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The Girl Who Lived in the Forest. AI-Generated.
Deep beyond the last stone houses of the valley, there was a wide, quiet forest where sunlight moved gently through the leaves and the wind spoke in soft whispers. In that forest lived a young girl named Elina. She had lived there for as long as she could remember, in a small wooden cabin built beside a clear stream. While others found the forest frightening, Elina called it home.
By Bilal Mohammadi7 days ago in Fiction
THE REMARKABLE CASE OF DAVIDSON'S EYES
I. — The transitory mental aberration of Sidney Davidson, remarkable enough in itself, is still more remarkable if Wade's explanation is to be credited. It sets one dreaming of the oddest possibilities of intercommunication in the future, of spending
By Faisal Khan8 days ago in Fiction
IN THE AVU OBSERVATORY
The observatory at Avu, in Borneo, stands on the spur of the mountain. To the north rises the old crater, black at night against the unfathomable blue of the sky. From the little circular building, with its mushroom dome, the slopes plunge steeply
By Faisal Khan8 days ago in Fiction
Welcome 2026. AI-Generated.
The first morning of 2026 arrived quietly. There were no fireworks in the sky anymore, no loud cheers echoing through the streets. The world seemed to pause, as if taking a deep breath before stepping forward. The sun rose slowly, casting a soft golden light over cities, villages, and homes across the globe. It was a new year, untouched and full of possibility.
By Bilal Mohammadi9 days ago in Fiction
Life Comes Without Instructions
What is the measure of a life? What gives it worth? What’s it all for? What is the point? To celebrate a life is to lose it to death. It is inevitable. We are all hanging onto the dash between our birth and death dates. Hoping to make a mark, something to be remembered for. Is that in the things we do, or the people we know? I believe it is in the people we touch. Lives that we are mingled with. Not what we aspire to be, but WHO we aspire to become.
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsden9 days ago in Fiction
Painted Glass
We were four children born into different houses, the same parents but somehow raised in four different ways. That’s what people don’t understand when they hear us tell our stories. They think the truth should sound the same, that our memory should walk a similar line. But memory fractures. It bends around pain. It chooses what it can carry.
By Tennessee Garbage9 days ago in Fiction
