Short Story

By Inayah Fathima Faeez I’m not allowed to go up to the attic anymore. It’s an ancient breath captured in the stagnant cold. I’m not allowed to disturb it. The staircase ripples beneath the moonlight. When I plod to the top, the ladder is inviting me to climb.  There’s an impenetrable chill that cascades upon me as I enter the room. It is tinged with shades of memories long forgotten. The first thing I see on the desk is a pocketbook, one that sighs as it opens.  He enters th

By Riya Goswami Preface Once upon a time, there were three rebels who overthrew an evil queen. That is a story of the past ... The citizens of Nordostia needed strong leaders, so the girls bravely left their families to lead Nordostia into a new golden era. Now, Rosabel, Katherina, and Audrina were co-queens of Nordostia with their friend Ben Joe, serving as the Prime Minister Section 1 The girls were trying to find somebody. Their friend Ben Joe’s sister had been missing sin

By Riya Goswami Once upon a time, there were three rebels. But how did these girls become rebels? Our story starts in a small town north of Paris in the year 6048 CE. That town is quite insignificant except for one of its inhabitants. “Good morning Monsieur Baton,”  Rosabel says. “How are you doing?” Little does she know, she is the most gossiped about person in town.  “She’s so odd!” says Monsieur Baton. “She’s always been so weird,” says Julianne Antoinet.  “I can’t believe

By Adesope Adisa The choir hymns swelled, filling the building with pride—the kind that squashes men’s egos like insects. The pastor stood tall, his voice booming about salvation, love, and sacrifice. I swear I was listening, but I lost him somewhere around the one-hour mark. The fan’s weak gust kept me alive. Without it, I’d be out the door in minutes. The air reeked of sweat, perfume, and simmering judgment. It wasn’t God I smelled—it was people, and I wasn’t here for them.

By James Veeds There have been moments in my life where thoughts, feelings, and experiences connect and culminate in something I don’t have a word for. Almost always, I only ever recognise them after they’ve already passed. Thankfully, these wordless culminations that have mostly left me changed for the better. They’re truly spectral things, felt only after moving through them. Or maybe, it’s that I’ve felt them move through me.  That night, as I moved through the hospital, I

By Hazar Roshan Nobody lives on the fourth floor. Thirteen storeys, five units each, all with four bedrooms. All filled with happy families, I’m sure. Maybe some. Bumbling, beaming, beautiful children, and parents who are proud of the school uniforms they send them out in, every morning. Happy, happy families. Except on the fourth floor. Nobody lives on the fourth floor.  I know this because I’ve never seen someone get off there, my whole life, except Emma. She’s not around a

By Jhanvi Latheesh A totally true-ish story by Jamie Jenkins, Age 12 I swear none of this is my fault. All I did was try to bake a muffin. And maybe livestream my grandma for ten minutes. Okay, twenty. Max. It started on a random Tuesday night. Mom was at yoga, Dad was asleep in the laundry basket (don’t ask), and Grandma decided it was “a good day for chaos and carbohydrates.” She pulled out a scroll from the back of the junk drawer and said, “This is an ancient family muffi

By Jhanvi Latheesh  Chapters  1: The Flight to Green  2: The first breath of kerala  3: The Home Stay  4: The First Night  5: The River’s Call  6: The climb of Giants  7: The kitchen Fire  8: The Rain’s Invitation  9: Warmth and Promise 10: Jackfruit Jam 11: The Golden Border 12: Threading Jasmine’s 13: First step into the sacred 14: When the god walked among us 15: The Dance of the blade 16: The song of the loom 17: The Floating Feast 18: The Silver Screen Evening 19: The Ni

By Katherine Meikle Drunk and wanting more, more beach, more night, more him, I watched his blurry eyes watching mine. Our sightline tethered us together in our own pocket of space. Each of us oblivious to the stoned dispute happening with our friends around us, the summer night breeze blows mischief in our direction. He’s swaying gently, his features warm and pink, contorting as he makes faces at me. He’s trying to make me laugh. Lorraine pulls me aside, and only when I’m to

By Madison Simone My eyes faded open to a soft spring light shining beneath my curtains.  “Thanks be to God for another day!” I said, admiring the world of people behind the glass window, a gate in which I have access to enter and humbly will so.  Beyond this gate is an opportunity for collection, and I have lived a life long filling my basket of what I can take with me on my final day.  The timer of my flesh had begun once my pancreas fell ill, but for as long as my body all

By Paula Llorens Ortega Her veil was a shroud of mourning: a callous sobriety that bore too much weight but which the wisps of wind could carry. It hung loosely, swaying like a tendril of hazy mist.  There were promises that it would get easier, on how the wind would bear the weight through murmurs, on how the night would obscure the murkiness of her thoughts, on how it would slacken the discomfort coiling around her lungs. But cruelty was not known for loosening its taut gri

By Roshan Tara Every morning, I sweep dust outside the tea stall. The school gate is right across. Kids laugh and run in, holding their mums’ and dads’ hands. They wear shiny shoes and smell like soap and tiffin. I just smell like chai and smoke. Uncle says I’m lucky to work here. But I wish I had a bag like theirs. I don’t go in. But my shadow does. It runs with them, like it belongs. Maybe it wants to learn. Maybe one day, I will too. I stand here, waiting. For the day my s

By Roshan Tara I sat in my car, wanting to run. Or die. Work, family, my own skin crushed me. Then I looked up. An old man stood by the vegetable stall with a child. The vendor dumped scraps—spoiled, unwanted. The man crouched, smiling, picking through. The child held a bent tomato, laughing like it was gold. They had nothing, yet joy spilled free. The air felt lighter, their warmth cutting my fog. My chest eased. Maybe the world isn’t kind. But it waits—in bent tomatoes, qui

By Roshan Tara By day, he plays the part—footsteps firm, voice lowered, eyes dry. Everyone calls him brave. But the door stays shut. At night, silence softens the world, and he breathes out the truth. A dress, soft and secret, brushes his skin. Lips painted with trembling hands, he smiles—real, fragile, alive. The door creaks; light spills in. He steps closer. As dawn breaks, he whispers, “I’m fine.” The door slams. He stares at the mirror, its glow gone. Still, he remembers—

By Roshan Tara I met Aarush the summer my father traded what was left of his pride for a job beneath a powerful man. We arrived with one suitcase, a stack of unpaid bills, and silence stretched thin between us like a taut wire. Aarush’s house towered over everything, not just in size but in presence—the kind that made you feel like your shoes were too loud, your skin too visible. I was eight. He was nine. The first time I saw him, he was climbing a mango tree in the backyard,

By Roshan Tara My heart pounds, loud in the silence, but all I hear is the ache inside. I’m not afraid, just a little nervous, convincing myself this is the right thing to do—that after this, everything will be over. This feeling, will no longer torment me. I think of my family—Mom’s smile, Dad’s pride, my sister’s care, my brother’s bickering. They’re just memories now, burned to ash in my mind. “I can’t anymore,” I whisper, my voice breaking, as the blade promises to stop t

By Nishka Chaube With a gasp of air, I break free from the pearly white egg I’ve called home for the last fifty-nine days. Tears spring to my eyes, threatening to fall on the fuzzy crimson sand and indent shadowy puddles, as from my peripheral vision I see muted dabs of green being stolen from the nest by angry talons. Before they could even experience the sense of sight, my siblings were pierced through the heart. But I have no time to ponder that. While my blurry eyes try t

By Aeriel Holman Once upon a time, in the damp cream colored sand, sat two ingénues silhouetted against a hazy sun. The night has not yet risen behind them, and the scene is awash in a pearly gray and champagne pink. There is beauty, calm and natural, as they stare together at rolling breaks of the sea lines. The moment is fleeting, but filled with a vague sense of impending repetition as the sun and moon will rise and set again in hours, and the ocean will continue to lap ag

By Aeriel Holman Everyday I wonder, as I glance out the window, Who truly loves me? Who truly cares? There is no pretending for me here. I must be alone. No Knights dressed to shame the moon call to me, here—alone—in the lowest tower. How long have I waited for he who rides free? I have been perched upon this sill, watching from afar as the countless stonewalls have been climbed around me. Every color of Knight comes for the rescue of his darling, my sisters who were not sist

By Animisha Saxena A cold winter sun dawned an usher of reassurance to Shanaya as cutting wind from the window sent shivers down her spine. She had opened it to let the fresh wind calm Papa’s countenance. He had had a run-in with some bad luck today. The TV, which usually kept his psychosis at bay, and was the last connection to his faraway homeland, in this unfamiliar fairyland, had broken down. It exemplified his impulses. It was all not uncommon, but a tiring ordeal for Sh