Adventure

The Boy Who Sold Silence
The city of Veridia screamed. Car horns dueled beneath Arlo’s penthouse window. Subways groaned like wounded beasts. Neon signs buzzed like angry hornets. Even at 3 a.m., the relentless noise seeped through triple-paned glass, vibrating in his teeth. Arlo Thorne, Veridia’s most sought-after music producer, hadn’t slept without pills in two years. His latest platinum track—"Neon Pulse"—echoed the city’s frantic heartbeat, but inside, Arlo was drowning.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Letter in the Rain
The rain had been falling for hours—soft, unrelenting, like it had a memory of its own. Ella pulled her scarf tighter around her neck as she walked down the narrow path behind the old post office. It was the kind of day made for hiding from the world, but something tugged at her chest, pulling her toward the past. She didn’t know why she took that path today—she hadn’t in years. Not since he left.
By Wow Geniusabout a year ago in Fiction
Morgan Flannery, the Dragon Sorcerer's Daughter
Morgan Flannery had a secret, and not just any secret. She had a secret she, herself never even knew existed. You see, Morgan Flannery was perfectly fine ruling alongside dragons and everything about that was also perfectly fine until the day she turned sixteen when she stumbled across long-hidden family secret, the reason some of these dragons felt so familiar. How could she have overlooked the clues? Morgan Flannery was a dragon and not just any dragon—she was a sorcerer’s dragon—able to turn herself into a gangly, lanky, monstrous beast at the drop of a hat—much to her dismay, of course. How could she be expected to tame such unruly beasts if she herself was one of them? “Have you no worries,” Aunt Eileen’s comforting words settled into Morgan’s mind. "Everything will all work out. Over time you can hone these powers and use them to transform to and from your dragon. Don’t look at it like a hindrance, or a setback, look at it for what it is, a tool, a resource, a dream other’s wish they had. Not all dragons and their masters are such massive and wild creatures. You are made just as you should be, perfect.” The skies above were turning putrid shades of green as the Kings arrows pierced the Earth, setting the Land of Lyrid ablaze. Morgan felt her skin crack, her own dragon's fire brewing just beneath the surface as she unleashed the beast within. Together she, along with the rest of the Lyrids would strike one final blow. Arcane blasts would meet their ethereal shields and the Dragon Sorcerer's would be victorious once and forever more.
By K.H. Obergfollabout a year ago in Fiction
The Ticket That Was Never Used
The ticket was still there, pinned quietly to her corkboard. Its corners had curled, and the ink had faded a little, but it remained—Flight 6E372 to Goa. July 4th, 2025. Window seat. A reminder of a summer that never happened.
By General gyanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Enchanted Boy
I was seventeen the summer I met him — the summer of sky lanterns, of music in the sand, of endless salt in the air and wildflowers in my hair.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Postman Who Delivered to Heaven
In the little town of Windmere, nestled between golden hills and roads no GPS could find, lived a postman named Eliot Finch. Eliot was 84, walked with a wooden cane and the kind of slow grace that made you believe time was just being polite around him. He had been delivering mail for 63 years — never missed a day, never lost a letter. His bag was patched, his route unchanged. People said Eliot knew the town better than anyone alive — which wasn’t entirely true. Because Eliot delivered letters to people who weren’t alive. He’d make his last round around sunset. Up the cobblestone hill. Past the old chapel. And then he’d stop by the cemetery gates. He’d open his mailbag. And gently place each envelope on a gravestone. No one knew where the letters came from. The stamps weren’t real. The ink smelled of lavender and old paper. But the handwriting was always different. Some were addressed to “My Dear Mama.” Others to “Charlie, who died before I could say I was sorry.” One was simply labeled: “To the one I still love.” And Eliot — kind Eliot — never read a single one. He just delivered. --- Every child in Windmere grew up hearing stories of “The Postman to Heaven.” Some believed it. Some laughed. But all watched in silence when Eliot walked by — eyes bright, back straight, heart full of invisible weight. One spring morning, Eliot didn’t show up for work. His tiny cottage was quiet. The mailbag sat by the door. The kettle was cold. The town grew hushed. By afternoon, the mayor and the doctor went to check on him. Eliot was sitting in his chair by the window, smiling. He had passed peacefully in his sleep. But there was one strange thing. On the table beside him was a single envelope. Addressed to: Mr. Eliot Finch Wherever You Go Next There was no stamp. No return address. Inside was a letter, written in the handwriting of every person who had ever sent him one — as if a thousand voices had signed it at once. It read: You delivered our love when no one else could. You carried the words we were too late to say. And now — it’s time we return the favor. We’ll be waiting at the gates. Come home. --- Now here’s where things get strange. At Eliot’s funeral, the whole town came. Children sang. Elders wept. The sky, they swore, turned the color of rose-petals just as they lowered him into the ground. But that night — the mail resumed. Fresh envelopes appeared on the graves again. New messages. New names. Only now, there was no postman to deliver them. Or so they thought. Because just before dawn, Mrs. Linwood — who opened her bakery at 4 a.m. sharp — swore she saw a figure on the hill. An old man in a brown coat. Walking with a cane. Mailbag slung across his back. He tipped his hat to her. And vanished behind the chapel. --- Soon after, children began reporting something even stranger. The children would leave letters of their own— addressed to lost pets, beloved grandparents, even stars that had fallen — and by morning, the letters were gone. But in their place was always something small, something gentle. A feather. A pressed flower. A candy wrapper that smelled like their favorite memory. “I think he read them,” one little girl said. “And he left me something back.” --- A new postman took Eliot’s route. But he always left the last stop blank. “That hill belongs to someone else,” he’d say, with a wink. People still left letters at the cemetery gates. Not every night. Not always seriously. But once, during a particularly snowy winter, a widowed man left a note that read: “I don’t know who you are. But if she gets this, please tell her I’m learning to live again.” The next day, he found a pressed daisy on his windshield. His wife’s favorite flower. many years have passed...... The roads are now mapped. The bakery sells espresso. But the legend has only grown. Visitors come with folded letters in their pockets. They ask, nervously, “Where do we leave them?” Locals just smile and point toward the hill. And once in a while — just once — someone sees him. A man walking softly between tombstones. Worn coat. Crooked cane. A gentle smile. They try to follow, but always lose him behind a breeze, or a rustle of trees that seems to whisper, thank you. The twist? Someone discovered Eliot's childhood diary in an old trunk. Inside, tucked on the last page, was a scribbled note from when he was just ten: “If people can send letters anywhere… why can’t they send them to heaven?” “When I grow up, I’ll be the postman who makes sure they get there.” He never told anyone. He just became it. And in doing so — gave a thousand broken hearts a place to heal.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Unsinkable Spirit
As the lights of the Titanic began to flicker and fade, fear spread like the icy Atlantic itself—silent, vast, and paralyzing. Yet in the midst of this looming catastrophe, one woman stood defiant. Her name was Margaret “Molly” Brown, and she was far more than a passenger on a doomed voyage. She was a force of nature—unyielding, compassionate, and unafraid.
By Ahmad shahabout a year ago in Fiction
My Twin Sister Died in 2005—But She Still Texts Me
I was only fifteen when my twin sister, Eliza, died. It was a rainy October afternoon in 2005. We were supposed to walk home together from school, but I stayed behind for a group project. Eliza took the shortcut through the woods—something we’d promised Mom we wouldn’t do anymore. A fallen branch. A slippery hill. A single misstep. They found her body at the bottom of the ravine two days later. Broken. Still clutching her phone.
By Muhammad Saeedabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Curse of Vana-Kalan"
Centuries ago, when the monsoon winds carried the scent of jasmine across the Deccan plateau and temple bells echoed through sandalwood groves, King Veera Narasinga Raya ruled the prosperous coastal kingdom of Tiruvaranya with wisdom born of countless victories and the weight of a crown that had never quite satisfied his restless soul. Despite commanding armies that stretched from the Arabian Sea to the Eastern Ghats, despite treasuries overflowing with Golconda diamonds and Kanjeevaram silk, the king found himself consumed by a spiritual hunger that no earthly pleasure could appease. His courtiers whispered of his nightly wanderings through the palace gardens, how he would stand beneath the ancient banyan tree and gaze toward the mist-shrouded Western Ghats as if searching for something beyond the horizon of his dominion.
By BGabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mirror That Lied
Maya’s studio smelled of turpentine and defeat. Canvases leaned against exposed brick walls – half-finished cityscapes, abandoned portraits, experiments in styles she couldn’t master. Her last rejection letter from the Chelsea Gallery sat crumpled on the floor: “Technically proficient but lacks a distinctive voice.”
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Door: A Race Against Time
Down a cobbled alley, in the heart of the old city, between a disused bookshop and a tea stall with a busted awning, there was a tiny little shop that sold clocks. It bore no board — just an old wooden cuckoo clock on a nail driven into the wall over the door; and the bird had long ago ceased to sing.
By Saddique Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
UEFA Women’s EURO 2025: Europe’s Queens of the Pitch Rewrite Football History
In the summer of 2025, while much of Europe sweltered under record-breaking heat, another kind of fire was blazing across stadiums from Berlin to Amsterdam—the passion and power of women’s football. The UEFA Women’s EURO 2025 became more than a tournament; it became a symbol of evolution, pride, and empowerment in the world’s most beloved sport.
By Ahmad Mustafaabout a year ago in Fiction