Excerpt

The Last Library
I never meant to start a revolution. Honestly, at seventy-two, my most rebellious act was sneaking an extra cookie with my evening tea while Edgar, my judgmental cat (yes, named after Poe – literary nerds, represent), watched with disapproval.
By Ian Mark Ganutabout a year ago in Fiction
Falling Asleep to My Sounds
My eyes blinked more and more, and my upper eyelid gave in to the pull of gravity. I slid my right elbow across the desk until my arm was fully resting, and the forearm that had been holding my head fell to the left with a thud, stretching the entire arm. It sent the pencil flying into the air when my hand struck the notebook, landing on the floor cushioned by the rug. The right side of my face sank into the wool of the pajamas I was wearing. With the little strength I had left, I raised my torso and stood up. I pulled the sheets back and lay down on the bed, where I collapsed like a rock into the sand.
By Tiago Dunecel 🧑‍💻about a year ago in Fiction
Assigning Desks
The student introductions came to an end, and to complete my disappointment, I discovered that no one lived in my village. Most of the students already knew each other from previous years and had sat next to those they liked most. The noise from their conversations had already become a nuisance to the teacher. Seeing this, he decided, for the sake of silence, to assign the students to desks by numbers, a method of randomly separating friendships, though it never guarantees success.
By Tiago Dunecel 🧑‍💻about a year ago in Fiction
A Young Boy Sitting at the Bus Stop
Again, for the second time and already weary, I walked down the small path leading to the main road through the center of all the silence of a village. But something unpredictable stirred my curiosity the moment I reached the crossroads. When I turned to the left, I saw, to my surprise, a young boy sitting at the bus stop. I walked cautiously, like a feline ready to pounce on its prey, my mind consumed with suspicion. As I descended the street, I couldn't take my eyes off the bus stop, trying to confirm it wasn’t a mirage. Why would someone be there, at that hour, of that age, for anything unrelated to school? The high likelihood of predictability turned into an optimism that, even to me, seemed excessive.
By Tiago Dunecel 🧑‍💻about a year ago in Fiction
Who is Madison Zhao CEO Instagram
Nowadays, we are surrounded by the world of digits, where one of the principal ways through which we connect with others is with the help of social media websites. One among the prominent of these sites, Instagram, continuously evolved year by year. In the wake of growth, many people grow. Among such influencer figures stands Madison Zhao-the name of the person, in all likelihood has raised some queries for quite a few people. You may be wondering, "Who is Madison Zhao, and what's their role in Instagram's journey?
By Madison Zhaoabout a year ago in Fiction
Goldilocks and The Family of Three. Content Warning.
In the middle of the English countryside, in a quiet and idyllic overgrown forest, there stood a little picturesque cottage. It had a thatched roof, a large window at the front and rear of the property and a white picket fence that surrounded it. There was a small garden patch at the front of the garden where stunning sunflowers grew, while a small number of vegetables and herbs grew in the back garden.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
The Untold Story of the Lubkuchenhexe. Content Warning.
The Great Famine revealed the true depths of human desperation. When humanity is pushed to the very edge, they tend to do one thing or the other - try to help as many from falling over or look out for themselves.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
Brambling's Blue
II The Bramble is a net in which you are pushed down, down past the stems, past the roots, into something entirely make belief. That’s what it is. Belief making. Storytelling, but not so much telling as there is no audience, although you are not entirely alone up there, are you? I mean, Lotus you are up there with Her so there is someone or something that this belief making is for, or there is something up there that orchestrates it, but it is something entirely made. It is created from dry, rotted, possibly angry, I get an angry cloud from it, set of roots that come from somewhere you don’t See. Don’t you See? Entire cosmos underneath the eye. They brim and babble, and enhance, that’s it Flower, it enhances, flowing power, fucking flower power, peace and love you know, I suppose it promotes some kind of outward emission of peace but remember Lotus, the Bramble does not love, but you love it, She loves it, she Brambles for the power of the flow, flow, flow. The Bramble keeps what’s dead is dead, but it offers protection. For them, and for buried friends. Is it to appear busy, this artmaking? This over-hanging swell, this beautiful cage, smelling of burnt acacia, what is it all for: Echoes of makers before chime with the same question. To appear busy, to battle the echoing, echoing that is slow, slow, thick, thick silence. It is only wanted in a state of Blueness, in a bubble of Nothing, of No Time, those moments when nothing is everything. But when are you ever calm? The calmness comes from the Bramble, Lotus Flower, Egyptian or other. Sacredness comes from acacia. Almost religious. You know it’s dark in there, the body. The shell’s warmth comes from darkness. I need more words, I need more space, I need something new. The Bramble flits between, doesn’t it? It chooses of its own creation (Her creation) and don’t forget the music either. You cannot forget the sounds of music. Where would anything be without music? What would be the sound of existence? Lotus, what is your favourite sound? Lotus, do you hear anything? Lotus, Lotus, do you anything? Do you do you do you? Are you a Lotus Flower? Or what is it that I speak to? Write to. Where were we, Lotus? I get awfully off track sometimes. They change, you See? Flitting in between dimensions like a sojourning little clown. Which circus would you go to? For some reason they’re all flawed. Lotus, is that you? Is this your little jesting act? She can have worlds but almost none of the glassy, sewed-to-the-seems type of dimensions clutched her roots like Ours did. Do you hear the glass sometimes, Lotus? What do they say? Could you even tell Me if you cannot See? The glass did things to us? What do you mean, little flower? Insects are nibbling you; I see. There is no reason for the Bramble, there is a million reasons for the Bramble, there are none you can touch, there are none you should fear. Not anymore, Lotus lily, because of the roots. Roots. Roots. Moving up and down. Roots. The thick, thick, slow, slow roots. It is unapologetic, don’t you remember? It is all there is, nod if you understand Her. Some don’t suppose that She is capital, but I’ll tell you one thing. There are Greats that came from webs such as these. Totally capital. You’ve got to spin them on your attic, and you have only minutes before the water flows in, thick, thick, Blue, Blue. Blueness like we’ve spoke of, Blue, printed on your papyri. Will you alter my mind, dear Lotus friend? I would like you to alter my mind. I would like to entomb it, paint Blue on the rock as I float in my Brambles and forget what dreams tasted like as a child. Free me, Bramble, but don’t encase me in the Glass of Blue birds sing from black wire. Free me, Bramble, take it From Me, some of us dreamers flitter from punctured belfry. it apologetically, Lotus, it is apologetically.
By Essieabout a year ago in Fiction
The horrifying bright yellow
The horrifying bright yellow ”They are down there in the water. I noticed multiple flashes of brilliant yellow shooting out from and then receding down below the surface, only to rise up again in a regular pattern. Like a dancing routine. Brightly yellow and lethal. Are they ridiculing us? The decaying, delicious odor of death is still trapped in my nose. We are locked here, and people are losing their minds.’
By QuirkTalesabout a year ago in Fiction
Law One: The Hidden Strength Within
Introduction: A Young Man’s Struggle Arin was a young man who lived in a small village. He was kind and always tried to help others, but he felt weak. No matter how hard he worked, nothing seemed to change. 🌍
By The Kingabout a year ago in Fiction
The Vanishing Village: A Mystery Lost in Time
The Vanishing Village: A Mystery Lost in Time Introduction In the remote valleys of Eastern Europe lies a chilling enigma—a village that seemingly vanished overnight. Known to locals as "Zelenaya", this once-thriving settlement is now nothing more than an eerie, abandoned ruin. But its disappearance isn't just a story of migration or war; it's a mystery that defies explanation.
By amgadabout a year ago in Fiction
Brambling's Bow
The brambling is unapologetic. It never approaches slowly, murmuring a thin warning of thick, thick hedges making their slow, slow reach for its thick, thick lotus stem. Flowering lotus, enchanting and muddy, although you are resilient, and resilience being thick, although you are a thick, thick stem, you are not approached unapologetically. No, for whatever reason you are approached it is not as a warning, Lotus, it is not murmuring quiet comforts, rippling and blue. Is that what you are, you, are you Blue? Are you Blue, or are you Indian, Sacred, Egyptian? Water Lily, are you a Money Boulais, a stamp of something illustrious? You are whatever the Brambling makes you, or you are what the Bramble makes. It does not matter. All that matters is that you do not forget what stems from it. It comes. It blooms. You bloom. Or rot. Fecund, or khat. But it does not come unapologetically. The act of the Brambling is a sleepless, sleepless, almost painless, something of an almost egress, paralysis to fully depress. Lotus White, Lotus Blue, Lotus of a fucking Rue, you are still Brambling, and the Bramble may cease but it does not relent. It may cease but it does not relent. Carvings from a sojourn are forevermore, no matter how concise and clipped the thick, thick stem was. See slow, slow spines stay spinning skeins, sojourn severally schematic spellbinds, steadily spiraling sooty, sooty shameless stem, stalk, spindle, She. She is who the Stem is. Lotus you are needed. Lotus, you bleed it. Would it help to understand? The burning stamps the smell out. The Brambling is timeless, it takes all her time, it takes but it gives. It gives as a flowering, blooming mother. But it does not love. It comes unapologetically, don’t you see? No, it blocks the Lotus’ from Seeing. What could you want with seeing? Feel, Blue. Ride the blue stars you’re being showered with and never pretend you know why they chose you. The Brambling, well the Brambling, enough of that, Lotus you know what the Brambling does, and you know how it is I suppose. What else could be said? Unapologetically, Blue. Be unapologetically Blue. Succumb to the lethargy or be taken by it? It is your decision, Lotus. Well, the Bramble does not murmur to you, but you can make a choice. Brambling to a place, Brambling through a day, it may not relent, but Lotus, I’ll tell you a secret, whether you be Blue or Egyptian White. If you lean, and lean being fall, if you fall headfirst, fast, fast into the chasm below, beyond, above, however you See it, then Lotus, I’ll tell you a secret: You want to be on Her side. Sacred lacklustre, you must fluster, you must bluster, you must fucking fuck Her. In the sanest of ways. Sanest of sane. Not un-figuratively, more is-it-a-bean-tree-and-why-are-you-feigning? What did the Boulais say, because it’s there forever, so it really should have registered, but now you’re asking me. Speaking of Me, the trick of the treat is to not be tricked into a treat, but treat it as a trick, trickly treatly. Alright, that’s not a word but whaddya want from me? A sweet? Brambling of one’s own accord keeps one bobbing in the mellow shores, blue, green, algae pink. Colours of sweet wrappers tinted and blind. I’ve told you, White, I’ve told you now. Nothing is changed from the stems unless you take it up with them. Unless you whisper softly as you never did before. Sweeter than the blue boiled, broken bonbon: You weren’t as Blue as them, sugar. You whisper in Egyptian, murmuring tongues. Lotus flower you do your duty. The Brambling is the only thing there was or is to be had. The Brambling takes you to a place, it takes away a day. The skeins melt away at a certain point, but it never feels the way you feel when a flower blooms in May. Fecund or khat, you know where you’re at, Blue. Take it from Me.
By Essieabout a year ago in Fiction