Adventure
Into The Mangroves
As I step foot on the pancake battered sand, I sink deep into the powdery earth. Tiger tail shells scatter in the sand softly with their red-orange color beaming brightly enough to compete with sunrise shells in Kauai. Their yellow ridges fan out, resembling a brilliant setting sunset. Each one having slightly different colors radiating from orange to fuchsia hues. My favorite shells have a spray effect with powdery rusty red paintbrush outlining the ridges of the Tiger tails.
By Tony Martelloabout a year ago in Fiction
After The Sunset The Stars As My Witness. Content Warning.
Danae was often blind, deaf, and mute when it came to the reckless decisions that spewed out of Perseus’ often idle mind. Her son was all she had and she wanted him to be free and happy without her restricting him and maybe just maybe the empty feeling he always felt would go away. Even if she tried to guide him it was of no use, he was as stubborn as the donkey in Polydectes' courtyard that had refused to work for the past month despite the merciless whips it got. she thought of him more like the sun, you don't command it to rise or set or disappear it does as it pleases, majestically. This time would be different, this decision would be more than just reckless and she was going to try to stop her sun, she didn’t want her sun to set forever leaving her to the darkness to feast on her. However, she would not hear of these antics from the horse's mouth but instead from the one that fed the horse with the idea. “Danae!” A familiar and unpleasant voice called from behind her. She tried to subtly increase her pace. “Danae!” he yelled louder than before, drawing everyone's attention even the deaf beggar must have heard him from the way he stared at her. She stopped, waiting for him to get to her. “Polydectes,” she smiled as he approached “Your majesty,” she bowed her head and curtsied, dreading the conversation that was going to erupt between them, she already knew what the conversation would revolve around. They’d frequently had this conversation since Perseus had reached the mature age for marriage. “You have been on my mind lately,” Polydectes would always break the ice, that was already broken. “ Oh, you have?” she would always respond. She could recite their interaction and knew his intentions though she pretended to be oblivious. “I have, of what your life would be like after…” he cleared his throat “Perseus?” he whispered like it was a secret only she should know “And what would have happened to Perseus?” she asked softly suppressing her annoyance. “Well, he will marry one day or you may…” he clears his throat as if he was preparing her for a revelation “He may not return from his quest” What quest? she wondered, Perseus hadn't mentioned any quest. Polydectes could read the confusion that imprinted all over Danae on the mention of the quest. “Well, on my birthday feast, you see. He promised the severed head of the mortal gorgon…” He paused to watch Danae’s expression turn from confusion to horror. It couldn't be who I think it is she hoped in her heart “Medusa” he whispered with amusement tingling in his tone confirming what Danae feared. “Medusa,” she gasped. Euryale watched the clueless colony of tourists touring the beach and venturing into their territory, Sthetho scanned through the treasures they brought out of their ship while Medusa was supposed to plot the routes they’d use to hunt but instead got distracted by the sunset. As the sun set giving the moon a chance to finally shine Medusa hissed quick haphazard instructions as the sisters spersed out to hunt. Hunting was harder for Medusa compared to her sisters because she had to hunt with her eyes closed to avoid turning their prey to stone but the people were loud and reeked of fear which diluted the intensity of the challenge. Hunting always made her feel powerful, as screams of terror purged through the beach and the rest of the island it would deafen the memory that would always tag along with the moon because as she attacked and defeated them she would pretend it was him she was defeating. Children and pregnant women were exempted from the purge but would live with the trauma of seeing their loved ones die. Medusa thought that would be better than death but like her trauma, it would eat them up till there was nothing left. The survivors would be escorted by Meritus, their servant, to assist the survivors back on to the ship and shipping them away. The sisters would then return to their cave with their stolen treasures. “I was thinking of making something like this,” Euryale said wrapping the cloth around her body from their recent treasures. “What do you think,” she asked as she turned away from the mirror to face her sisters, Medusa stood behind her eliminating the jewellery that didn't flatter her taste while Stheno studied the weapons they’d found. Medusa always felt like it was her fault because she let her guard down and Stheno always felt like it was her fault because she wasn't there to protect Medusa but it was none of their faults, if Medusa hadn't let her guard down it still would've happened and If Stheno had been there she would’ve hopelessly watched the scene and failed to protect her anyway. And Euryale lived with the guilt.
By Ropafadzo Thokozani Zinyuke (Fadzo) about a year ago in Fiction
The Last of Us: How Ruined One of the Tv's Best Shows
Season 1 of The Last of Us was a masterclass in adaptation. It captured everything that made the original video game a cultural phenomenon: the emotional bond between Joel, a hardened survivor, and Ellie, the young girl who gave him a reason to care again.
By Shoaib Rehmanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Obsidian Slip
The morning sun, usually a cheerful beacon, felt a bit too aggressive for Barnaby Butterfield. He squinted at the alarm clock: 5:00 AM. His nemesis, a particularly ambitious pigeon, had decided Barnaby’s window ledge was the perfect spot for its dawn serenade. Barnaby, a meticulous but chronically sleepy archivist for the prestigious Atherton-Pryce Museum, sighed and dragged himself out of bed.
By Karl Jacksonabout a year ago in Fiction
Sylwen Thornshade - The Verdant Warden
Sylwen Thornshade - The Verdant Warden The wind carried whispers through the towering oaks of Forend’s Forest, weaving between emerald leaves and tangled vines. Here, amidst the deep roots and ancient thickets, Sylwen Thornshade walked in silent communion with the land. She was one of Silvanna’s chosen, a vessel, a voice, a guardian of Nature. Every breath Sylwen took was an oath to the goddess, a vow to maintain the balance between life and destruction.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
"The Hen, the Cave, Remorse"
To Be Remorseful One warm afternoon, beneath the rustle of dry leaves and the fading hum of the sun, a poor hen wandered too close to the forest edge. There, hidden in the cool shadow of a rock, a snake struck. The bite came fast, a blur of fang and pain. The venom spread like cold fire through her veins. Dizzy, trembling, she limped toward the coop where she had grown up, where she'd laughed, laid eggs, and clucked in the comfort of sisterhood.
By Muhammad Yarabout a year ago in Fiction
The Room I Rented Came with One Rule: Never Look in the Mirror After Midnight
It was supposed to be temporary. After a rough breakup, a dead-end job, and a bank account that looked more like a cruel joke, I needed a fresh start. Somewhere cheap, quiet, and far from anyone who knew my name. So when I stumbled upon an ad online for a fully furnished room at an unbelievable price, I barely blinked.
By Muhammad Sabeelabout a year ago in Fiction
Echo Canyon
THE SUN WAS HIGH when they dropped into the third canyon that morning, hooves clattering loose shale, the sound echoing off rust-colored walls that offered no shade, no relief, and no end. The wind didn’t move down here. It hovered. Heat sat like a drunk on their shoulders, pressing down slow and mean.
By Jason B. Bakerabout a year ago in Fiction
Silverfire. AI-Generated.
The snow fell softly that night — not in flurries, but like a hush laid gently over the earth. A quiet so complete, I could hear the faintest creak of old branches, the brittle crunch of frost beneath my boots. I’d learned to listen to the absence of sound lately. Not just notice it — really listen to it. Silence, I’d found, isn’t empty. It speaks. You just have to get quiet enough to hear it.
By Jeremie Nelson about a year ago in Fiction
