Excerpt
The Precipice Calls
My outstretched arms felt like failing vines as I held on for dear life. I tried to avoid looking down, but the pull of the descent was too much. I could hear it talking to me, telling me in grotesque detail of the various victims of death by misadventure it had caused.
By Paul Stewart7 months ago in Fiction
The Price of Feelings
The Price of Feelings On the edge of a bustling city lay an old neighborhood. The streets were narrow, the walls peeling, the houses worn out. After every rain, puddles filled the crooked lanes. Yet, the true identity of this neighborhood wasn’t its poverty but its people. They were poor in wealth, but rich at heart. Their homes lacked gold and silver, but their faces carried smiles, and their hearts carried softness.
By New stAr writer 7 months ago in Fiction
Heroes Don’t Always Wear Badges
Heroes Don’t Always Wear Badges “Sometimes courage comes on two wheels, and kindness wears leather.” The rain pounded against the neon sign of Rust & Chrome, a biker bar tucked into the edge of town, the kind of place parents warned their children about. Inside, the air was thick with smoke, the clink of beer bottles, and the low growl of motorcycles idling outside. Men with tattoos, leather jackets, and faces hardened by life filled the bar, laughing, arguing, and daring one another to drink shots faster than their stomachs could handle.
By waseem khan7 months ago in Fiction
The Language of Love
Emma Whitman, a travel blogger from Seattle, had always been drawn to languages that spoke to the soul. Urdu, with its poetic elegance, fascinated her deeply. She enrolled in a three-week course in Islamabad, not knowing that this journey would lead her to something far beyond alphabets and grammar – it would lead her to love. Her instructor, Zayan Ali, was a man of quiet charm, deeply rooted in his culture. Their first meeting was simple – a polite greeting and a shared smile – yet an invisible thread seemed to pull them toward each other. Each day, Zayan introduced Emma to new words, but more than the language, it was his passion for poetry, art, and the beauty of expression that captivated her. “This word,” he said one afternoon, writing محبت (mohabbat) on the board, “means love. But in Urdu, it is more than a word. It is a feeling you carry in your soul.” Emma repeated softly, “Mohabbat…” and Zayan felt the syllables echo in his chest like a whisper he could not ignore.
By Aman Ullah7 months ago in Fiction
The Golden Diary
The attic had always been a forbidden place in the house. Dusty, dim, and filled with relics that no one cared about anymore, it seemed like a graveyard of forgotten objects. Yet, one late afternoon, curiosity pulled Zara toward it. The wooden stairs creaked beneath her feet, as though warning her to turn back. But she didn’t. Something in her heart told her that there was a story hidden there, waiting for her.
By Vocal Member 8 months ago in Fiction
Memory
All he had in his life was memory. The house sagged beneath the weight of years, timber groaning under rain and neglect. He moved through its narrow halls like a ghost, brushing dust from the shelves, touching remnants of lives once lived. Each object held her imprint, every shadow whispered her name.
By Vincent Otiri8 months ago in Fiction
Duty
All he had in his life was duty. The armor leaned against the wall, dented and scratched by decades of war. Each mark was a story, a memory of battles fought under scorching suns and storm-filled skies. His hands trembled as he polished the breastplate, tracing the gouges like a map of every life he had taken, every friend he had lost.
By Vincent Otiri8 months ago in Fiction
Silence
All he had in his life was silence. The hollow bell in the temple no longer sang; its bronze throat was cracked from years of neglect. Dust lay thick upon the altar, motes dancing lazily in the dying candlelight, like ghosts of prayers long forgotten. The incense he lit fought the air, sweet and sharp, but it could not mask the stench of absence.
By Vincent Otiri8 months ago in Fiction
