Short Story
Whispers of the Turning Seasons (part 7). AI-Generated.
Evelyn stayed frozen on the corner, breath forming trembling clouds in the cold air. Her heartbeat thudded painfully in her ears. The second-floor windows of the house remained dark, like hollow eyes staring back at her.
By Ahmed aldeabellaabout a month ago in Fiction
Whispers of the Turning Seasons (part 5). AI-Generated.
Evelyn stared at the envelope for what felt like a full minute before she could bring herself to touch it. The handwriting was the same as the first letter — thin strokes, slightly slanted, almost elegant but unnerving in its precision.
By Ahmed aldeabellaabout a month ago in Fiction
The Gospel of Gumption
The assignment from her editor was a footnote, a punishment for having annoyed a major advertiser. “Go to Gumption, Vermont,” the email read. “Cover their ‘Fall Furnival.’ Yes, with a ‘U.’ File 500 words on the quirky local color. Try not to poison the well.”
By Habibullahabout a month ago in Fiction
Symbiotic: Chapter 60
Chapter 60 Sara’s excitement warred with her nerves as she coaxed Fluffy to lay flat across the cavern floor. Even prone, their adolescent bulk rose nearly ten feet high, a mountain of stone and magma that radiated heat like a living forge.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a month ago in Fiction
Symbiotic: Chapter 59
Chapter 59 The cavern was quiet save for the echo of Fluffy’s labored breaths. Sara knelt beside them, her hand pressed against their molten scales, whispering words of comfort she wasn’t sure they could hear. “Rest, Fluffy. Just rest. You’re safe.”
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a month ago in Fiction
SHADOWS IN THE LANTERN FOG
The City That Smelled Like Regret Ravenbridge never smelled like rain. Not really. The city smelled like wet concrete, burnt oil, and the kind of smoke that curls out of closed bars at three in the morning when no one remembers what burned. Neon signs flickered in puddles of black water, distorted into eyes that watched you as you walked. The fog settled in the alleys like a warning, thick enough to make even the bravest think twice before stepping too far. I had lived here my entire life—or at least, enough of it to know that nothing in Ravenbridge existed for the good of its citizens. Everything existed for its own amusement. You could call the city alive, if you didn’t mind that it was the sort of life that gnawed at your insides and whispered when you were alone. It was the city that chewed dreams and spat out regrets, and I was one of the few who had made peace with it—or at least tried.
By Alisher Jumayevabout a month ago in Fiction
WHEN THE TIDES LEARNED OUR NAMES
By the time the ocean reached the fifth step of the old courthouse, no one bothered arguing whether the flooding was temporary anymore. Harborreach had become a city that survived not through denial, but through adaptation so gradual it felt like habit. Streets were re-mapped according to tidal charts. Homes wore stilts like sensible shoes. Boats replaced buses, and children learned to swim before they learned to read. The water didn’t arrive violently—it came patiently, season by season, salt creeping into foundations and memories alike. People still argued about the weather out of reflex, but they planned their lives around it now, checking sea forecasts the way their grandparents once checked calendars.
By Alisher Jumayevabout a month ago in Fiction
THE TEAPOT THAT KNEW MY NAME
Willowfen was the kind of village that forgot the meaning of hurry long before I was born. It sat between a river that sang softly to itself and a meadow that smelled of honey even in winter, stitched together by cobblestone lanes worn smooth by centuries of unimportant footsteps. Nothing legendary had ever happened there—no dragons, no chosen heroes, no prophecies scribbled in fading ink. Instead, Willowfen specialized in the ordinary miracles: bread that rose perfectly every morning, lamplight that glowed a little warmer when someone walked home alone, and gossip that traveled faster than the wind but never meant any harm. It was the sort of place where people waved even if they didn’t know your name, and somehow, by the end of the week, they did.
By Alisher Jumayevabout a month ago in Fiction
THE SILENCE BETWEEN LATIN VERSES
Blackthorn University did not rise from the earth so much as loom over it. Its spires pierced the fog like accusations, its stone corridors soaked in centuries of whispered ambition. Founded in 1649, Blackthorn prided itself on tradition, rigor, and an unspoken belief that mediocrity was a moral failure. The walls were lined with oil portraits of scholars whose eyes followed you as you passed, their painted gazes heavy with judgment. Students learned quickly that this was not a place to find yourself—it was a place to be reshaped. Knowledge here was not neutral; it was sharp, elitist, and alive. And like anything alive, it demanded something in return.
By Alisher Jumayevabout a month ago in Fiction
