Adventure
War Lord. Content Warning.
Author’s Note: The following story is a work of fiction, but it is based on true events. On May 12th, 2003, a group of terrorists really did bomb a group of American compounds located in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. The attack killed more than 30 people, and left many more injured. This attack was so significant that it inspired the narrative for the 2007 action thriller motion picture entitled, The Kingdom. I write these words because the person that oversaw those compounds was my uncle. He sent the pictures of the attack that would later end up on the evening news to my mom in the early hours of that day. I feel his amazing story deserves to be told.
By Aaron M. Weis5 months ago in Fiction
Please Don't Feed the Biscuits
Some cravings should never be encouraged. 🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪 The smell of Marigold butter wafted under the nostrils of anyone who passed Auntie Tan's apartment every Thursday evening, before a storm made an appearance. Thunder resounded, as if heavy furniture was being dragged through her estate. Yet there would be 12 biscuits, rising with beautiful ease from their baking moulds. Except one. It gripped, a persistent thought refusing to leave.
By Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin5 months ago in Fiction
True Story
It was not aliens. I know saying that first does me no favours. But once a man says aliens, the story is over. People stop listening to the parts that are true. They stop asking what season it was, what the house smelled like, what the dog did, whether the porch light was on, whether there was a June bug dead in the glass or still alive, knocking itself stupid against the bulb.
By Patrick Gadoury5 months ago in Fiction
The Forgotten Prison in the Forest
We were six friends on a hiking trip in the dense forests of East Kalimantan. Me (Fikri), my brother Toni, our cousins Rina and Dika, and our friends Lena and Marco. We had heard rumors about an old forgotten prison built by the Dutch colonial government in the 1930s that was abandoned after Indonesia’s independence. Locals said it was deep in the jungle and completely swallowed by trees. It sounded like the ultimate exploration story for our group chat. After two days of hard trekking, we found it. The prison emerged from the jungle like a broken concrete monster. Tall walls covered in thick vines. Rusty iron gates hanging open. Watchtowers tilted at dangerous angles. The main building was a long, ugly block with rows of tiny windows. The air around it felt heavier, damper, and smelled of old rust and wet stone. “This place is massive,” Marco said, his voice echoing. “Let’s check it out quickly before it gets dark.” We should have turned back. Inside the main gate, the courtyard was overgrown with weeds. Old metal shackles still lay on the ground. We entered the main cell block through a heavy door that creaked loudly. The corridor stretched long and dark. Tiny cells lined both sides — each one barely wider than a person’s outstretched arms. The ceilings were low. The walls were covered in scratches. That’s when we first felt watched. On the second day we decided to spend the night. We set up camp in the old guard room near the entrance because it had a solid roof. We built a fire and laughed about how creepy the place was. None of us wanted to admit we were already uncomfortable. The creatures revealed themselves on the third night. They were former prisoners. Or at least, something that used to be human. Their bodies were horribly stretched and twisted from decades of being forced into those tiny cells. Their spines were curved unnaturally. Their arms and legs were elongated, joints bent in wrong directions. Their skin was pale gray and hung loosely, like it had been stretched too many times. Their heads were elongated from pressing against the low ceilings. They had no eyes — just dark hollows — but they moved with terrifying awareness. We first saw one at 2:17 a.m. It was standing at the end of the cell corridor, perfectly still, its long arms hanging down past its knees. Its head was tilted sideways, as if listening. When our flashlight hit it, it slowly opened its mouth too wide and made a sound like cracking bones. Then it crawled up the wall and disappeared into the ceiling. We panicked and tried to leave at first light. But the jungle had changed. The path we had used to arrive was gone, replaced by thick, tangled vines that hadn’t been there before. We were trapped. The creatures began hunting us slowly. They never rushed. They enjoyed watching us break. They would stand outside the cells where we hid, breathing heavily, their long fingers scratching the walls in rhythm. Sometimes they whispered in broken voices — names of our family members, things we had never told each other. Dika was the first to go. On the fourth night, he woke up screaming. One of the creatures was inside our guard room, crouched over him. Its long fingers were pressing into his shoulders, slowly pulling his body longer. We could hear his bones cracking as it stretched him. When we finally drove it away with fire, Dika was already changed. His arms were longer. His back was bent. He kept whispering, “The cell feels smaller now,” before walking into the darkness. We never saw him alive again. Lena lasted until the fifth night. She started hearing her dead mother’s voice coming from one of the isolation cells. The creature had learned it perfectly. It kept calling her name softly, crying like a mother. Lena broke down and ran toward the sound. We heard her screaming for almost an hour as they stretched her into their shape. When we found her body the next morning, she was sitting neatly inside a tiny cell, her limbs folded at impossible angles, still breathing but no longer human. Marco tried to be the hero. He made torches and went deeper into the prison to find another exit. We waited for hours. Eventually we heard him screaming our names — but it wasn’t really him. The creatures had learned his voice. They used it to call us, begging us to come help him. Toni and Rina died together on the sixth night. They tried to climb the watchtower to signal for help. Two creatures followed them up the stairs, moving on all fours like broken spiders. We heard the sounds of bones breaking and their final screams. When I found what remained, their bodies had been carefully placed in two small guard posts — folded to fit the tiny spaces. Now only I remain. I have been hiding in the same guard room for two days. The creatures no longer hide. They stand outside the door, five or six of them, their long bodies bent, hollow faces turned toward me. They breathe together in rhythm. Sometimes they stretch their arms under the door, fingers reaching, scraping the floor. They have brought me food. Old prison rations that appear fresh every morning. They want me alive. They want me strong enough to last longer so they can enjoy breaking me slowly. I am typing this with shaking hands. My phone battery is at 9%. The scratching on the walls is getting louder. They are widening the cracks, trying to reach me. I can hear Toni’s voice now, calling from the corridor: “Fikri… come out. The cell is ready for you.” It sounds exactly like him. I miss my friends. If you ever hear about an old prison deep in the Indonesian jungle, do not look for it. Do not enter the gates. Do not listen to the voices that know your name. The prisoners never left. They are still serving their sentences. And they want new cellmates. The door just moved. Long fingers are reaching underneath it right now.
By Esmat Zafari5 months ago in Fiction
Blood Between Brotherhoods
The ending of Assassin’s Creed: Forsaken isn’t just about Assassins and Templars anymore. By the end of the story, it becomes something much more painful — a story about a father and son who were never truly able to understand each other until it was too late. Haytham Kenway had spent most of his life believing he was fighting for order. Ever since he was a child, his world had been shaped by violence, betrayal, and manipulation. After losing his father and being raised by the wrong people, he grew into a man who trusted control more than freedom. To him, chaos destroyed lives. Order protected them. Connor, however, believed the opposite. Connor saw what the Templars had done to innocent people, especially to his own village and his people. He believed freedom mattered more than control, even if the world was imperfect. And because of that, father and son slowly became enemies standing on opposite sides of the same war. But deep down, neither of them truly hated the other. Throughout the story, there are moments where Haytham tries to connect with Connor. He fights beside him at times, saves his life once, and even tries to explain that the world is not divided into simple heroes and villains. Connor listens, but he cannot forget the pain caused by the Templars. As the war reaches its end, the final confrontation happens at Fort George. Haytham stands in Connor’s way while Charles Lee escapes. Their fight feels less like two enemies battling and more like two broken people forced into a tragedy neither wanted. Haytham knows Connor has become strong. Connor knows his father is not completely evil. Yet both believe they are right. The fight ends with Connor stabbing Haytham using the Hidden Blade. For a moment, everything becomes quiet. Haytham’s final words carry anger, regret, and sadness all at once. It feels like a father realizing he lost his son long before this battle ever began. After Haytham dies, Connor finds and reads his father’s journal — the very journal that tells the story of Forsaken. And for the first time, Connor truly understands him. He learns about Haytham’s childhood. About the murder of Edward Kenway. About the manipulation by Reginald Birch. About the years of pain and loneliness that shaped the man he became. Connor finally realizes his father was never simply a monster. He was a damaged man trying to create a better world in the only way he knew how. That realization hurts Connor deeply because now understanding comes too late. The man he wanted answers from is already gone. Later, Connor hunts down Charles Lee, the last major enemy left. But even that moment feels empty. There is no satisfaction in revenge anymore. Connor kills him quietly, almost without emotion, as if he already knows revenge cannot repair what has been lost. Then comes the most heartbreaking part of the ending. Connor returns to his village hoping to see his people safe again… only to discover the village abandoned. The new American government forced the natives away from their land despite all the promises of freedom made during the Revolution. Connor watches people being sold as slaves in the streets and finally understands a painful truth: The world did not become better just because the war ended. Freedom existed for some people, but suffering still remained for many others. In the final moments, Connor buries Haytham’s amulet and reflects on everything he lost — his mother, his people, and finally his father. He realizes the world is far more complicated than he once believed. And that is what makes Forsaken unforgettable. It is not really a story about winning. It is a story about loss, misunderstanding, and the tragedy of two people who loved each other but could never stand on the same side.
By M Uzair Khan (UK)5 months ago in Fiction
The Devil's Kiss 1
It all begins with a crime. At Marion's birth, her twin sister is declared dead. In reality, Mariona is delivered to the Lodge to become a "ghost" without a civil existence. In these shadow camps, she is nothing but simple laboratory livestock, anonymous flesh used as a breeder for the lodge's rituals, before being shaped to become their most lethal weapon.
By CECILE HEBELLE5 months ago in Fiction
The Crashed Train in the Jungle.
The Crashed Train in the Jungle We were five friends chasing an old rumor during our trip through Central Java. Me (Adi), my cousin Budi, Lina, Reza, and Sara. The story was about a passenger train that derailed and disappeared into the jungle in the 1980s. Locals said it was still there, overgrown and untouched. It sounded like the perfect adventure for our last night before heading back to the city. We hired a local guide who took us deep into the jungle for four hours until he suddenly refused to go further. “That place is not for visitors,” he said, then turned back alone. We laughed at his superstition and kept walking. Then we found it. The train was lying on its side like a dying metal snake, half swallowed by thick vines and trees. The carriages were covered in moss, but the windows were strangely clean. Some doors were still closed. The number on the side read “KA 472” — a train that officially vanished in 1987. “Wow… this is insane,” Reza whispered. The sun was already setting. Instead of turning back, we decided to explore quickly and camp nearby. Big mistake. We entered the first carriage through a broken window. Inside, everything was eerily preserved. Seats were upright. Luggage still sat in the racks. A newspaper dated 1987 lay on a table. The air smelled of old dust and something sweet, like rotting flowers. That’s when we first heard the breathing. Soft, wet breathing coming from multiple directions at once. We told ourselves it was just the jungle wind. But then we saw the first creature. It was sitting in seat 14C, wearing the remains of a faded blue train uniform. Its body was twisted — spine bent at an unnatural angle, arms too long, fingers stretched like they had been pulled. Its head was turned 180 degrees, facing backward. The skin was pale gray and stretched tight. No eyes. Just smooth skin. But it knew we were there. It slowly turned its head toward us with a wet cracking sound. Its mouth opened slightly, showing small, crowded teeth. Then it whispered in perfect Indonesian: “Ticket… please.” We ran to the next carriage. The further we went, the worse it became. Every carriage had more of them. Twisted passengers still sitting in their original seats. Some had broken necks. Some had limbs folded in impossible positions. They all looked like they had been rearranged after the crash — bones reset wrong, bodies forced back into sitting positions. Lina started crying when one of them reached out and gently touched her hair. Its fingers left a wet black smear on her cheek. “You smell like my daughter,” it whispered with a voice that sounded like multiple people speaking at once. We tried to leave, but the jungle had changed. The path we came from was gone. Vines had grown across it in minutes. We were trapped. Night fell fast. The creatures began moving. They didn’t run or chase aggressively. They moved slowly, patiently, crawling over seats and along the ceiling like broken spiders. Their joints made constant soft popping sounds. They seemed to enjoy our fear. The more we panicked, the more active they became. Reza was the first. At around 1 a.m., while we were hiding in the dining car, one creature pressed its face against his. It stayed there for a long time, breathing into his mouth. Reza started shaking violently. When the creature pulled away, Reza’s eyes were completely white. He looked at us with a sad smile and said, “The train is leaving soon. We have to stay in our seats.” Then he walked straight to an empty seat and sat down. His neck snapped backward with a loud crack as he settled in. He never moved again. We couldn’t even scream anymore. Sara lasted until the third night. She kept saying she could hear her mother calling her from another carriage. One of the creatures had learned her mother’s voice perfectly. It kept whispering “Sara… come home” from the darkness. Eventually she broke. She walked toward the voice crying. We heard her scream once, then nothing. When we found her body later, she was sitting neatly in a seat, hands folded on her lap, with a peaceful expression. Her spine was bent exactly like the others. Budi tried to burn the train. He poured our remaining kerosene on the floor of one carriage. The creatures watched him silently from the shadows. When he lit it, the fire burned for only a few seconds before dying out completely, as if the train itself refused to burn. One creature then slowly crawled down from the ceiling and placed its long fingers around Budi’s head. It pressed until we heard his skull crack. He died whispering apologies to his mother. Now only Lina and I remain. We have been here for six nights. The creatures no longer hide. They sit around us, watching. Sometimes they copy our voices and have conversations with each other, pretending to be us. They argue about whose turn it is to die next. Lina is getting weaker. She hasn’t spoken in two days. One of the creatures has been sitting next to her for hours, gently stroking her hair and whispering childhood memories only she would know. Her eyes are starting to turn white. I am typing this on my phone with 6% battery, hidden in the toilet of the last carriage. They know I’m here. I can hear them outside the door, breathing patiently. The train feels different now. Sometimes I feel it moving slightly, as if trying to continue its journey. The creatures seem excited. They keep bringing me food — fruit and rice that appears fresh every morning. They want me strong enough to last longer. If you ever hear about a crashed train in the jungle, do not look for it. The passengers never completed their journey. And they are still collecting tickets. Lina just screamed my name from the next carriage. But it wasn’t her voice. It was mine. They have learned me now. The door is opening.
By Esmat Zafari5 months ago in Fiction
The Last Train to Nowhere
The first time Elias heard about the train, it sounded like a joke people told to scare tired travelers. “There’s a last train,” an old man once said at a station café, staring into his tea like it contained answers. “It comes only when you’ve got nowhere left to go.”
By Nasibullah Temor5 months ago in Fiction
