Excerpt

Where Did My Summers Go? In Six Drabbles
When I was six, I got six weeks' summer holiday to do whatever I wanted (and many things I didn't want like chores), but that was one week for every year of my life.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 7 months ago in Fiction
The Ways of Life and Love. Content Warning.
Boxes and papers lay scattered across the carpet, and the shadows of that final night kissing the sun goodbye as it went to sleep peeked in through the blinds, throwing swirls of fading light across the walls. Michael Holloway leaned against his couch from the floor, a glass of Bourbon in one hand.
By Lizzy Rose7 months ago in Fiction
Start Again
Introduction How many times do we start again, and it is the same as last time but different? We go to sleep at night and wake up each morning, and often follow the same routines.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 7 months ago in Fiction
"Echoes of Tomorrow
In the year 2025, the world stood at a precipice. Climate change had escalated to a point where once-thriving ecosystems were now barren deserts, and coastal cities had become submerged relics of a bygone era. Yet, amid this environmental chaos, a glimmer of hope emerged from an unexpected source.
By ABDU LLAH7 months ago in Fiction
Time is Money 💰
In the city of Chronovale, time wasn’t just measured—it was currency. Every citizen wore a sleek, silver wristband that ticked down their life’s seconds, each tick a coin spent on survival. Rent, food, love—everything cost time. The wealthy hoarded years, their wristbands glowing with surplus, while the poor scrambled, their bands dimming toward zero. Elias Kane was one of the latter, a street artist whose wristband flickered at 3 days, 7 hours, and 42 minutes.
By TrueVocal8 months ago in Fiction
Her Smile Was the Last Clue
The Girl Who Smiled at Rain It all began in the quiet town of Willowbrook, where the rain fell almost every afternoon, and the streets smelled of old books and roses.
By Muhammad Hayat8 months ago in Fiction
The Book That Sings
In a world overflowing with books, very few have the rare ability to do more than tell a story. Some entertain, some inform, and some quietly change us. But once in a while, there comes a book that does something more extraordinary—it sings. Not with literal notes or lyrics, but with a melody woven from words that linger in the heart long after the final page has turned.
By Dipayan Biswas8 months ago in Fiction
AARON RODGERS WIFE
When Aaron Rodgers led the Jets onto the field that fateful season, the crowd roared. Millions watched him throw perfect spirals, call the plays with ice in his veins, and carry the team on his shoulders. But what the cameras never showed was the quiet strength behind his resurgence—the woman who had become Aaron Rodgers’ wife, and perhaps the most important play of his life.
By Saboor Brohi 8 months ago in Fiction
Theriocentricity
“Ahh Rupert, welcome! Welcome! Come in. Set that down.” Rupert did as he was commanded and set down the saucer adorned with a single glass of Port. He should have known–Lord Hood only ordered Port when he wanted to play the game. The study was stuffy, a poor imitation of a bygone era. Mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, almost certainly never opened, intermixed with mounted heads of wild lions and zebras, almost certainly killed by someone else.
By Matthew J. Fromm8 months ago in Fiction
The Keeper of Forgotten Colors
The world had forgotten color when Elara was a child, the Fade stealing hues like a thief in the night. Skies turned to ash, forests to charcoal, and eyes saw only gray. Paintings crumbled, flowers withered, and the word “blue” became a myth. Elders spoke of a time when rainbows arced and sunsets burned, but to Elara’s generation, it was folklore. Yet Elara, now twenty-three, was different. She remembered. In a crumbling lighthouse on a jagged cliff, she became the Keeper, weaving colors from memories in a world that had none.Each night, Elara climbed the lighthouse’s rusted spiral stairs, her hands stained with impossible shades. In a room of shattered mirrors, her loom—a relic of bone and wire—hummed with power. She wove blue from her mother’s shawl, its sapphire folds swaying as she sang lullabies. Red came from the apple she’d stolen at seven, its juice sharp on her tongue. Gold flared from sunsets she’d chased across cliffs, their warmth lingering in her chest. Every thread cost a memory, erased forever. Her mother’s voice faded, then the apple’s taste, then those sunsets’ glow. Elara gave them willingly. The world needed color more than she needed her past.Below, the town of Graysill scoffed. “Colors?” fishermen muttered, kicking gray pebbles. “Delusions.” But children left offerings at the lighthouse—pebbles smeared with charcoal, chalk, anything resembling hue. Elara collected them, her heart aching for their hope. One stormy night, a girl slipped inside. Kiv, ten years old, with slate-gray eyes, stared at Elara’s glowing threads. “You’re real,” she whispered. “Can you make green?”Elara’s breath caught. Green was her last untouched memory: her father’s laugh, fishing on a lake under emerald pines. “It costs me,” she said, voice like sea fog. Kiv stepped closer, her small hand brushing Elara’s. “Then let me help.”No one had offered before. Elara hesitated, then taught Kiv to weave—not with threads, but stories. Kiv spoke of a kite she’d flown, its tail a ghost of green in her mind. The loom sparked, green shimmering, but Kiv’s eyes stayed gray—she couldn’t see it. “Keep telling,” Elara urged. Kiv’s voice grew bold: meadows where she’d run, limes she’d tasted, a jade pendant her mother once wore. The green thread thickened, vibrant, alive, curling like vines in the air.Rumors spread. Children crept to the lighthouse, then adults, each carrying fragments—memories of crimson roses, violet storms, amber dawns.
By TrueVocal8 months ago in Fiction
"The Magic of Ice Cream: A Scoop Full of Joy, Memories, and Melting Moments"
Introduction: A Little Scoop of Happiness There’s something about ice cream that instantly makes everything better. Maybe it’s the soft swirl on a hot summer day, or the quiet comfort it brings when you’re curled up on the couch, spoon in hand. Maybe it reminds you of your childhood—the sound of the ice cream truck in the distance, racing your siblings to be first in line. Or maybe, it’s just your favorite way to pause and feel good for a minute.
By Naeem Mridha8 months ago in Fiction
Echoes Through Time
In the early hours of a quiet Tuesday morning, the sky above Norway lit up in colors science couldn't explain. Satellites across the globe pinged into alert. At first, it was thought to be a cosmic event-a solar flare, perhaps, or a meteor shower. But what followed left scientists and citizens reeling.
By Emma Ade8 months ago in Fiction