disappeared for two days. She came back, shaken, never speaking of what happened. I had forgotten that night—or maybe I had buried it deep in my mind. I debated ignoring the letter, thinking it might be a prank. But something in me—a long-lost curiosity, or perhaps guilt—pushed me out the door. The city air felt colder than usual, each step echoing in the empty streets as I walked toward the pier. When I arrived, the sun was just dipping below the horizon. And there she was—Clara. Older, changed, but unmistakable. She looked at me, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears. "You came," she said softly. "I… I don’t understand," I stammered. She handed me a small box. Inside, I found an old photograph of the two of us, taken on the day she disappeared, and a tiny key. "Do you remember the treehouse by the river?" she asked. I nodded. It had been our secret place, where we hid from the world, told secrets, and dreamed of escaping to distant lands. But that night, the treehouse had burned down. Clara had vanished, leaving me alone to face the aftermath. "I didn’t disappear. I was trapped," she said, her voice breaking. She explained that she had fallen into an old underground storage space beneath the treehouse—an accident—and had been unable to call for help. No one could find her. I felt my knees weaken. Years of silence, of wondering, of guilt, all leading to this. She reached for my hand. "I wrote to you because I need to make things right. There’s something you don’t know." She handed me a folded note. Inside was another secret—a confession she had never dared to share. The night the treehouse burned, she had accidentally started the fire while trying to fix the old wiring. She had been too afraid to tell anyone. I had blamed myself for not seeing her before the fire, for leaving her alone—but it was never my fault. I stared at her, the weight of years melting away in one breath. Relief. Anger. Love. Forgiveness. All at once. We sat there for hours, talking about everything we had never said, filling in the missing years. I realized that life had given me a gift—not just the truth, but the chance to reconnect. By the time the moon rose high above the pier, Clara and I had made a silent promise: never to let fear or guilt keep us apart again. When I walked home that night, the city looked different. Brighter. Full of possibilities. And I knew, deep down, that sometimes the answers you seek come in the most unexpected ways—and that some letters are never meant to be ignored.
By Wasif islam2 days ago in Fiction
Perfect people on perfect social media pages.
Restaurant “N”. A week in advance, I reserve a table at one of the most popular restaurants in the city. I spend days preparing for the evening, imagining the atmosphere — elegant interiors, expensive details, a table overlooking the city at sunset.
By Eliza Woodstorm2 days ago in Fiction
