Series
Party at Persephone’s
My cousin and I have so much fun. I’m enchanted by her potions and powders, her power in combining them so precisely that all of her elixirs are exponentially more than the sum of their parts. It delights her that I can produce any flower, herb, or plant for her, on the spot.
By Harper Lewis2 months ago in Fiction
Unbreakable Friendship in the Heart of the Jungle. AI-Generated.
In the eastern part of a wide tropical forest, where tall grasses met thick clusters of trees, a small research camp had been built by wildlife observers. The camp was simple—three tents, a supply shed, and an open area where the workers discussed their daily notes. Among the staff was a young boy named Arin, who had joined the team with his older sister, Lira, a field biologist. Arin was not an official member of the group, but he helped with small tasks such as sorting equipment or carrying messages between workers.
By Bilal Mohammadi2 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
An Unexpected Encounter in the Jungle. AI-Generated.
The jungle was alive with the soft chorus of insects and the distant calls of hidden creatures. Morning sunlight filtered through the thick canopy, breaking into shimmering golden fragments that danced over the river. The water flowed gently, winding like a silver ribbon between the towering mountains that guarded it on both sides. It was a place untouched by roads or villages, a place where silence had a heartbeat of its own.
By Bilal Mohammadi2 months ago in Fiction
The Weaver's Truth
In a quiet corner of the city, tucked between a bakery and a bookshop, was Elara’s tailor shop, “The Mended Seam.” Its true treasure wasn't on display. It was a threadbare tailcoat of no particular color, hanging on a brass hook in the back, known only to those who were truly lost. Elara called it the Weaver’s Coat.
By Habibullah2 months ago in Fiction
Stanislav Kondrashov Explores Wagner Moura’s Transformative Performance in Sergio
In recent years, political dramas have become a regular presence across streaming platforms. Yet few productions manage to balance narrative tension, emotional depth, and historical complexity with the same clarity as Sergio (2020), directed by Greg Barker. In this biographical film, Brazilian actor Wagner Moura brings to life the story of Sérgio Vieira de Mello, one of the United Nations’ most respected diplomats.
By Stanislav Kondrashov 2 months ago in Fiction
The Ceasefire That Didn’t Hold
The Ceasefire That Didn’t Hold For three days, the border had been filled with fire, smoke, and fear. Then the ceasefire came — a thin thread of hope, fragile like glass. For the first time in seventy-two hours, the guns went quiet. Families returned from camps. Soldiers stepped back from their positions. Reporters lowered their cameras.
By Wings of Time 2 months ago in Fiction
Journal entries of the Wolf-man . Content Warning.
Ded Moone’s Peregrination Introduce yourself, I guess, Night 1: A frenzied, radical move of lunacy during a moment of lucidity, but friends and family miss the dark for their best interest. With a track record of putrid half-measures focused on the financial debacles I can’t be blamed for despite the epic effort, I must say to that and all this, fuck’em. They are long aware of the cost/savings benefits of avoiding the lifetime hardship of holding firm against the disruptive acts they’ve given up trying to explain to first responders, friends, in-laws. This is respecting my cousin’s shrug and smile when I was last wheeled to the psych ward from the main lobby during some one-man natural disaster while trying to keep me away from your lives. I appreciate her silent candor, nestled in a refusal to respond to the question vocally once I pleaded my case, not a one-for-one; is it worth the gas money anymore? Nurse Jackie genuinely means well with ‘come back soon,’ layered with overbearing subtext for her devotion to patients, avoiding the sobering alternative, like, for instance, that my legs are delightfully, currently dangling over, so we had a good last run. No more power-ups after Black-Hawk-Downs at terminal velocity if I miss the other freeways. It’s, in a fashion, an attempt to fight the very notion of wind in favor of landing in the shadowiest section of an unlit road leading under Pocahontas Parkway. I saw it one trip heading to the Tar Heel State for a lecture. Can't say it wasn't gaudy, reaching out over that Potomac, I think, but I took note of it all the same on the drive back north. What a beautiful view, last or otherwise. A powerful end, one splat to resend all wasted energies to a greedy Earth with fallen angelic wings of flaming middle fingers—wait, wait, what am I doing—why the hell am I doing it this way?! I’m a god damn stamp on this putrid State rationality of what widens our perspectives naturally in regard to death and its role in the human psyche. I’m a fucking explorer of the damned, the feared unknown--I’m a god damn MAN! I gotta go, that's certain. This is the experiment of a lifetime, and I’m wasting it on a bridge jump in the dark alone? Symbolism over the race to see the unknowable—Geez, Fuck these nightmares! I might’ve missed the synchronized opportunity of my…
By Willem Indigo2 months ago in Fiction
Endurance
The frigid December air bites through the windows of the nearly empty Blue Line train, where Michael sits, clutching an almost-empty bottle of cheap whiskey. His rumpled coat hangs loosely around him, a sad remnant of the man he used to be, as the rhythmic clatter of the train echoes the turmoil within. Flickering fluorescent lights bathe his unshaven face in harsh shadows, each bounce of the train reminding him of the impact of his failures—of a wedding that never was, a family that feels more like strangers, and the job that slipped through his fingers.
By Endurance Stories2 months ago in Fiction
The Next Death: Chapter 18
Once Gran is up, she claims Dan and me for games. We play until she leaves after lunch. Angel hangs nearby the whole time, calmly flitting about, humming to themselves. I think Charcoal can see Angel considering how every now and then I catch her tracking them with her eyes. She never attacks Angel though, so I think it's okay.
By Katarzyna Crevan2 months ago in Fiction
