Humor
The Letters He Never Sent. AI-Generated.
Samuel Graves had not opened the study room in three years. Dust blanketed the shelves like tired snow; the curtains remained frozen in place, trapping darkness inside the walls. The house itself seemed to breathe differently when he stood at the doorway — as if recognizing him with a mixture of relief and sorrow.
By shakir hamid2 months ago in Fiction
The Last Song in the Snow. AI-Generated.
Anton Markovic was known only by the sound of his violin. He played every evening at the frozen train station under the city bridge, where footsteps echoed like ghosts and the cold bit the bones of anyone foolish enough to linger.
By shakir hamid2 months ago in Fiction
The Silent Wood
Silas was not a woodsman, nor a hermit. He was a Fletcher, a title he’d given himself. Where others saw a wild forest, he saw a room in desperate need of tidying. His domain was the stretch of woods behind his cottage, and his purpose was to bring order to the chaos.
By Habibullah2 months ago in Fiction
Symbiotic: Chapter 2
Chapter 2 Sara pressed her back against the tree, heart still pounding from the encounter, but her mind refused to sit idle. Frustration burned through her fear. If the System was treating her fungi as party members, then there had to be a logic to it. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to think, and the sterile memory of her lab rose unbidden to her mind.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)2 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 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
🌙 “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
The Strange Company & the Plague that Never Was
Knock-knock. “Who’s there?” growled an annoyed, sleepy voice behind the town gate. The evening was not young anymore, and the air was yet crisp. The nights following yearbreak were always the longest and darkest.
By Lucia's Imaginaries2 months ago in Fiction
A Patrol in the Woods
Sometimes, life’s problems can’t be solved with a glass slipper. Sometimes, you need a Nightingale. Or so our billboards proudly stated at every inn, city gate, and causeway that saw any sort of hoof traffic. Matter of fact, I came up with that slogan based on a previous assignment involving a sexual deviant and a very impractical piece of footgear, but you’d never know it considering the distinct lack of royalty checks my pigeons have brought me.
By Stephen A. Roddewig2 months ago in Fiction
