Adventure
The Miners: Part 1
Once upon a time, there were a group of men who worked in the mines. They all knew each other and they all loved each other very much. One of them was known for being very good at his job and always making everyone's days brighter by simply smiling or waving. Another of them liked to sing. One day, he heard about an old abandoned mine deep underground that might just hold a treasure chest that had been buried so many years ago it probably never even existed. The man went straight there and found exactly what he thought it would be-a dusty box full of gold coins from far, far away.
By Penned by Ria4 years ago in Fiction
What Exactly Happened: Part 8
His gaze travelled up to the window above his head. It was wide open. Cold air blew harshly across the room, stirring the curtains, which fluttered wildly in an attempt to pull themselves together. One of them flew shut again and again as the wind whipped through the room, catching Ryan's hair and sending it flying across his face. And as he watched it, a single drop of water slowly began to slide down the window pane. Another and another followed in rapid succession. And then they were falling, cascading downwards, gathering speed as they hit the ground and rolled across the grass in a series of tiny, sparkling droplets that danced before them like miniature fireworks. Soon the whole window pane had been filled with rain, the drops running in endless, uninterrupted streams down it.
By Penned by Ria4 years ago in Fiction
Duskwood: My AI Part One
Hello friends! This is the first time Iâll be writing a full-length story instead of a smaller research piece! If you havenât heard of me, my name is Jess, and I go by AGoreJessStone online. Iâve been a research journalist for the past five years, with a focus on games and entertainment. Now, if you havenât read anything Iâve published before, donât worry! You donât need any of that to partake in the adventure I am taking you on this time!
By Gorejess Stone4 years ago in Fiction
The story of EL Dorado
El Dorado was a city made of gold just waiting to be discovered. They truly believed that this lost city existed in the New World, and countless people perished in a series of failed expeditions in the 16th and 17th centuries. Archaeological research has revealed that by the time Europeans arrived in Colombia in 1537, the scale and level of gold production had reached extraordinary proportions.
By Narendran C4 years ago in Fiction
9 Fractures to Call Eternity
Cotton sprigs dotted the torture that was this slog up to The Ladi. Most other towns cleared crags and boulders and fallen trees from their thoroughfares; but not Ladi GruHas. There were no roads. Her crags and hard ways and steep stone slopes were principal in her defense from ne'er-do-wells and thugs.
By Nikole McDonald-Jones4 years ago in Fiction
The Mystical Myth of Titanic
A risk-taking merchant commissioned the construction of a two-hundred sixty-nine meter cruise ship to lure wealthy patrons from all over the world into witnessing the magnificence of the legendary vanishing islets of ice, also known as icebergs that have stayed afloat for thousands of years along the Atlantic Ocean. Many cited it as simply magical.
By Oliver Lim4 years ago in Fiction
Luck On The Razor's Edge
The day I saw Victoria Yager, my heart seized in my chest. I didnât breathe as the rest of the world faded into fuzzy, unrecognizable blobs. She must have felt the weight of my stare because her angelic face swept the crowd. Her polished sapphire eyes lingered over mine for an instant. Instant shock pierced through my soul before her uninterested gaze returned to their original position. My fate was sealed that instantâI had to meet her.
By Aaron Thompson4 years ago in Fiction
The Lost Tale of a Vasilija Vukotic
In 1998, I was attending the first Womenâs International Networking Conference in Milan. A wet-behind-the-ears journalism graduate from Columbia University and male, I suspected my Pittsburgh-based editors were having a bit of fun at my expense. On my way home, a little vacation time banked, I stopped at Hotel Fortaleza do Guincho, a resort on the Estoril Coast in Portugal. Sipping my vodka gimlet on the terrace, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, my only companion that late fall afternoon was a woman of that certain age where propriety and nobility is her all-encompassing demeanor. She seemed to me a very well-kept late eighties or early nineties. She was sipping an alvarinho. I asked the waiter if he knew her and his response, âShe is here every day. She is a crazy old lady who thinks she is the Queen of Bulgaria or something.â My knowledge of history is not everything it should be, but, what the hell, I am American. Generally, I remember that after World War II, the Soviet Union put a nail in the coffin of the remaining monarchies in Eastern Europe. Forgetting that I was on vacation, I dug into my online data services (pre-Google) and tracked down the facts of Bulgarian royalty. The last Tsaritsa of Bulgaria was born in 1907 and would be 90-something. In exile, she had fled to Alexandria, Egypt to be near her father, who, similarly, was in exile from his kingship of Italy. Later, Franco had given her sanctuary in Spain. Eventually, she had settled on, of all places, Estoril, Portugal. I am no statistician but if a 90-year-old woman in Estoril purports to be the exiled Tsaritsa of Bulgaria and she is spending every day at its most expensive resort, I am willing to place a bet. The next afternoon, I am there, she is there. âPrincess Giovanna, what an unexpected surprise!â Her response to her Italian title would be telling. âYoung man, no one has called me that in almost 70 years. I would have liked to know you when I was that young girl.â Even now, she was able to affect a coquettish expression. Feeling more convinced, âMy apologies, Tsaritsa Ioanna. It is not every day a boy from Pittsburgh, America meets anyone so interesting.â âInteresting?â, was her sole response. Her English was impeccable, which for a woman who spoke, by necessity, Italian, French, Montenegrin, Bulgarian, Spanish, and Portuguese is extraordinary. My response, âYes, intriguingâ. She talking with me intently listening, we spend the next two hours reliving her last fifty years. A lull, I shared my assignment in Milan. Her response was unexpected. âYou young people think that you invented everything. Let me share a story my mother told me, frequently, of a woman, my cousin, stepping up in a way that few men can imagine.â
By Alexander J. Cameron4 years ago in Fiction
The Paper War - Part 2
Comedically thick billows of cigar smoke clouded the room but I didnât feel like laughing. Instead, my stomach twisted with anxiety. His house was like a speakeasy for rich villains in a black and white movie; all dark wood and leather. Several men congregated around a massive medieval style fireplace. Then I saw him. His immense shoulders were turned away from me as he mixed drinks but even from behind, there was no mistaking his identity. The shine of his dark slicked back hair and flawlessly cut suit were a dead give-away. Poor choice of words. I swallowed hard. There was always a chance I could still make this mission a success. My presence still seemed unnoticed. Bertorello was perched on the arm of a leather easy chair, legs crossed, waiting for a bourbon or whiskey or whatever brown liquid he was pouring. I padded noiselessly across the carpet; deeper into the smoke. I liked the smell of cigar smoke. It recalled memories of childhood; of safety, and oddly, of love. The aroma eased my tightly wound nerves but only a little. There was no way to predict what might unfold in the coming minutes and that was enough to make me snap like a stale breadstick. You couldnât be sure of any outcome in our business. Our business? I snorted inwardly. This wasnât my business. This was an explosive hostage situation. I was way out of my depth and to make matters worse, I could have walked away. I wasnât a hero or a spy, not even a vigilante. I was an English teacher.
By Serenity Kaye4 years ago in Fiction
