Historical Fiction
A Knight Against the Sky part(II).
The wind on the Ash-Road carried no birdsong. Only soot, silence, and the distant whisper of wings. Grimold stood at its edge with Ellowyn beside him. Her once-luminous cloak of star-silk hung in tatters, streaked with ash. In her arms, their youngest son, Calen, slept uneasily, whispering Elvish words in his dreams—words that spoke of fire and fleeing and the silver trees that no longer stood.
By Hazrat Bilalabout a year ago in Chapters
"The Kingdom Without a Name". AI-Generated.
The Kingdom Without a Name: Lost to Time, Bound by Fate Chapter One: The Marked One The mist came every morning in Brinmere. It rolled over the hills like a living memory, ancient and restless. Villagers swore it was harmless—just weather—but they never strayed into it. Not past the old standing stones. Not east.
By Khazar khayamabout a year ago in Chapters
Last Train to the Stars
Last Train to the Stars: They called it the Odyssey Line—the last train Earth would ever build. Not a train in the old sense, with tracks and stations. This one launched like a rocket, curved around the broken bones of the moon, and vanished into deep space. Only a few knew its true destination. Fewer still had ever come back.
By Salah Uddinabout a year ago in Chapters
The Final Equation
May 11, 1955 Zurich, Switzerland I awoke this morning with a curious clarity. Not of the body—this vessel grows frailer with each sunrise—but of the spirit. The wind brushed through the trees like a soft sigh, and I felt, for the first time in many years, that the burden I had carried was no longer mine alone.
By Alain SUPPINIabout a year ago in Chapters
The Secret Drawer
Growing up, there was one rule in our house I never dared to break: Don’t touch the drawer in Dad’s study. It was an ordinary drawer in an old wooden desk — scratched, dusty, the handle barely hanging on. But to me, it might as well have been a vault. Dad’s tone made it clear — that drawer was off-limits. So, I didn’t ask. I didn’t sneak. I obeyed. For years. Until curiosity outweighed fear. It was a Saturday. Dad was fixing the car, Mom was out shopping, and I was cleaning the study as part of my chores. The drawer seemed to hum with quiet temptation. My hands shook as I reached for it, expecting alarms to go off, expecting my dad to burst in, furious. But nothing happened. The drawer wasn’t locked. It slid open with a tired creak — revealing a stack of letters, old photographs, and a small, faded box. At first, it looked harmless. But then I saw the photo on top — a woman smiling, holding a baby. My breath caught. The woman wasn’t my mom. The baby wasn’t me. I sat down, sifting through letters written in Dad’s handwriting, dated years before I was born. Letters full of apologies, promises, regrets — addressed to someone named Evelyn. My heart raced as puzzle pieces fell into place. I dug deeper, finding birth certificates, hospital bills, legal documents. Dad had another family. A son. A woman he loved before my mom. My chest tightened. My head spun with questions. Why didn’t I know? Who were they? What happened? The sound of Dad’s footsteps snapped me back to reality. I shoved the drawer shut, heart pounding, mind reeling. That evening, I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t speak. My world felt… different. Shattered. Days passed before I confronted him. I found him in the study, staring at the same drawer like it held ghosts. “I opened it,” I admitted, voice barely steady. His shoulders sagged. His eyes, usually sharp and controlled, softened with sadness. “I always wondered when you would,” he whispered. He explained everything. How he fell in love young. How they had a son — my half-brother. How tragedy struck — an accident, a bitter separation, a lifetime of buried pain. “I kept it all hidden, thinking I could erase the past,” he confessed. “But I’ve learned… the past doesn’t stay buried.” We talked for hours. About mistakes. Regrets. Secrets that fester in silence. I cried — for the brother I never met, for the father I thought I knew, for the child version of me who lived in a house of hidden truths. It took time, but I forgave him. And I reached out. Months later, I met my half-brother. We shared awkward smiles, cautious words, the weight of years between us. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. That drawer isn’t forbidden anymore. It’s a reminder — that the truth, no matter how heavy, is better than living behind locked doors.
By Straylightabout a year ago in Chapters
Einstein Among Shadows
Journal Entry – February 2, 1936 – Brussels A thin frost has clung to the iron rails outside my apartment window all morning. The city moves beneath a veil of cold, silent mist, muffling even the clatter of the trams. I watch from the desk in my small room, papers scattered and forgotten, as the Belgian winter folds over the rooftops. These days I find myself writing less about physics and more about people.
By Alain SUPPINIabout a year ago in Chapters
The Unbroken Equation
May 3, 1937 The chill of Lake Geneva drifted through the open window of Einstein’s modest apartment. A kettle hissed on the stovetop while chalk dust floated lazily in the morning sun. He stood before a blackboard crowded with dense notations, pausing only to sip the now-cold tea forgotten on the sill. The room was quiet save for the soft scratch of chalk and the distant clatter of streetcars below. Europe, meanwhile, was anything but quiet.
By Alain SUPPINIabout a year ago in Chapters
The Quiet Rebellion of Genius
May 1941. The air over Zürich trembles with the dull unease of wartime proximity. Switzerland remains officially neutral, but neutrality is fragile when flanked by fascism. Einstein walks through the corridor of the Federal Polytechnic, now adorned with blackout curtains and guarded entrances. His gait is slower than it was a decade ago, but his eyes remain sharp—burning with restlessness and responsibility.
By Alain SUPPINIabout a year ago in Chapters
The Day I Stopped Apologizing for Existing
The Day I Stopped Apologizing for Existing I’ve always been the type of person who apologizes to chairs. You know, the ones you bump into and go, “Oh sorry,” as if the chair might file a complaint for emotional damage.
By shittu adeolaabout a year ago in Chapters
The Quiet Revolution
May 1943 — Geneva I write tonight with a heavy hand and a restless heart. The war has swallowed much of Europe, yet Switzerland—like a rock in a torrent—remains outwardly calm. Behind the diplomatic neutrality, though, I feel the pressure mounting, not only on my nation, but within me. The work we began to stop the atomic catastrophe before it starts has taken a darker turn.
By Alain SUPPINIabout a year ago in Chapters
