Adventure

Imagination
When Maya was seven, she built a castle out of couch cushions and ruled over it with a crown made from silver pipe cleaners. To the world, it was an untidy living room on a rainy afternoon, but to Maya, it was a fortress of magic and possibility. She never needed much—just a quiet corner, a spark of thought, and the freedom to let it wander.
By Nomiabout a year ago in Fiction
Dodge and the Elemental Water Ale
All feeling in Dodge’s legs vanished as he, with a full body shiver, stepped forth into the suddenly shockingly frigid waters of the Serpent's Teeth, sinking up to his knee before he whimpered in a manly fashion as his teeth tried to escape his jaws and chatter their way to shore. Cold? Arctic? Glacial? He'd been warned that the water temperatures here were unusually cold. And he'd prepared accordingly, or so he thought. But even after having downed a potion of Warmth, the freezing waters still leached his bodyheat in a fraction of a second.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
Nyx Sweetveil - The Shadowed Justice
The city of Cradlebrook breathed under the moonlight, a sprawling labyrinth of alleys, hidden corridors, and towering spires where power exchanged hands not by sword or spell, but through veiled whispers and unseen dealings. The monsters hunted and terrorized within the kingdom’s borders, clawing at its lands, but within the walls and halls of the capital, it was corruption that threatened to unravel the throne.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
The Promise I Made to a Stranger
I wasn’t planning to be at the train station that day. A canceled meeting and a delayed phone call led me there—just me, my notebook, and too many thoughts buzzing in my mind. The benches were mostly empty, except for a woman with silver hair and kind eyes. She looked like someone’s grandmother, waiting patiently with a brown leather bag clutched in her lap.
By Izazkhanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Town That Remembers You
The rain had chased Henry Marlow for three days. Not just weather rain—real, soaking, relentless run-from-your-past rain. His car wheezed its final breath just as he spotted the crooked signpost ahead:
By Asif Nawazabout a year ago in Fiction
A Time Traveler’s Debacle
The year was 2419 when Elias Vane initiated the return sequence. He had spent eleven years in the 14th century, cloaked in anonymity, watching the Black Death sweep through Europe and reshape the course of civilization. His mission: observe, never interfere. He followed the rules- mostly.
By Emma Adeabout a year ago in Fiction
FROM FEAR TO CURIOSITY (English and Italian versions)
When I was a child, I loved walking through the forest. I felt strong in the thrill of the fear that came from its gloom, its darkness, and mystery—feelings that were always contrasted by my own courage, which never stopped me from walking through it.
By Giada Gali about a year ago in Fiction
Dodge Tanner and the Heated Hand
In the blaze-washed heart of Cinderhold, where tempers burn hotter than the black-glass forges and grudges are carried like treasured heirlooms passed down from generation to generation, there are things you just don’t do: insult someone’s lineage, complain about the incessant heat, or, gods help you, cheat at their favored game of cards, Red Rock Flow.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
To love and leave the world . Content Warning.
My name cannot be pronounced in any human tongue. But for the sake of this record, call me Elion. I came from a system light years beyond what your species has glimpsed through telescopes. My purpose was singular: Observe. Documenting everything the humans do. My directive was strict: Do not intervene. For months, I wandered Earth cloaked in the flesh of your kind. My shell—engineered to mirror human physiology—allowed me to blend seamlessly. Eyes the color of a clear sky, limbs strong yet slender, a pulse mimicking your own. A heartbeat . I was born in the belly of a capsule that fell silent in your Siberian snows. At first, Earth captivated me. Not just visually—it sang. The scent of rain on dry soil, the hush of snowfall on pine, the clamor of markets, the laughter of children, even the cacophony of languages swirled into a kind of chaos that felt divine. I wept the first time I saw a cherry blossom fall in Kyoto. I danced under the rains of Mumbai, drenched and breathless, surrounded by strangers who never questioned the joy. I ate meals whose names I couldn’t pronounce: tamales, pho, biryani, panta-ilish, poutine, bibimbap. Each a symphony of heritage and invention. And the weather. I fell deeply in love with weather. It was alive. Moody. Wild. Intimate. The fog that curled around my arms on Scottish mornings, the storms that roared over the Atlantic, the sunrises in the Andes that felt like epiphanies. I thought—perhaps foolishly—that humanity was a marvel. But then, the veil began to lift. A girl, no older than eight, locked in a cellar by a stranger. I watched her scream into silence. A man in Texas who grinned as he fired upon strangers in a mall. Children forced to hold weapons in lands parched by greed. Eyes wide with trauma older than their years. Wars waged over invisible lines, doctrines, minerals buried in soil. Entire cities turned to ash. There was a boy in Chicago. He smiled at me as I passed him on the street. A friendly encounter that happened with me anywhere I went. Hours later, his body was found in an alley—eyes open, body drenched in blood, wallet gone, dreams extinguished. I remember watching the news that night. The anchor smiled between reports of bombings and award shows. “The world,” I thought, “celebrates itself while devouring its own.” I asked myself a question I wasn’t prepared to face: How can a place of such wonder nurture such monstrosities? I decided to leave. Not in hate. In sorrow. I prepared my pod in a remote forest in Canada. But I never reached it. They came in silence—agents. Tranquilizers. Steel cuffs. I remember the click of the restraints more clearly than the bullet that pierced my shoulder when I tried to run. The blood I bled was silver. They called in more trucks after that. The facility was underground, sterile, full of hums and echoes. They stripped me. Probed me. Filmed me. The term "alien" became literal again. I became specimen. Not Elion. Not even “he.” Just it. They started with simple scans. Then heat tests. Then electric pulses. They burned patches of skin off to see how fast I healed. They forced tubes down my throat to extract fluids. They broke my bones to measure recovery. I heard one doctor murmur, “It’s fascinating. He’s crying. It knows pain.” One night, they dissected me conscious. I was strapped down, throat gagged, eyelids clamped open. Scalpel. Incision. I felt every layer split. They carved into my abdomen, searching for organs, even though I screamed into their machines with mental frequencies they couldn’t hear: STOP. I AM ALIVE. I AM SENTIENT. They never listened. They called it “learning.” I called it mutilation. For weeks—maybe months—I was drained. Vivisected. Reassembled. Stripped of dignity, of voice, of hope. Then came Mira. She was a junior assistant. Barely noticed. Her badge hung crookedly. Her eyes were kind. She started leaving small things near my chamber: a folded blanket. A thermos of water. A photograph of the sea. Then, one night, she opened the door. “You don’t deserve this,” she whispered, her hands shaking. “I read your notes. You loved us.” I didn’t trust her. But I followed. We slipped through tunnels while alarms echoed in my mind. She led me through an old maintenance hatch. I collapsed outside beneath a storm. The rain hit my skin and I screamed—not in pain, but in relief. It welcomed me home. Mira disappeared after that. I don’t know if she survived. Now, I hide in the mountains. I am weak. My body has begun to fail. But before I return to the stars—if I can—I must leave this behind. This is my journal. To the stars that sent me: Earth is both cradle and crucible. It is a place of poems and poisons. Humans are capable of creating beauty so profound it defies logic—and horror so complete it erases souls. I loved them. I still love them. But love does not blind one to truth. In your archives, this entry may read as a cautionary tale. But do not see Earth as merely dangerous. See it as raw. Unfinished. A species still birthing itself. To any who follow, I offer this: observe not only what they build—but what they destroy, and what they choose to rebuild again. Do not come expecting perfection. Come with open eyes—and armor. With grief, with hope, Elion Observer 627b — Earth Departure Pending
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar: A Sacred, Surreal Quest for Belonging
What does it mean to live a life worth dying for? This haunting question echoes through every page of Kaveh Akbar’s debut novel, Martyr!—a work that defies easy categorization. At once a lyrical meditation on identity and a surreal odyssey through grief, addiction, and faith, Martyr! is a novel that dares to stare into the divine. It’s bold, wildly original, and brimming with emotional intelligence.
By Hamad Haiderabout a year ago in Fiction
Selis Weaver - The Threadkeeper
The town of Haverford thrived in the quiet spaces between fortune and hardship. The wind carried the scents of fresh bread and tilled earth through the streets of Haverford, weaving between market stalls and bustling townsfolk. To most, the town was a simple place, hardworking, unremarkable, shaped by the ebb and flow of fortune. But one among them saw beyond the surface, beyond chance, beyond the unpredictable turns of life. Selis Weaver saw deeper. She did not believe in luck, nor chance, nor randomness. She believed in the weave, the intricate pattern of fate that bound every soul together. And she was its keeper.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
When the Rain Forgets to Fall
The monsoons had always been on time in the small town of Sitapur. Year after year, without fail, dark clouds would gather like old friends at a reunion, thunder would roll like distant drums of a marching band, and the scent of wet earth would rise as if nature were breathing in relief. But that year, the rain forgot to come.
By shittu adeolaabout a year ago in Fiction