Adventure

A Tale of Two Tunnels. Top Story - January 2025.
“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” Polk stopped his gloomy trek down the tunnel and turned back to face his friends. Looking from misfit to misfit, his eyes finally landed on the inquisitive, injured triple A battery, who was slowly leaking potassium hydroxide out of its negative terminal.
By Kale Sinclair2 years ago in Fiction
The Lantern Maker's Secret
An old lantern maker named Elyas resided in the busy town of Lumora, where bright lanterns of all shapes and colors illuminated every street. His works were remarkable; each lantern appeared to radiate a brightness that went beyond fire. The locals frequently murmured that Elyas's lamps were secret, that they guided lost souls in addition as lighting the streets.
By widom chinaza2 years ago in Fiction
The Echo in the Cave
Located atop the snow-capped Eryndel Mountains was a secret cavern called the "Cave of Echoes." According to the villagers, it was charmed and anyone who went in and cried out their problems would hear an echo that had the knowledge they were looking for. Because the voyage was perilous and the cave itself seemed to pick those it aided, few dared to test the claim.
By widom chinaza2 years ago in Fiction
The Whisper of the Willow Tree
An old willow tree stood in the center of the town square of the tranquil little village of Evermere, surrounded by glistening brooks and undulating green hills. The people frequently asserted that centuries of wisdom were stored in the tree. They whispered that the tree would give you counsel in its own strange way if you sat beneath its tumbling branches.
By widom chinaza2 years ago in Fiction
Where the Sea Meets the Sky
The wind howled a mournful dirge across the cliffs of Slieve League, whipping the sea into a frenzy below. Amongst the jagged rocks and swirling mists lived Lonán, a being of ancient power, a Fomorian bound to the land. His form was a reflection of the harsh landscape, skin like dark granite, eyes like the stormy sea, and a voice that echoed the wind’s lament.
By Tales by J.J.2 years ago in Fiction
The Screening Room
The flickering light of the projector danced across the dusty screen, casting long shadows across the small, cluttered room they affectionately called “The Screening Room.”
By Tales by J.J.2 years ago in Fiction
Samsara- The Tale of Rebirth
To be the muse or to be the one who beholds the musings, To laugh in adversities or to be the one who stands tall beyond the mockings.
By Hridya Sharma2 years ago in Fiction
DARE TO DREAM - A tale of Love, Loss, Devotion And Utmost Patriotism. Content Warning.
YADA YADA HI DHARMASIYA GLANIRBHAVATI SUVRATA | ABBYUTTHANAMADHARMASIYA TADA PRAKRITISAMBHAVRAH|| O LORD OF THIS UNIVERSE! O CREATOR OF MAN!
By Hridya Sharma2 years ago in Fiction
Starving the Beast
New Year, new chapter! The Shambella Saga continues where last we left our companions, struggling with the Beast near the park where they encountered Siris and the Smiling Rock.
By C. Rommial Butler2 years ago in Fiction
A Desperate Measure
The fluorescent lights of the electronics store hummed a monotonous tune, a soundtrack to Amelia’s increasingly desperate existence. Every day was a battle against dwindling sales targets, impatient customers demanding the latest gadgets that the store couldn’t afford, and the gnawing anxiety of overdue bills.
By Tales by J.J.2 years ago in Fiction
Rivers Against the Current
The river defied its nature the day the Queen disappeared. I was in the workshop basement, calibrating pressure gauges, when it began—an anomaly as subtle as the jump of a needle past safe limits. Above me, Father’s familiar rhythm broke; his wrench slipped against the valve, a sound sharp enough to cut through steam hissing from copper joints. He never slipped. My fingers worked mechanically, tracing the routine I had practiced for a decade: quarter turn right, pause for mercury’s slow waltz, then eighth turn back. The brass casing under my touch was worn smooth, marked by time and toil. Upstairs, Father's voice carried faintly, muttering equations that lived in his mind as instinct. The coal engine’s roar punctuated the morning fog, its smoke joining the haze of the city. Nobles embraced modern power, trading coal for progress. Our workshop, with its aging steam systems, stood like a relic—iron manifolds and aged governors juxtaposed against Vale’s gleaming brass, untarnished since spring. The new technology loomed large, yet few dared to question the dependability of old hands. The air smelled of iron and decay, tinged with the sharp bite of copper oxide. A bitter flavor I had known since Mother’s fever took her. My fingers lingered over the gauge housing, feeling for cracks invisible to sight but not to touch. A single flaw could spell disaster. Could drown the tunnels below. Could betray Her Majesty, whose passage through our labyrinth depended on the system holding. Through the window, I saw Master Edmund Vale at the river’s edge, his silhouette sharp against the gray sky. His latest innovation—a copper-plated pumping station, bearing the Northern King’s seal—stood as testament to his genius and arrogance. The sealed blueprints on his desk spoke of precise estimations, calculations devoid of the one variable he never considered: us. The ultimatum loomed, etched in ink beside the blueprints. Marriage or war. Our older systems shouldn’t have slipped past Vale’s instruments. His machines should have registered the steam we siphoned through uncharted channels and fractures. But they hadn’t. The forgotten tunnels, the ones not in his diagrams, became our quiet rebellion. Footsteps echoed—metal on metal. Blackwood. His deliberate cadence announced him before he entered. I grabbed a rag, scrubbing at the grease engrained in my hands, though I knew it was futile. Stains didn’t vanish; they settled into your skin, reminders of labor and resolve. Blackwood stopped beside one of our mechanical flowers, its brass petals glinting faintly in the dim light. He traced the stem, testing for heat, his thumb lingering over the hidden valves. "Still tending your father’s metal garden, I see," he said, his voice a blade dulled by civility. His hand rested lightly on his sword pommel, the motion a mirror of my safety checks. “Regular maintenance,” I replied, keeping my tone as neutral as the steam gauge’s tick. His gaze wandered to the edge of the workbench, where my scribbled notations rested like half-buried secrets. He smiled faintly, a predator’s smile. “And the river’s strange behavior? The pressure shifts? Are those maintenance too?” A guard lingered in the doorway, his presence as heavy as the coal dust in the air. He wasn’t much older than me, but his hands told stories of labor—burns, calluses, stains. His eyes flicked to the hidden panel behind the bench, the one leading to the tunnels Father now navigated. He nodded, a gesture so subtle it could have been imagined. The palace bells broke the tension, tolling their crisis call: nine resonant chimes. Her Majesty was moving. The gauges whispered warnings in their quiet language of pressure and release. The manometer edged toward red, its rhythm matching the frantic pulse in my wrist. I adjusted a brass fitting with deliberate slowness, the illusion of calm masking the storm beneath my skin. Blackwood’s voice carried from the garden above. "The King's agents trace the disruption here. Search everything." The guard approached, slipping me a folded paper as he passed. Its edges were worn soft, handled by many hands like an heirloom. Inside were diagrams—flaws in Vale’s systems, vulnerabilities waiting to be exploited. There were others. Workers like me, with oil-streaked skin and minds attuned to the hum of machinery. We were everywhere, hidden in plain sight, turning modern power against itself. I pressed my palm to the machinery, feeling its warmth, its pulse. Father had taught me that the best solutions were often the simplest, the most elegant. Tomorrow, they would return with more questions. But tonight, the Queen would reach safety. The manometer’s steady tick echoed through the workshop, a quiet promise that the fight was far from over.
By K-jay2 years ago in Fiction
Plans? Who's Got The Pans?
My mood was as black as the night when I pulled onto Wilshire Boulevard. The fear in the late-night caller’s voice brought back memories of the war. I hadn’t heard fear like that since.
By Kenneth Lawson2 years ago in Fiction