Excerpt
The Royal Legacy of King Barkley
Once upon a time, in a faraway realm hidden beyond icy mountains and ancient forests, there reigned a noble king unlike any the world had seen. His name was King Barkley, a Golden Retriever of majestic stature and unmatched wisdom. With his gleaming golden coat, kind eyes, and a crown that shimmered in the sunlight, King Barkley ruled the Canine Kingdom of Arvendale, a land where dogs of all breeds lived in peace, honor, and unity.
By Fazal Malikabout a year ago in Fiction
Love in a Library Aisle
The city of Prague had always been a haven for dreamers and thinkers. Its narrow cobbled streets and ancient buildings whispered stories from centuries past. But for Emma, a 29-year-old translator, the city’s charm often felt distant and muted. She found solace only in the old city library — a grand building with high ceilings and walls lined from floor to ceiling with books that smelled of history and secrets.
By Aman Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
💔 Echoes Beneath the Ice💔
🌌 The Night the Ocean Held Its Breath The stars hung too still that night, as if the sky itself was waiting to drown. Eliza Thornton stood at the railing of the Titanic, breath misting in the cold, her gloves clutching the iron like they could hold her together. Below, the Atlantic looked like black glass—unbroken, unreadable. Behind her, faint music drifted, but none of it reached her heart. Her heart was with him.
By Leah Brookeabout a year ago in Fiction
I Married a Ghost. Last Night, He Served Me Divorce Papers. AI-Generated.
The divorce papers appeared at 3:07 AM. One moment: empty pillow. Next moment: parchment thick as graveyard soil, smelling of bergamot and decay. Ink the color of dried blood spelled out *Silas Alistair Thorne v. Elara June Finch*. A wax seal pulsed with cold blue light. I didn’t scream. After ten years married to a Victorian-era industrialist’s ghost, you learn panic is pointless. Especially when your undead husband’s idea of foreplay is reciting Edgar Allan Poe during your showers. *How Do You Meet a Ghost? Badly. It started with a Ouija board at a frat party—cliché, I know. We’d aimed for "spooky fun." We summoned Silas Thorne, dead since 1889 (typhoid fever, complicated by poor stock investments). He haunted my apartment for months: freezing my wine, rearranging my books into cryptic symbols, whispering investment tips that *actually* worked. He was charming. For a corpse. He’d materialize as a flicker of top-hatted shadow, quoting Keats while I burned toast. When my fiancé left me ("You’re emotionally cheating… *with a ghost?*"), Silas manifested fully for the first time—a translucent gentleman in waistcoat and cravat, offering a spectral handkerchief. "Modern men lack fortitude," he’d sniffed. "Shall I haunt his Tesla?" *The Chapel of Lingering Vows* We married at a paranormal chapel in New Orleans. Our vows: *"Beyond breath, beyond bone, ‘Til entropy claims the last stone."* Our prenup was… unusual: **§3.2* *Corporeal Spouse (Elara) retains all tangible assets (real estate, chocolate, living pets).* **§5.7: *Ectoplasmic Spouse (Silas) reserves right to manifest during showers/baths for "aural companionship."* **Addendum B:** *Infidelity defined as "consorting with rival spirits (e.g., Gertrude the flapper ghost, who sings show tunes off-key in the parlor on Wednesdays)."* *The Trouble with Immortal Husbands* Immortality makes ghosts *particular*. Silas despised: - Smartphones ("Soulless pocket-spies!") - Scented candles ("Cloying bourgeois propaganda!") - My historian boyfriend, Liam ("That beard has the audacity to touch my wife!") Liam tried. He left 1873 port wine by the fireplace. Read Dickens aloud. Silas retaliated by making Liam’s coffee taste like grave dirt. **The Last Straw: The Tesla Coil Incident** Liam installed an "ambiance enhancer" in the study—a singing Tesla coil. Silas saw it as an act of spectral war. For weeks, our brownstone became a paranormal battleground: - Lights flickering in Morse code insults (*"L-I-A-M I-S A P-E-A-S-A-N-T"*) - Antique portraits weeping black oil - My bathwater turning inexplicably… *chunky* When I unplugged the coil, Silas froze every bottle of Chardonnay in the house. "Prioritizing that *bearded transistor* over our matrimonial resonance?" His voice vibrated from the gramophone horn. "This union is a crypt, Elara." *The Phantom Plaintiff’s Grievances* His legal filing was absurd, even for the dead:
By Wondermindabout a year ago in Fiction
The Midnight Bargain: When My Brother's Voice Cracked a Decade of Silence. AI-Generated.
3:17 AM The phone’s vibration drilled into the silence like a bone saw. I fumbled blindly, squinting at the screen. The name flashing there—*Jake*—felt like a ghost punching me in the throat. Ten years. Three thousand six hundred fifty days of radio silence. And now this. 3 AM. The hour of emergencies and drunks. I almost silenced it. *Almost.* That old bitterness—thick as scar tissue—rose in my chest. The last time I’d heard his voice, he’d called me a "self-righteous parasite" before slamming the door so hard our dead mother’s photo rattled on the wall. Grief over her loss had twisted us into strangers, then enemies. We’d built walls with the bricks of her absence. But something in the *way* it rang… frantic. Relentless. A sound that bypassed my anger and hooked straight into my lizard brain. *Danger.* I swiped answer. Held my breath. *The Static and the Gasp* "E-Ellie?" His voice was shredded glass and static. Not drunk. *Terrified.* "Jake? What—" "They’re… inside the walls." A wet, ragged cough. "The bugs. Can you… *hear* them?" My blood froze. This wasn’t an apology. Wasn’t a reunion. This was a Code Red from a collapsing mind. The Unspoken War Our estrangement wasn’t simple. After Mom’s cancer won, Jake dove headfirst into conspiracy forums and cheap whiskey. I buried myself in spreadsheets and sterile relationships. We became caricatures: *The Crazy Brother. The Ice Sister.* The last fight was nuclear—him screaming about government trackers in his fillings, me hissing that he’d dishonored her memory. Truth? We were both drowning. Just in different oceans. Now, listening to him wheeze about "bioluminescent mites" chewing through his drywall, I faced the gut-punch truth: *He wasn’t calling for forgiveness.* **He was calling because I was still his emergency contact.** *Driving into the Storm* I broke every speed limit driving to his rust-belt apartment. Key still fit the lock (why did I keep it?). The smell hit first—sour milk, stale smoke, and something acrid. Ammonia? He was crouched behind a toppled bookshelf, face gaunt in the blue light of a dead laptop screen. A makeshift "weapon"—a fireplace poker wrapped in duct tape—clattered from his hand when he saw me. "Ellie?" He blinked, childlike. "The… the ventilation shafts. They’re laying eggs in—" "Shut up, Jake." My voice surprised me. Cold. Steady. *Nurse-mode activated.* "Where are your meds?" *The Diagnosis in the Debris* His lithium bottles were empty. Anti-psychotics, untouched since November. Piles of printed forum rants about "nano-parasites" covered the moldy carpet. This wasn’t just addiction. This was schizophrenia’s cruel masterpiece, painted over a decade of neglect. As I forced water into him, wiped grime from his forehead, the old rage flickered. *Why me? Why now?* Then I saw it. Taped to the fridge beneath a takeout menu: A faded Polaroid. Mom, laughing, arms around us at Coney Island. Age 12 and 14. Before the wars. *"My Keepers,"* she’d scribbled on the border. *The Bargain* Getting him committed wasn’t gentle. He fought, sobbing about "extraction teams." I signed papers with hands that didn’t feel like mine. In the sterile hospital hallway, a social worker asked, "Relationship to patient?" I opened my mouth. Closed it. The word *sister* felt foreign. Heavy. "Emergency contact," I finally said. *The Silence After the Storm
By Wondermindabout a year ago in Fiction
This is Life 🪞
To bring light back to life is a metaphorical concept that speaks of rejuvenation and revitalization of one's spirit, with passion, and a sense of purpose. In life, there are times when one might feel lost, overwhelmed, or detached from their passions. The journey to reignite that inner light often involves introspection, seeking inspiration from new experiences, or reconnecting with what genuinely brings joy and fulfillment. This process can be likened to rekindling a flame that once burned brightly. It may involve setting new goals, embracing creative pursuits, or surrounding oneself with supportive and positive influences. Ultimately, bringing light back to life is about rediscovering a sense of hope and direction, empowering oneself to move forward with renewed energy and enthusiasm.Chill out ! Now that’s comfortable … very doable over and again ! Hence no prowling cries if one chooses otherwise ! And until that ultimate arrival ( awakening,) transgresses time …everything ..yes everything…may SEEM like this : BRINGING LIGHT BACK TO LIFE Into dying arms of fate my mien was staged stillborn As topsy-turvy over twisted brows, inlaid upon those majestic crowns O! Such stuff hung up in air, quite contrary on its own Into airings put forth as untenable breaches;Unto risings ineffable so tempestuously grown O! Look! To that, A subdued pang, a dead beat to an impulse, still lingers on,And ,as of , in cut-throat melancholy, none the worse, for that : I was bornYet seeding beneath those constant twists a humble hope hankered on For though, as in the broken, A wreathing arrow affronts its harrows, And so frighteningly— comes up forging on Therein, my feebler spirit lifts off it’s own wings, gathering hope to carry on Thusly, as the raging yonder eclipses it’s own virtues to a world so scurrilously spunTo that, my heart, from dead beat to cold fleets, seeks it’s own contents’ calm And thereof, thinking, when I shut it all up, the hearth shall finally feel —that —fealty warmth?!Then the rendering speech lights up the day, as though, a new morn has gotten freshly born And, as if, showing up in words, as it duly does, penning in all other paradoxical forms But, even though to some, all this may seem like a passing flauntHereby, I do dare to bear what others have blundered uponUnsayable, as it is, in this diverse world of unequals , the secular in me just carries on. Yet thereupon, for this silence to play it’s dirge, over and above, those dying groans… To that, I move on ….And to that roar as in a vowed voice doubling along ‘Tis Quite right, when you say: I was transformed...Yes, Into another —into which, my essence was taken; And like a presence in transitions, I was left to bygones !But that was, when I was young, with innocence lain upon coffins for others to mock on ! Crucially so, many rough rufflers were then called upon , And they—with their two fold follies, dug up graves, into which I was casually thrownNot so much as in reality, my essence in presence, with no traces of formerly, seemed totally all gone Yes, life with its ups and downs, did surprise me with its own divulging turns Tacitly tearing an image—so commonly found…O! LIFE …in mild sleeps still echoed along Then, time as swift as six scores to sevens also buddied along For if in living there were adversaries, then in giving, every faulted destiny chased me around ….And on and on and on to stand, came treaties to make their tireless runs Onwards they moved with mirths growing, growling to take on their final groundThereof it all appeared, stamped and sealed —as if ‘twas “already normed.” To that , While abhorring the senselessness hopscotching my soul, it all seemed as though —it was some evildoer’s pun So much so , unforeseen, and with all the extended envies, there came another discomforting turnAnd for every renewing day under the sun ; and until it was all —finally—said and done —Perhaps there, my WILL, the bread n butter of my sustenance ,kick- balled me to another spun —a powerful run! Seemingly determined, reviling me into quite another; but in actuality, I was literally overturned Certainly, That WILL —which tried well, to distill my deaths’ mocking returns, much like life ‘outliving itself , I h’d found myself—lost and found … Yeah! That in which we expect one thing, altogether another gets pushed aroundWhy—redeeming us, O! Lord, such a WISE rushes on? Of what worth is this barter when heaven’s glory—Pays a heavy price to every Ounce Is this life ? Yes, it’s— this —sweet life—with it’s renewed intensity, just renews itself back to pounce Scattered or unsheathed to every service of the heart, and to every mind toiling hard; It recurs and resets as time remains in time, totally rewound…Time bound ?! Nah ?! Nay? Yea?! And then a light emerges piercing shadows to be found; quickly risen to ascend and dance, Out there— as if fully tranced...In its sheer evanescence, it gets up, dresses up, for yet another —naked truth— to be duly rebornYes , erasing this or every other existence which makes it’s false claims, and thereupon, I shall be newly BORN ....Plucked from a consequence, as though, walking through those eternal paths, quite unbound Yes, failing to fetch me at first ,my maker, keeps me , thusly, spellbound! Yet this journey which invariably accompanies me from birth to rebirth, affirms to say — Come, slide and pass on until all stages are over and your pithy work is all done —until then, carry on! © ✍️ Madhu Goteti March 27th , 2025P.S: I must have been a poet in my previous life and long stretched the show goes on in this life trickling into the next (LBL.) Just a thought 💭 ☝️… please 🙏 don’t take it seriously! In the end nothing really matters …So Dear Listener, cheers!
By Madhu Goteti about a year ago in Fiction
The House That Waits at the Edge of the Fog
1. The Arrival Elena had seen the house in her dreams long before she ever found it. It sat quietly at the edge of a fading forest, shrouded in fog that moved like breath across the hills. Windows like closed eyes. A door like a secret no one wanted to tell. When she finally stood before it—real wood, real chill, real sky darkening—her bones knew it before her mind did. This was where the nightmares began. And now, maybe, where they would end. 2. The Whisper The key was already in the lock. Inside, the air smelled like time left alone. Not rotten—just forgotten. Dust floated like slow snow. The walls pulsed with stillness. The house didn’t groan or creak. It listened. That night, the whisper came. Not outside the room—but inside her head. Not words at first. Just… feeling. Like something was watching. Something waiting. Not cruel. Just patient. “Who’s there?” Elena whispered to the dark. The dark answered with a breath beneath her bed. 3. The History In town, no one would speak of the house. One woman, old and knotted like driftwood, told her: “That place doesn’t haunt you. It holds you.” “Why?” “Because it remembers.” Remembers what? Elena didn’t ask. She was starting to remember too. Flashes: A girl in the mirror who wasn’t her. A voice in the hallway calling a name she’d forgotten. A nursery with no toys. A crib that rocked by itself. 4. The Becoming The house didn’t hurt her. It fed her. Each night, the dreams grew stronger. She saw other versions of herself—crying, clawing, screaming. Not all were human anymore. And the voice—clearer now—said, “You’ve come back.” Elena didn’t run. She stayed. Because the truth was: she had been there before. Not in this life. But in another. And she had died in this house. More than once. 5. The Truth The house was alive. Not with wood and wires. With memory. It remembered every soul it held. Every scream. Every shadow pressed into its floorboards. It didn’t kill. It collected. Elena was its favorite kind of visitor—the ones who belonged to it before they were born. And now it wanted her back. 6. The Ending That Isn’t They found her car weeks later, engine cold, windshield dusted with fog. No footprints. No sign of struggle. Just a journal on the seat. Inside, only one sentence was written over and over again: “The house remembers me. And I remember it now.” The End? The House Doesn't Stay in One Place The house at the edge of the fog isn’t fixed to one location. It moves. Not quickly, and never when you look straight at it—but over time, it shifts. From one forgotten road to the next. From one dreaming mind to another. People don’t find the house. The house finds them—especially those who have a connection from another life, or a memory too buried to explain. Sometimes it appears in a photo you don’t remember taking. Sometimes in a sketch your child draws without knowing why. Sometimes in the background of a dream you swear you’ve had before. If you ever feel like a house is watching you… It probably is. And if you hear a whisper when no one else does, don’t answer. Because it might just be calling you home.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Fiction
Joyful Splashes: A Child’s Delight in the Pool. AI-Generated.
The sun was high in the sky, shining brightly over the small village. It was summer vacation, and the air was hot and dry. Birds chirped lazily on the trees, and even the leaves seemed tired in the heat. But inside the little garden behind the Malik family’s house, laughter filled the air.
By Bilal Mohammadiabout a year ago in Fiction
