Fantasy
The Quiet Battles No One Sees — And Why We Should Be Kinder Anyway. AI-Generated.
Some people wake up every morning carrying a weight you will never see. Not every struggle looks dramatic from the outside. Sometimes it’s the silent kind — a heaviness behind someone’s smile, a tiredness in their voice, or a hesitation before they say, “I’m okay.”
By Monkey.D Garp2 months ago in Fiction
Symbiotic
Microbiologist Sara Bloom sat happily in her favorite place in the world. Recorder on. Notes Ready. Hands sifting through rich loam. She brushed her bare fingers through the soil, feeling the damp grit cling to her skin. The strands of mycorrhizal fungi tangled like threads of silk, delicate and alive, weaving unseen connections beneath the surface. She leaned closer, fascinated, murmuring notes to herself as she teased apart the networks that bound root to root, life to life.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)2 months ago in Fiction
The Echo from the Depths
The Echo from the Depths The city of Vespera slept under a silver cloak of stars, its flickering lights reflecting in the dark waters of Siren's Bay. The salty air, carried by a gentle breeze, brought with it ancient whispers, tales of lost ships and fantastic sea creatures. In the heart of this city, in an old stone house with windows overlooking the sea, lived Elara.
By alin butuc2 months ago in Fiction
The Man Who Sold Tomorrow. AI-Generated.
Gregor Vale had always believed time was not a river, but a marketplace. In the back corner of an old European alley, behind fogged glass and a tarnished brass sign, stood his tiny workshop — Vale & Sons: Custom Clocks Since 1882.
By shakir hamid2 months ago in Fiction
When Darkness Learns to Kneel: A Story of Wicked for Good
There are moments in life when you meet a part of yourself you don’t fully understand. It may arrive in silence or in the middle of a messy season, but it carries a strange pull. You feel its sharp edges and its worn-out tenderness. You sense it has a story, and perhaps you have one too. This article explores the idea of becoming “wicked for good,” not in a harmful way, but in the sense of reclaiming the pieces of yourself you once pushed into the shadows. It’s about finding meaning inside the parts of your life that were once chaotic and learning how they can lead you toward a better version of yourself.
By Muqadas khan2 months ago in Fiction
Ash and Morning/Mourning
Ash and Morning/Mourning The Citadel breathes, heavy, damp, heat into its old lungs. The training court holds a chill that lingers with anticipation. I come to it with dust on my cuffs and a sliver of ink caught beneath my nail—a mark from the night’s copying work that refuses the water bowl. The court’s pale ash-bed glints under thin light. Each raked groove is an order imposed and a story erased. We pretend the grooves matter; by midmorning they will be blurred by boot and blade. Impermanent, yet law by pain and memory.
By Kristen Keenon Fisher2 months ago in Fiction
For All The Ages. Top Story - November 2025.
Thalia, acknowledged bastard of the Royal House of Dorion, was not the simpleton that so many assumed her to be. It seemed to come with being the daughter of the goddess of beauty and love: everyone supposed that you could have no interest beyond fashion and relationships. Thalia was good at relationships, seeing them in others, or at least the potential for them. Other than that perception, and some minor shapeshifting abilities that allowed her to subtly change her features, her powers were extremely limited.
By Natasja Rose2 months ago in Fiction
Doctor's Orders
Donna was walking along past the same houses and shops she always walked past on her way home from work. She was in a good mood, as she had recently discovered she was due a promotion. Nothing was out of the ordinary until she was drawn rather magnetically towards a strange and uncanny door. What made it uncanny? She was unsure, but it felt decidedly "off." Not least of all because she had never seen it before.
By Paul Stewart2 months ago in Fiction
🌙 “Grandma’s Last Petal”
---Story Begins I was eleven years old when my grandmother first showed me the flower. It lived in an old glass jar, the kind that used to hold honey years before I was born. The jar sat on the smallest shelf in her room — the one I wasn’t allowed to touch unless she was with me.
By Muhammad Kashif 2 months ago in Fiction
