Short Story
The Final Entry: Arthur St. Clair’s Sacrifice
Arthur St Clair had always believed in maps. As a former Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society and, secretly, a senior cartographer, he had spent his life charting the world’s anomalies, ensuring the line between fact and folklore remained taut and unbroken. But the map he stared at now was failing him. It was a fragment of parchment tucked into his pocket, showing a single, faint, circular clearing near Oxford labelled only: The Rabbit Hole.
By DARK TALE CO. about a month ago in Fiction
Ash
At first it was only a nuisance. A fine gray dust that gathered on windowsills, on the backs of chairs, in the creases of her thoughts. It followed her indoors, clung to her hair, rested on her tongue with the faint bitterness of something already finished.
By Aarsh Malikabout a month ago in Fiction
Wild Love at Christmas Eve. Top Story - December 2025.
If we grow old together, help me to remember the catch in my voice when I faced this old world anew one Christmas Eve ... Aflock in the town's tavern, my head a mix of love and merry. Downing my glass of Moscato, my head spinning with claustrophobia, I ripped away from the endless whir of clutches and kisses. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, I found relief in the welcome outside air.
By Susan L. Marshallabout a month ago in Fiction
Winter Series 2025 - When the Sun Forgot Us for a Moment (PART II)
That morning, the Sun hesitated; it did not announce itself with disaster or spectacle. There were no sirens, no collapsing networks, no urgent alerts vibrating in pockets. Light simply arrived differently, spreading across the city with an unfamiliar patience, lingering on rooftops and sidewalks as if it were deciding whether the day truly needed to begin. People noticed the change not with panic but with intuition. Coffee cooled untouched. Footsteps slowed. Conversations stretched into pauses that felt intentional rather than awkward, as though time itself had loosened its grip just enough to let the world inhale.
By José Juan Gutierrez about a month ago in Fiction
Auroras Beyond the Last Forest - Mysteries of the North Pole
The journey toward the North Pole did not begin with coordinates or maps, but with a forest older than memory itself. The Taiga Forest stretched endlessly beneath a sky that never fully darkened, its snow-laden trees standing like quiet witnesses to centuries of travelers who had come seeking answers rather than destinations. This was not a forest that resisted passage - it tested intention. Every step forward felt deliberate, as if the land itself required certainty before allowing anyone deeper. It was here that the travelers gathered - not heroes in the traditional sense, but beings shaped by curiosity, patience, and winter’s discipline. Among them walked humans wrapped in layered wool and belief, forest spirits whose footsteps left no imprint, and small luminous fair folk - fairies - whose wings refracted the pale light into soft prisms. Even the wind seemed aware of them, slowing its breath as they advanced northward.
By José Juan Gutierrez about a month ago in Fiction
Winter Series 2025 - Snow Does Not Fall the Same Way Twice (Part III)
Snow looks identical until you stay long enough to watch it fall. From a distance, winter appears repetitive - the same cold, the same gray skies, the same quiet streets. But snow, like memory, reveals its truth only to those willing to slow down. Each flake carries a distinct geometry. Each winter arrives believing it is both the first and the last of its kind.
By José Juan Gutierrez about a month ago in Fiction
Winter Series 2025 - The Longest Night We Shared (Part I)
Winter does not arrive loudly. It enters quietly, slipping between conversations, dimming the edges of the world, asking us to slow down even when we resist. The longest night of the year - Solstice - is not only an astronomical event - it is an emotional threshold. A moment when darkness lingers long enough to make us listen.
By José Juan Gutierrez about a month ago in Fiction
The Echo of Choices. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
In 2045, the world lay in ruins — not from nuclear fire, but from nature's furious rebirth. Cities crumbled under earthquakes, coasts vanished beneath tsunamis, volcanoes blanketed the sky in ash. Humanity survived, scarred but alive, forced to rebuild from the ground up.
By Mr. Usevolod Voskoboinikovabout a month ago in Fiction
Life Lessons from Panchatantra Stories
Most of us grew up reading Aesop’s fables, but you may or may not have heard of the Panchatantra, a collection of ancient Indian stories. I learned the five tantras of the Panchatantra are: Mitra-bheda (The Loss of Friends), Mitra-lābha (The Gaining of Friends), Kākolūkīyam (War and Peace), Labdhapraṇāśam (Loss of Gains), and Aparīkṣitakārakam (Ill-considered Actions).
By Seema Patelabout a month ago in Fiction
Interlude: Lions, Lifewheat, & Crafters... Oh My! (Chapter 57.5?)
Interlude: Lions, Lifewheat, & Crafters... Oh My! Called to Haven Valley by the System Recruitment Notice, the Crafter families moved slowly, wagons and packs creaking under the weight of tools and supplies, children perched on carts or walking alongside, their eyes wide with wonder. The Lifewheat Fields stretched endlessly, golden stalks swaying like a sea around them. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of grain, and every step carried them deeper into the Valley’s heart.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a month ago in Fiction
Interlude: The Lions in the Depths (Chapter 53.5?)
Chapter 54: Interlude: The Lions in the Depths The Crystal Dungeon mine shaft stretched before them like the throat of some vast beast, its walls jagged with veins of crystal that pulsed faintly in the gloom. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of stone and dust, and every sound echoed across the dimly lit space. The drip of water, the scrape of claws, the thunder of golden paws striking earth. Shadows clung to the corners, and the deeper they pressed, the more the dungeon seemed to breathe around them.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a month ago in Fiction
