Adventure
The Widow’s Watch
Perched on the wind-beaten cliffs of Darnham Bay stood Greystone Manor, a crumbling Victorian estate known less for its grandeur and more for its sorrowful legend. At its highest point rose a narrow tower with a single arched window—locals called it the Widow’s Watch. And there, every evening at precisely 7:00 p.m., a figure in black was said to appear, peering out toward the sea.
By Muhammad Sabeelabout a year ago in Fiction
Dodge and the Tragedy of Tailoring: Measure twice, Cut Once. Replace weekly!
The bell above the door of Nimbleman’s Fine Clothiers jingled with practiced exasperation, more of a weary sigh than a welcoming chime, signaling the latest return of Dodge, serial destroyer of fine tailoring & a familiar figure of destruction and poor textile preservation.. He strode in, his satchel brimming with the unmistakable scent of charred leather and singed fabric. Wisps of smoke still curled lazily from his coat. His hat—poor, tragic thing—had several large, jagged holes burned straight through it, as though it had tried and failed to reason with a particularly aggressive bonfire and bore the unmistakable marks of a blade’s enthusiastic attempt to perforate it beyond recognition.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
Dodge Tanner vs Hostile Workplace Discrimination. (The Art of Dodge-ing Responsibility)
Dodge Tanner lounged in his favorite spot at the Barrow and Barrel tavern, a half-empty goblet of the local vintage swirling lazily in his hand. The dim tavern light cast lazy shadows over the parchment map, a document so thoroughly ignored it might as well have been a coaster sat beneath his elbow, forgotten in favor of the pressing matter of deciding whether the blackberry merlot or the apricot chardonnay deserved the title of the coveted Tanner Title 'Finest Wine of the Valley.' (Coveted by Dodge Tanner, at least, as his attempts to get the competition officialized has thus far gone unappreciated.)
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
The Piper’s Song
The boy should have known something was wrong the moment he glanced back over his shoulder, but he was too tired and wary and afraid to register the truth. He followed the sound of the keening pipe. Its unfamiliar melody, absurdly cheerful, jarred him from the carnage. It filtered through the pores of his skin and infused him with the strength and warmth he needed to run through the icy clutches of winter.
By Muhammad Sabeelabout a year ago in Fiction
The Näkki’s Curse: A Haunting Legend from the Finnish Woods
Eldmere, Finland "Äiti, why can't we go into the woods again?" a small seven-year-old boy asks, voice curious, as he gets into bed. He pulls his covers over him as he lays down. The boy's mother gives him a small smile and helps him settle in. The moonlight casts a soft glow through the window.
By Muhammad Sabeelabout a year ago in Fiction
The Grief Eater: Trapped Inside the Bodies I Consumed
THE FIRST TIME I ate someone’s grief, it was an accident. My aunt had just died, and my cousin couldn’t stop crying at the funeral. She clutched her mother’s wedding ring so tight her knuckles grew white. When she hugged me, she pressed the ring into my palm.
By Muhammad Sabeelabout a year ago in Fiction
Static in the Signal
It started with a flicker. A blinking cursor. A screen that wouldn’t load. Jamie slammed his laptop shut like it had betrayed him — again. Third time this week. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face, feeling the texture of another sleepless night creeping into his skin.
By Ahmed Rayhanabout a year ago in Fiction
Lemonade Skies
The first thing Ava noticed when she stepped off the bus was the smell of lemons. Not strong, not artificial — just faint enough to feel real. The kind of scent that danced through the summer breeze and reminded her of freedom, even if she hadn’t felt it in a long time.
By Esther Sunabout a year ago in Fiction
It Ends with Us – Colleen Hoover
The room was quiet, save for the ticking of the old clock on the wall. Emma sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers digging into the thick fabric of the quilt, trying to ground herself in something solid. Anything but the storm swirling in her chest.
By Jawad Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The library of lost things
No one ever found the library on purpose. It wasn't marked on any map, and very few—if any—knew about its existence. But one rainy afternoon, as Camilla followed a trail of pebbles along the gutters of her quiet street, she found herself in front of a metal door in an alley, between two large buildings. It had the
By pink_roseeabout a year ago in Fiction
