Fable
THE ARCHITECTURE OF DARK: RITUAL WINTER
The world doe not die in winter, simply holds its breath. Where I live, the transition isn't a gradual slide, but a sharp snap. One morning, you wake up and the air has changed. It no longer smells of damp earth and rotting leaves; it smells of nothing at all. It is a clean, sterile cold that reaches into your lungs and reminds you that you are made of water and warmthâtwo things the frost wants to take back.
By Awa Nyassi27 days ago in Fiction
Garyorgy Effect
âConsciousness is a philosophical construct.â âPerhaps. Consciousness: There is debate about what qualifies as âtrue consciousnessâ. Some argue that higher reasoning and the ability to dream are key components of consciousness. Understanding the difference between right and wrong.â
By Leah Suzanne Dewey28 days ago in Fiction
Time Master
I supposed this was what I had wished for for a long timeâŠ. I had spent many hours letting my mind run wild on what I would do if I ever gained such magical powers. It felt like a dream, like all my problems would be solved if I could just have this one gift. But this was reality, not the fantasies I read about. Wishes were supposed to stay just wishes; they werenât supposed to come true. Not that I complained when it happened⊠I just couldnât get over the shock.
By Leah Suzanne Dewey28 days ago in Fiction
Auroras Beyond the Last Forest - Mysteries of the North Pole
The journey toward the North Pole did not begin with coordinates or maps, but with a forest older than memory itself. The Taiga Forest stretched endlessly beneath a sky that never fully darkened, its snow-laden trees standing like quiet witnesses to centuries of travelers who had come seeking answers rather than destinations. This was not a forest that resisted passage - it tested intention. Every step forward felt deliberate, as if the land itself required certainty before allowing anyone deeper. It was here that the travelers gathered - not heroes in the traditional sense, but beings shaped by curiosity, patience, and winterâs discipline. Among them walked humans wrapped in layered wool and belief, forest spirits whose footsteps left no imprint, and small luminous fair folk - fairies - whose wings refracted the pale light into soft prisms. Even the wind seemed aware of them, slowing its breath as they advanced northward.
By José Juan Gutierrez 28 days ago in Fiction
Roots and branches
My roots formed in uncelebrated places â In kitchens heavy with silence, In prayers said without witnesses, In hands that learned endurance Before they ever learned rest. They grew quietly, gripping soil That knew both hunger and hope, Teaching me early that survival Is a kind of wisdom.
By Awa Nyassiabout a month ago in Fiction
Alice in Reality
As Alice staggered to the back, she couldnât help but feel everyone was glancing at her and whispering about her. She saw odd sideways glances and a low murmur of secret voices throughout the bus. She didnât recognize anyone on the bus and had no idea what all the whispering could be about. Alice huddled herself into a small ball in the back of the bus and proceeded to look out the window and ignore her fellow passengers. She pulled out the cookie in her hand and wondered if it would even work in his land. Perhaps it was worth a try if it would keep everyone from looking at her so suspiciously. She popped the cookie in her mouth and chewed slowly. As she did the glances and whispers started to fade, as if she faded from view of all the other passengers.
By Leah Suzanne Deweyabout a month ago in Fiction
THE TEAPOT THAT KNEW MY NAME
Willowfen was the kind of village that forgot the meaning of hurry long before I was born. It sat between a river that sang softly to itself and a meadow that smelled of honey even in winter, stitched together by cobblestone lanes worn smooth by centuries of unimportant footsteps. Nothing legendary had ever happened thereâno dragons, no chosen heroes, no prophecies scribbled in fading ink. Instead, Willowfen specialized in the ordinary miracles: bread that rose perfectly every morning, lamplight that glowed a little warmer when someone walked home alone, and gossip that traveled faster than the wind but never meant any harm. It was the sort of place where people waved even if they didnât know your name, and somehow, by the end of the week, they did.
By Alisher Jumayevabout a month ago in Fiction
