Fantasy
A Night in the Devil’s Arms
A Night in the Devil’s Arms The manor’s silence pressed around Eleanor like a living thing, heavy and expectant. Each footfall on the polished stone seemed amplified, as though the walls themselves were listening, judging, savoring. The man who had met her at the door, whose presence radiated a wickedness so precise it might have been carved from the night itself, he watched her with quiet amusement.
By Marie381Uk 4 months ago in Fiction
Rain, Tea, and Timeless Words
Rain, Tea, and Timeless Words A heartwarming story of connection, calm, and the beauty of conversation. The rain had arrived softly, as if the sky were whispering secrets to the earth. It tapped gently on the roof of the little cottage at the edge of the hill, drumming a rhythm that felt like an old, familiar lullaby. Inside, the air smelled of cardamom and honey. A teapot steamed quietly on a wooden tray, accompanied by two handmade cups and a plate of warm biscuits. The scent of the tea drifted into the open air, dancing with the fresh petrichor that seeped through the window screens. Maya stood at the edge of the veranda, watching the raindrops slide down the leaves in the garden. The world seemed to shimmer in green and silver, like nature had been freshly painted. She turned slightly and smiled. “You always knew when to come,” she said. Across from her, seated in a wicker chair with a soft shawl draped around her shoulders, sat Lila—her oldest friend. Time had added a few silver strands to their hair, a few gentle lines around their eyes, but it hadn’t touched their laughter, or the comfort of their quiet conversations. “I think the rain sends me invitations,” Lila replied, smiling back. “And your tea seals the deal.” They laughed—softly, but freely. The kind of laughter that doesn’t chase silence away but fills it with light. As they sat with their tea, the garden unfolded before them like a peaceful painting. Birds rustled under leaves, the flowers swayed, and the occasional breeze carried the scent of jasmine. “Do you remember,” Maya began, “how we used to sit like this when we were twenty? Rainy afternoons with tea and dreams.” Lila nodded, her eyes twinkling. “We planned everything on those days. Where we’d live, the books we’d write, the cafés we’d open…” “…the mountains we’d climb,” Maya added, grinning. “We never opened the café, but we did find our mountains.” They paused, sipping their tea. The conversation wasn’t urgent—it never was between them. It flowed naturally, like the stream that ran just beyond the garden fence. “What I love about us,” Lila said after a moment, “is that we never stopped making space for days like this. Even when life got loud.” Maya nodded thoughtfully. “Tea, rain, and real words. That’s our ritual. No pretending. Just presence.” Outside, the rain thickened for a few minutes, softening the landscape into a watercolor. Inside, the warmth of the tea and the glow of their conversation made the room feel like a haven. “Do you think people still talk like this?” Lila asked. “Without phones, without noise—just words and wonder?” Maya tilted her head. “Some do. Some are learning again. I think the world is remembering the value of slowness. Of listening.” There was a silence then—not empty, but full of meaning. The kind of silence only deep friendship allows. They watched the world breathe. Suddenly, Lila reached into her bag and pulled out a small notebook, its cover worn and soft at the edges. “I brought this,” she said. “It’s something I’ve been writing. Thoughts, poems, little moments I don’t want to lose.” She handed it to Maya, who opened it gently, as if holding something sacred. The pages were filled with neat, flowing handwriting—some playful, some profound. One short poem caught her eye: Rain remembers every story, Even the ones we whisper in silence. Tea listens better than most people. And time— Time waits, when love is true. Maya looked up, eyes misty. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. Lila smiled. “You inspired most of it. Our talks. These afternoons.” They sat for a while longer, reading and sipping, until the rain began to slow, and golden light broke gently through the clouds. The garden sparkled as if it had been dusted with diamonds. Before Lila left, they hugged tightly, the kind of hug that says thank you for being part of my life’s story. As she walked down the stone path, umbrella in hand, Maya called out, “Same time next rain?” Lila turned, grinning. “Always.” Maya returned to the veranda, poured herself the last of the tea, and sat quietly. The sky had cleared, but the feeling of the rain lingered like a memory—soft, fresh, and full of life. She picked up Lila’s notebook again and wrote a line on the last page: Some friendships are brewed like tea—warm, strong, and better with time.
By Muhammad Saad 4 months ago in Fiction
RED LIGHTNING. Content Warning.
In my kitchen, I’m preparing to cook my favorite comfort food: spaghetti with garlic knots and a fresh salad with Thousand Island dressing. Lately, I’ve been indulging in comfort foods—sometimes it’s a bowl of Corn Pops topped with orange sherbet ice cream or Girl Scout Thin Mint Pop-Tarts with a cold glass of milk. The good news is the crying has finally passed. I was listening to Napster, playing my Morgan Wallen playlist, because seeing the world through "Whiskey Glasses" is exactly what I am doing right now. There’s nothing quite like country music for making the broken-hearted feel worse. Singing “Whiskey Glasses” at the top of my lungs, off-key, while I set up my solo dinner, I can feel the hollow ache of solitude. It’s hard being alone after so many years in a relationship—even a toxic one. I hear the next song, and Post Malone is serenading me, telling me this one’s for the losers. I will drink to that.
By T.D.Carter4 months ago in Fiction
When the world splits
In the town of Stillwater, there are those who say the river runs backward twice a year. It is only a trick of wind and moonlight, but to some, it means the Lord remembers what we forget. That was what Ella used to believe once, when she was seventeen and thought herself ruined by the truth growing beneath her ribs.
By Taylor Ward4 months ago in Fiction
The Cog-Boy of Aethel. AI-Generated.
Master Elara Vance found him three hours later. The workshop that had once been Baron Von Greed's private laboratory was now a scene of controlled chaos. Academy artificers worked alongside city engineers to catalog the Baron's equipment (the man himself had vanished in the confusion following the resonance cascade). Awakened automatons wandered the space, some weeping electronically as they rediscovered their suppressed memories, others simply marveling at the return of choice to their existence.
By Shane D. Spear4 months ago in Fiction
The Second Chance Garden
The air in the geodesic dome was thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine—scents that had died everywhere else. Elara was the keeper of the Last Garden, a secret place where the flora of a lost Earth thrived under an artificial sun. But the garden’s true magic was hidden in its soil, a unique mycelial network that could feed on more than just water and nutrients. It could consume regret.
By Habibullah4 months ago in Fiction
