Adventure
The Sculptor of Silence
In a quiet village tucked between misty hills and ancient woods, lived a young man named Elian. Like many in the village, he spent his days wandering the trails, staring up at the stars, and asking the same question that had echoed through generations: “What is my purpose?” Elian was a seeker. He sought meaning in the clouds, answers in books, wisdom from elders. He visited temples, meditated for hours, even climbed to the top of the Windspire—a jagged peak the villagers believed brought visions to the worthy. However, he returned empty-handed each time. One afternoon, as he sat by the riverside, skipping stones and sighing with frustration, an old woman approached. Her back was bent like a bow, her hands speckled with clay, and her eyes shimmered with something that felt like certainty. “You look like a man waiting for something,” she said. “I’m waiting for purpose,” Elian replied. “Everyone says it’s out there. I’ve searched, but all I find is silence.” The woman chuckled. “Silence is not absence. It’s invitation.” She placed a lump of clay in his hands. “Come,” she said. Elian followed her to a modest hut on the edge of the woods. Inside, shelves were lined with strange, beautiful sculptures—twisted forms, laughing faces, sorrowful creatures. They weren’t perfect. Some were cracked. Others tilted awkwardly. But all of them seemed to breathe. “This is what I do,” the woman said. “I shape the silence.” Elian watched her knead the clay, her fingers moving without hesitation. It wasn’t graceful, but it was alive. Something in him stirred. “But how do you know what to make?” he asked. “I don’t,” she said. “I start. The rest follows.” She handed him a small block of clay. “Stop seeking. Start shaping.” For weeks, Elian returned to the hut. At first, his hands fumbled. He made crooked bowls, wobbly figures, lumps that looked like nothing. But the old woman never criticized. “It’s not about making something great. It involves creating something. Slowly, Elian began to feel it—the quiet thrill of bringing form from formlessness. He stopped asking what his purpose was and started pouring himself into the clay. His thoughts, his fears, his dreams—they all surfaced through his fingers. One day, while sculpting, he paused. Before him stood a figure—tall, uncertain, one hand reaching forward, the other curled to the chest. It looked just like him. Imperfect, confused… but becoming. The elderly woman surveyed the scene. “That’s your first true creation.” Elian blinked. “What do you mean? I’ve made dozens.” “Those were practice. This one… came from within.” In that moment, Elian understood. All his life he had been chasing answers like wind—trying to catch something invisible, intangible. But when he stopped chasing and started creating, the answers had found him. Years passed. The old woman passed on. Elian inherited the hut, the tools, and the silence. He became the village sculptor—not because of fame or talent, but because his creations spoke to people. They saw themselves in his work: the hesitant child, the grieving mother, the restless traveler. Travelers still visited the Windspire, still asked the stars for purpose. Some stopped at Elian’s hut, curious about the sculptures. He welcomed them all. Some he taught. Others just watched. He would answer those who inquired about how he found his calling: “I stopped seeking meaning and started making meaning. Life isn't about finding what’s already there. It’s about shaping what isn’t yet.” One day, a young girl named Lira came to him, eyes full of questions, palms empty. “I don’t know what I’m meant to do,” she whispered. He smiled, handed her a lump of clay, and said, “Good. Then you’re ready to begin.”
By It's Nikkoabout a year ago in Fiction
Love's Not-To-Do List
Love's no suppose to do list- things not to do in Love! We need to be honest and direct. Most people are not really in love, but rather, they have become addicted psychologically. They slap a name on it, ''Love'', when they are in fact systematically eroding their own future, peace and self-worth. Here are some things you should stop doing:
By Rohitha Lankaabout a year ago in Fiction
Queen of the Hollow Crown. Content Warning.
Read the first story here: The Thief of Shadows I: The First Rebellion The dead moved differently now. Lirael saw it in the way the shades paused mid-wail when she passed, their hollow eyes tracking her with something sharper than fear. The obsidian floors, once cold enough to burn bare flesh, now warmed beneath her footsteps like stones left in afternoon sun. Even the air had changed—thick with the scent of overripe figs and the metallic tang of freshly unearthed grave soil.
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"about a year ago in Fiction
The Thief of Shadows. Content Warning.
I: The Heist in Hell The air in the Underworld didn’t move like air should. It clung, thick as funeral shrouds, pressing against Lirael’s skin with the weight of centuries of held breaths. The path before her twisted like a gutted serpent, paved not with stone but with the petrified bones of oath-breakers, their hollow eye sockets weeping black ichor that sizzled where it touched her boots.
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"about a year ago in Fiction
Rise Beyond: The Journey to a Life of True Success
In a competitive, expectation-driven, noise-driven world, the word success has a thousand faces. It's money to some, prestige or power to others. But look beneath the surface of what the world counts as success, and you'll find that genuine success is a whole lot more personal—and a whole lot deeper.
By Muhammad Sohailabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lightning Code (2025) Review: A Teen Sci-Fi Adventure Sparked by Tesla’s Legacy
In a cinematic world often saturated with reboots, remakes, and predictable superhero sagas, The Lightning Code arrives as a breath of fresh, electrified air. Released on May 9, 2025, and directed by Kali Bailey, the film introduces a compelling blend of teenage ambition, historical mystery, and the ever-relevant clash between innovation and exploitation.
By Kevin Hudsonabout a year ago in Fiction
Faceless Night [Part 4-ending].. Content Warning.
*** (At three-thirty in the morning). The conversation between two bodies was still ongoing among their peacefully sleeping children. It was about longing, "all because of your spell, oh female fish, that the sea water doesn't taste salty!", "you stupid male cat, you might never realize it, if you keep curling up in the corner of the suffocating alleys of your hometown, if you never cross the blue ocean. That your pearl-like eyes hold the wonders of the sky during the full moon...(the man flinched as he touched his blind eyes)...Yes, because of your eyes reflecting the full moon, my underwater kingdom that night became strange, no longer salty, but like a swimming pool owned by city people. So, I emerged to the surface, searching for you, finding you stranded, hungry and thirsty. Until you fell in love with my half-human body and flesh...(the two naked bodies rubbed against each other more tightly)...Only then did I darken the full moon with my cloudy magic. Making it sink before its time. You roared to wake up your wild side wanting to pounce on me, but what could you do, you were just a stranded black cat and already blind. And I am the princess of the blue ocean, because the foams of the waves are my urine. Until you wait for the return of another full moon in hunger, loneliness, darkness... The sky remained true to its promise. The girl and Gilang were getting deeper into their sleep, sheltered by the light of the full moon hanging in a quarter of the sky in the east. Both were still lying on their wet t-shirts and pants...you were so loyal to wait until the full moon returns. But you never knew what you were actually waiting for and what was waiting for you. That night, the second full moon of our encounter, with all the blessings of my blue sea, I transformed into a virgin girl. For the first time, my lungs breathed the air just like you did, my feet stepped on the grains of sand just like you did. Thus, that night I received my curse. Then, you tore apart every curve of my body in the form of a black cat, just like you tore apart a flopping fresh fish on the beach. You licked every pore of my body that was no longer scaly. I allowed it for the sake of the sea that was no longer salty because of your eyes. Eyes that would soon be blind, blinded by the lust that claimed to be love. Until I truly began to love you that night. The love of a fish for a black cat. A love that was actually just an escape from my fear of the ocean water that you turned into freshwater... (At four o'clock in the morning) Gilang woke up after being bitten by a mosquito, only to be startled by two naked bodies piled up next to his younger sibling, his mother and a blind man he didn't know. Gilang closed his eyes again, pretending to still be asleep... Then you are cursed to be my husband's human... "Gilang (in his mind): Father...?" ...after I cursed myself first to become a woman... "Gilang (sobbing in his mind): They are demons, my sibling and I are demon offspring.!!!" The child was startled by the reality, crying and screaming when suddenly the world turned dark. But he didn't recognize his own screams
By Shafa Ichwanusabout a year ago in Fiction
The Silent Boom of Solo Travel
What was earlier perceived as a risky or disconnected touring experience for persons, solo travel has become one of the fastest-growing tourist industries. Moving into 2025, solo travel is one of the popular options among travelers, particularly the women and Gen Z, who come in for a self-chosen interest, and no external pressure.
By Zulie Ranesabout a year ago in Fiction
The trial
The dwarf tied the hands of the human creature behind it, keeping hold of the end of the rope. They started to walk at a fast pace. Crossing the forest at night was not easy. The dwarf was carrying a small lamp. They had to reach the Witch’s castle before midnight. Then, the expected trial would begin.
By Susan Fourtané about a year ago in Fiction
A Lantern in the Fog
Introduction: Love doesn’t always arrive with fanfare. Sometimes, it drifts in gently — like fog curling under doorways, or the hush of a song before the first note. In the coastal town of Windmere, where the sea hummed lullabies and time strolled instead of sprinted, two souls crossed paths not with sparks, but with a soft, glowing warmth. This is the story of Juniper and Eliot — two people who didn’t fall in love, but rather, grew into it like vines on an old stone wall.
By rokib ahmedabout a year ago in Fiction
