Adventure
The Glow of Adventure with Maya
Maya had always been a curious girl. At twelve years old, she loved tinkering with gadgets, taking apart old radios, and building small contraptions in her cluttered workshop—a corner of the garage her dad had reluctantly surrendered to her "inventions." But her latest project was different. She had found a mysterious, half-rusted flashlight at a flea market, and something about it called to her.
By Jone Smithabout a year ago in Fiction
The Hushed Ones of Greystone Hollow
They arrived at Greystone Hollow beneath a storm-heavy sky. The village, nestled in the misted folds of the northern moors, seemed a place where time had stalled. Alistair stepped out first, scanning the ancient stone cottages clustered around a sagging chapel and a dried-up well. Elara followed, her fingers brushing the air as if sensing invisible threads tugging at her awareness. Locals had described hushed voices in the night, footsteps pacing rooftops, and most troubling of all, children sleepwalking to the edge of the moor as if being called. One had not returned. “This place feels... tightly wound,” Elara murmured as they crossed the mossy threshold of the inn. “Like something’s holding its breath.” Alistair glanced at her, noting how her posture shifted. She’d become more attuned since Blackwood. Sharper, yes, but quieter too—more deliberate in her sensing. He adjusted the case slung over his shoulder, filled with instruments that now felt secondary to the woman beside him. They were led to the chapel first, the last known location of the missing child. Inside, the air was rank with mildew and something stranger—an acrid scent, faint but present. Elara paused at the altar, eyes closing. Alistair remained a respectful distance, watching, documenting. She bent slowly, touching a crack in the old stone. “There’s pain here,” she whispered. “And silence. Not like sleep, but like... smothering.” Alistair frowned, checking the electromagnetic field monitor. The device flickered erratically. “Elara,” he said, voice low. “This place isn't just haunted. Something's actively trying to mask its presence.” Later, in the inn’s upper room, they reviewed the day’s findings. Elara sketched in her journal—symbols and fragments she claimed came to her in pulses, like half-remembered dreams. Alistair tapped through his readings, cross-referencing phenomena. Their closeness, even in silence, was natural now. She leaned against him as she wrote, and he adjusted his angle to avoid jostling her hand. “You think it’s residual?” she asked. “I thought so at first,” he said. “But I’m beginning to suspect we’re dealing with something parasitic. Maybe ancient. Something that feeds on what it silences.” “A hush that feeds,” she murmured. “It wants to be unremembered.” That night, they ventured to the moor. Fog curled around their ankles, and their lanterns glowed dimly through the bracken. Elara walked slowly, palms out. Alistair followed, his protective instinct a silent companion. Then she froze. “Elara?” he whispered. “There,” she pointed—a sunken pit, half-covered by stones and overgrown thorns. Kneeling beside it, she pressed her hand to the ground. Alistair crouched beside her, wary. “It’s calling,” she said. “But not to us. It wants children—because they still listen. They still believe.” Before Alistair could respond, a low hum rose from beneath the earth. The wind stilled. The lantern dimmed. Then, suddenly, silence. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that presses against your ears, thick and humming, like the world had swallowed its own voice. Elara gripped his arm. “They’re coming,” she said, barely audible. From the fog, figures emerged. Small. Slow-moving. Children. “Their eyes,” Alistair breathed. “They’re open—but they’re not seeing.” Elara stepped forward, kneeling before the first child—a boy of seven, barefoot, eyes glassy. She didn’t touch him. Instead, she began to sing. It was a lullaby. Soft. Familiar. The kind only mothers remember. It pierced the hush like a beam of sun through dark water. The figures faltered. Some blinked. Others whimpered. And then—the moor screamed. Not with sound, but with pain. Elara gasped, falling back, clutching her head. Alistair caught her. “Elara!” “It’s trying to bind me,” she gasped. “Through them. It’s afraid.” Alistair did the only thing he could. He reached for the tuning fork in his bag—a tool he rarely used, one he’d dismissed before. He struck it hard, letting the resonance ring through the mist. The frequency, calibrated to disrupt certain wavelengths, shattered the hush with a sharp, singing clarity. The children cried out—this time with their own voices. The fog recoiled. Then, silence again—but this time, peaceful. Elara sagged in his arms, shaking. He held her, his hand stroking her hair. “It’s gone,” she whispered. “Or sleeping again.” They led the children back to the village, where grateful parents wept with relief. The innkeeper handed them tea with shaking hands and refused payment. That night, Elara and Alistair sat by the fire in their room. Neither spoke for a long time. Then she turned to him, face illuminated by flickering amber light. “You keep me grounded,” she said. “Even when the world unravels.” He met her eyes, his own weary but full of something gentle. “And you help me see what can’t be measured.” They didn’t need to say more. Later, as they lay beside each other, not lovers yet but no longer simply partners, Elara whispered into the darkness: “Whatever’s waiting out there… we’ll face it. Together.” And Alistair, who had learned to trust more than just data, simply took her hand and held it until sleep found them both. ---
By fazilat bibiabout a year ago in Fiction
At The Edge Of Avalon
“… is that… you Sir…” “… Johston,” Felix the Thief lied with as much gusto as Sir Johston boasted to last night’s packed inn. He wasn’t proud of the impersonation, but if the knight was true this Lord’s quest came with a hefty sum of gold attached.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction
The Second First Time Again Revisited
"This will be the second time you have invented a new genre of writing?" Sean asked skeptically of his close friend Tom as they drove slowly down Main Street. It was a gorgeous spring day, traffic was light, and they had the windows rolled down. "Not exactly my doubting Thomas." Sean was quite pleased with himself for having thought up that reply, which managed to use his friends name in a way which he thought quite clever and he laughed softly to himself before continuing. "I have invented many more genre than two, however, this is the second one I have invented specifically in response to a writing challenge. And, ironically, or perhaps not, they are both what I would call meta genre. The first I called meta-magical satironical realism." Tom looked at Sean and rolled his eyes, snorted loudly then said "Satironical is not a word dude." "It is a word I invented, exactly like the genre which it describes. You will note, if you are paying attention, that an invented word to describe an invented genre is also very meta which is perfect since the entire genre is meta, meta-magical at least. And of course, realistic. Thus the name." Tom laughed out loud at that. His friend Sean was a nice guy, and he really did like him, but he was certifiably insane and often said things that made sense to no one but himself, and sometimes not even that much sense. "Buddy, you are one strange dude. OK. So, you have me interested. What is this second new meta genre you have invented?" "I call it meta meta satironical realism for reasons you will understand if you pay attention closely. "Wait a second buddy, slow down. I need to make sure I understand what you just said. You said meta meta satironical realism? So it has an extra layer of meta and is without any magical elements, but is still satironical, whatever that means? "Don't let anyone ever say you are not capable of paying attention my youthful ward Thomas, for clearly you are. You are correct. Meta meta satironical realism. And satironical simply means it is both satirical and ironic at the same time, or it can mean that it is satirical about being ironic or that it is a satire of an ironic story or ironically it can also mean it is irony that feels like satire or which has a satirical tone. Get it?" "Gheezus Mary and Joseph Sean you are friggin insane. But sure, I'll play along. I get it." They had stopped at a red light, so Sean took a deep breath and composed himself while he waited for the light to turn green before continuing. "I call this genre meta meta satironical realism because the particular challenge for which it is being written is asking the writer to tell a story about doing something again,which feels like the first time. My story, is about how this particular story I am telling right now feels almost exactly like a previous meta story I submitted for a different writing challenge for which the prompt was to write a story in the genre of magical realism. That was the inspiration for the birth of the aforementioned never before seen genre of meta magical satironical realism." "OK Sean. So go ahead. Tell the story. How does it feel almost exactly like that time?" "First, that story failed to win or place in the challenge or receive even an ounce of recognition nor praise, even though it was a work of genius likely unparalleled in the history of writing. This story, is almost certainly destined to the same fate and it is almost as genius. Second that story was intended to be satironical and so is this one. Third and finally, that story was intended to be meta, whereas this one is intended to have one extra layer of meta." Sean paused there, appearing deep in thought for a moment, then spoke again. "My apologies, I suppose that would not actually be a similarity between the two stories, but rather a difference. Oh well. Even I sometimes make mistakes." Both Sean and Tom laughed out loud at that as they continued driving slowly down Main Street feeling like it was the first time they had even done so, even though in actuality it was the second.
By Everyday Junglistabout a year ago in Fiction
“Laundry Day and Other Near-Death Experiences”
Let me start by saying this: I deeply admire people who enjoy doing laundry. You’re the real superheroes. I don’t understand you, but I respect you. Because for me, laundry day is basically a full-blown emotional roller coaster that starts with optimism and ends with unmatched levels of existential dread.
By Kaitesi Abigailabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library That Only Appeared at Midnight
It was almost by accident that I found the library that only appeared at midnight. I had never heard anyone speak of it before—not in stories, not in rumors, not even in the strange local legends old towns like mine tend to cling to. It simply... existed. Or rather, it existed only after the clock struck twelve, and only if you weren’t really looking for it.
By Muhammad Asimabout a year ago in Fiction
She Called Me From the Other Side
I never believed in ghosts. That was my sister Maya’s thing — spooky stories, horror movies, candles lit on stormy nights. I used to tease her for believing in the supernatural. But everything changed on the night I got the call.
By Umar Farooqabout a year ago in Fiction
Shh!
We’ve been friends for a long time. A very long time. Ever since Billy Blockhead tried to initiate me on the first day of freshman year in high school. Remember? You beat him up—him and the other three boys that were with him. I can guarantee that was something they’ll never forget. I heard Billy still has nightmares about that day.
By David E. Perryabout a year ago in Fiction
The Enchanted Quill. AI-Generated.
Once upon a time, in a quaint village nestled at the foot of a towering mountain, there lived a young girl named Eliza. Eliza was known far and wide for her insatiable curiosity and boundless imagination. Her eyes sparkled with wonder at the mysteries of the world, and her heart was a treasure trove of stories waiting to be told.
By Rendy Bagusabout a year ago in Fiction
"Ashes of the Bound Pact". AI-Generated.
In the twilight shadows of the ancient kingdom of Vaeloria, the air hung heavy with ash and secrets. Once a land crowned with soaring spires and lush emerald forests, now it stood scarred—its heart broken by a pact shattered beyond repair.
By Awais Qarni about a year ago in Fiction
