Series

Symbiotic: Chapter 2.5
Even as she worked to come down from the adrenaline high of combat, the system’s glow returned, lettering itself across Sara Bloom’s vision:
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)2 months ago in Fiction
Day 3: Gossip in the Religious Routine. Content Warning.
I can only compare the 02:19 wake-up call to a boot camp built right into your childhood treehouse. Having a tank's echo was the real blistering fire finger poker to my headache. Bunked near Ron, I followed him toward the howling echo octaves bolstering of a dying bat squeal out of the bellend that rang deeper and lower the closer you were by the inch. Their solution to this explains the why on the journaling exercise, demented spirits or not, it’s smarter to have pen and paper in this damp, hovering humidity cesspit of body odors before the raid.
By Willem Indigo2 months ago in Fiction
The Hollow Feast
“When the dead are invited to the table, only a mortal fool takes the name, host.” —Book of Still Waters, Feast of the Hollow Mouths
By Kristen Keenon Fisher2 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
Cold Cuts: Chapter 1. Content Warning.
"Faith!" I called for my friend from the other room in the suite we were in. I needed her to tie up my dress and to see when she would be ready. We were both famous for being fashionably late, but we really needed to get to this venue on time tonight.
By scaldingblktea 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
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
Tesla's Treasure Chest
Tesla's Treasure Chest By: Liam Einhorn There are few immortal treasures to a journalist like myself: an unfiltered look at the JFK files; an unaccompanied tour of Area 52; a glimpse into the true origins of the pyramids. Any of those would stir the investigative mind, but perhaps not as much as the offer of a lifetime I present to you now.
By Tales from a Madman2 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
Dark Meat
“You have done well managing my X account the past month,” Elon told the lookalike. “Thank you.” “With posts like these, the far right will be against nonwhite and immigrants in no time.”
By Stephanie Hoogstad2 months ago in Fiction
The Love Of 1979
The year was 1979. Naju was sixteen years old—a young woman defined by her beauty, kindness, and an infectious sense of joy. She belonged to a bustling, large family; sandwiched in the middle, she had two older brothers, two older sisters, and two younger brothers.
By M.akhand2 months ago in Fiction
The Lost Season
Arthur’s Law was simple: a great photograph is not found, it is forged in the crucible of preparation. For Elara, a self-proclaimed "Leaf Peeper," this meant a military-grade itinerary. Her autumn pilgrimage to the Crimson Peaks was scheduled down to the minute: 5:47 AM sunrise at Eagle’s Point, 10:15 AM the golden glow on the Aspen Grove, 3:30 PM the fiery maples of Hemlock Ravine. She moved through the world with a tripod over her shoulder and a ticking clock in her head.
By Habibullah2 months ago in Fiction