Excerpt
The Unpleasantness and Inconvenience of War
The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished. Then silence fell, and in time she was forgotten, as so often is the case in life. Hello, friend (or foe, I do not judge). The green valleys and hills, the crystal blue waters and the reverse waterfalls of the glorious kingdom soon adapted. Even the people, the great and the good, the insignificant and ne'er-do-wells, over time forgot. They became indifferent. Passion, mourning and fear of change were soon passed over for "getting on with it... life".
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
Blossoming in Our Own Time
A few years ago, I stumbled upon a book by Rich Karlgaard called Late Bloomers, The Power of Patience In A World Obsessed With Early Achievement. The title struck a chord with me, like an unexpected harmony that makes you pause and listen. I consider myself a late bloomer—a term Merriam-Webster describes as “someone who becomes successful, attractive, etc., at a later time in life than other people.” Apparently, I’m not alone; many people share this sentiment.
By Tales by J.J.about a year ago in Fiction
Life Circle
My back-door neighbors disappear almost fully every summer. It’s a slow, patchy, green obscuration, courtesy of a tall persimmon tree next to the fence that separates our houses. Today morning, as I stand at the kitchen sink filling water in a small saucepan and look out of the window in the back, their seasonal eclipsing is almost at totality. Only an edge of their terracotta tile roof and part of the upstairs window remain. Come fall, the gaps between the branches of the tree, bending under the weight of many fruit, will widen. And, as I walk through the different levels of my house, I’ll start to catch glimpses of them again. An upside-down triangle view of their patio door and the periodic appearance of the man as he jogs in circles around his house. Or, of the lady sitting on the step with her back resting against the pale brown-pink walls, head tilted, and her eyes closed against the sun. I always feel a strange reassurance at their reappearance. We don’t know each other, but they’re part of a cycle I unconsciously track, and though I can never be sure of the shape their return will take, I still count on the little predictability it offers.
By Tales by J.J.about a year ago in Fiction
Vanish. Top Story - November 2024.
The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished. It was my job to count the cards. Every day, I took them out of their locked box and counted them out carefully. Exactly fifty-two, except on days when the jokers decided to show up. They never came on the same day, so the count never got beyond fifty-three. If they were ever to show up together and make the count fifty-four, I think the world might end.
By Rebekah Brannanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Queen's Absence
The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished. That was not the strangest part of the day. One of the Queen's handmaidens was a daughter of the sea-god, after all, and water reacted to her emotions. Pelegia - all of the Royal handmaidens, really - got twitchy when the Queen was endangered.
By Natasja Roseabout a year ago in Fiction
The Curse of Ravenwood Manor
The Curse of Ravenwood Manor Every Halloween, the small, mist-covered town of Ravenwood fell under a chilling spell. Known for its spooky atmosphere and ancient legends, Ravenwood attracted both thrill-seekers and ghost hunters from far and wide. But amidst all the haunted tales, one story remained the most terrifying—the Curse of Ravenwood Manor.
By Nada solimanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Cursed Reflection
I had always been fascinated by antiques, and when I came across an old, ornate mirror at a flea market, I couldn’t resist buying it. It was large, with a heavy wooden frame, intricately carved with strange symbols. The seller told me it was from the 1800s and had a history, but they refused to say more. “Some things are better left unsaid,” they muttered. I brushed off their warning, eager to add the mirror to my collection.
By Ƒนʀƙเ ฬʀเτєรabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lost City of Lumora
The Mysterious Map It was an ordinary afternoon in the small town of Eldridge when 14-year-old Max stumbled upon a dusty old map in his attic. The map, rolled up and hidden behind some old boxes, looked ancient. Its edges were torn, and strange symbols were scribbled all over it. At the bottom, in bold, faded letters, it read: “The Lost City of Lumora.”
By Ƒนʀƙเ ฬʀเτєรabout a year ago in Fiction
