Excerpt
Words, Just Words
There’s something provocatively intimate about exposing your hopes, thoughts, and darkest confessions. Spelled out in seemingly harmless black and white, words become more than just letters arranged in a systematic phonetic order. There, in cohesive and unifying fragments, words are given the voice that speaks their truth into existence. Those words then have the power to encourage, to heal, to entertain, to educate, to control, to hurt. Words, innocent as they may appear, are quite the contrary. I should know. I’m a survivor of words.
By Sylvia Lorraine 2 years ago in Fiction
The Counter and the Coal
Not even otherworldly reindeer who fly are undying, and Dasher and Artist and Prancer and Lady, Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen were stories of Christmas mornings that had since a long time ago happen. Rudolph himself lived seventeen years: a good life expectancy for the typical hostage reindeer. In no way, shape or form a supernatural occurrence. Except if such a reindeer was among the fortunate not many to be housed in that frame of mind of a certain, southern toy shop. These reindeer would in general be more limited lived than most. Each Christmas a couple of St Nick's reindeer would miss the mark concerning the necessities expected to zoom all over the planet. This was not an incredible cumbrance to the actual mission. St Nick's brain was however sharp as his tummy seemed to be round, and he realize that the reindeer who couldn't last the excursion would be dead or near it once they arrived at Russia's nose, which seems to be that of an elephant seal. Then it would be set for The Frozen North. St Nick's sled, short a few reindeer, would fly across the Bering Ocean as leisurely as the petrels. Men on modern fishing boats would look into, point, and shout. Then they'd joke that Christmas would require an augmentation. It won't ever do. In the inside of Gold country, there carried on with a man of gigantic cash and very little riches, and individuals who realized him had named him the Counter. The Counter resided in a frail shack, where he slumped in his work area before the hearth, endlessly counting the cash he'd made off his reindeer the earlier years. 43 years, to be careful. At the point when the fire consumed low in order to make this cycle troublesome, he would get a piece of wood, throw it into the hearth, and his unending count, until he'd come to accept that the actual cash was the wellspring of his glow. Yet, until he could stand to purchase such a reality, somebody actually needed to slash the kindling. This somebody was a little fellow, an offspring of the clans who, a long time back, had been purchased with the Counter's cash. Or on the other hand rather, the dangers that would in general go with it, as certain as the obliteration that goes with a fire. The Counter enlightened him nothing regarding his legacy, other than the account of how his kin consumed the cash that had sold his actual life. They threw the rolled up bills — precisely 25 bucks — into the flares that cooked their meat. The kid got the feeling that his lord thought them fools for this. He, at the end of the day, didn't.
By Parmesh Patil2 years ago in Fiction
The Unexplored world
The obscure man lies dead in the outbuilding for three days, and on the fourth we cover him. We attempted to cover him previously yet needed to pause, the ground was so difficult. Gunne, who attempted to dig the plot in the graveyard not too far off, says breaking ice with a toothpick was like difficult. So we hold on until the Walk defrost liberates the ground to the point of uncovering cold earth for a resting place. We needed to do everything right, lay him there with every one of the customs and petitions and everything, as though he had been our own dear sibling. The subsequent evening, the air is cool and clean, blowing in from the South, where they have been having summer rains as of now. The icicles dangling from the rafters and windowsills are trickling and falling consistently to the ground, to soften and evaporate for eternity. The sky is dull with storm mists, assembled like a wrap into the great beyond, and the breeze smells sweet like wet earth and honeysuckle. The house behind me is land and sparkling and loaded up with lighthearted giggling; foregetting stresses over a round of cards is simple. Be that as it may, I step outside, shoeless on the ice-fragmented ground, and go to see the body. Mother told me not to, yet I can't resist. I need to see with my own eyes. Indeed, even on a ranch, with livestock; debilitated cows, fatted pigs and hens, sheep prepared to butcher and sell, it is my most memorable brush with death. Livestock don't pass on; they have forever been intended to kick the bucket thus their consummation is simply… conclusion. Connecting myself to each perishing creature would mean consistent shock, an unacceptable life. Furthermore, on the off chance that I attempted to stop the butcher, we would starve. Be that as it may, this is unique. I fold my head down to my collarbone and avoid rapidly across the yard. There is some delicate, startling secret staying nearby the horse shelter, drifting on the sweet southern breeze. The sun is practically gone: its last red beams are projected across the Nebraska fields and contact on single scraggly trees and skewed, wind-tortured horse shelters, similar to a man stroking the substance of his darling. Quietly, similar to the unsettle of wind on skin, I slide back the red entryway and slip inside. I remain solitary with my back facing the wood, taking in the stale smelling smell of straw and animal cud and corroded ranch apparatuses. What's more, there's one more smell as well, kept down by the dry virus actually hanging determinedly in the air. I have my earthy colored cotton dress on, with my sibling's pants on under, and a green fleece sweater over everything, nevertheless shudder like a marigold in the breeze. I let myself know it's simply from the virus.
By Parmesh Patil2 years ago in Fiction
Celestial Temple of the Golden Moon
Celestial Temple of the Aureate Moon The abundance stood like a bouncer over the valley, its peaks crowned by bouncing mists. In the affection of this ambiguous area sat the Angelic Temple, an alarming curiosity carved from atramentous and adorned with intricate aureate inlays. Legends said the temple was not congenital by animal easily but by angelic beings who had descended to Earth eons ago. Every apparent of the temple shimmered with an adorable afterglow beneath the ablaze of the aureate moon that afraid perpetually aloft it, as if tethered to the mountain. For centuries, pilgrims had approved the temple, assertive it to be a arch amid worlds—a abode area bodies could glimpse the all-powerful and alleviate secrets of the universe. Many never fabricated it accomplished the betraying ascendance through the asperous cliffs and dense, bugged forests. But those who succeeded told tales of enlightenment, of audition whispers from the moon itself.
By Say the truth 2 years ago in Fiction
The Snow Angel's Gift: A Heartwarming Christmas Miracle
The Snow Angel's Gift: A Christmas Miracle Introduction The holiday season is often characterized by themes of hope, joy, and the miraculous. One of the most enchanting narratives that encapsulates these themes is the story of "The Snow Angel's Gift: A Christmas Miracle." This tale, while fictional, resonates deeply with the spirit of Christmas, reminding us of the power of belief, the warmth of family, and the magic that can unfold during this special time of year. This paper explores the narrative structure, thematic elements, and cultural significance of the story, drawing connections to broader Christmas traditions and the enduring impact of such tales on our collective consciousness.
By Dinesh Maurya2 years ago in Fiction
Snowy Red Lantern Railway. AI-Generated.
The Enchanted Railway of Blood-soaked Light The aboriginal blast of the division blanketed the forest, muting the apple into a quiet stillness. Alice pulled her bandage tighter about her close as she stepped off the baffled path, her boots crunching cautiously adjoin the icy layer. She had heard rumors of the railway that lay abysmal aural these woods—an old, abandoned clue that abandoned appeared to those analytic for article they had lost. They alleged it "The Enchanted Railway," apparent by blood-soaked lanterns that glowed like fireflies in the night. Alice had absent something, admitting not a affair anyone could name. It was the anguish of her brother's absence, the bite of his dematerialization two winters ago. The authorities had alleged it an accident, but no one anytime begin his body. Article central her banned to let go, as if he were still out there, cat-and-mouse for her to acquisition him.
By Say the truth 2 years ago in Fiction
Fanfiction: What it means to us?
Let me make the title a bit clearer before I begin with the main context. “Fanfiction: What Does It Mean to Us?” The pronoun “us” has been stressed here. We all, in some way or another, are affected by fiction in general. Fiction is literature that is created from one’s imagination and is not presented as fact, though it may be based on a true story or situation. We all watch movies, read stories, listen to songs, etc. Most of them are fictional. Some popular types are romance (my personal favourite), action-adventure, science fiction, fantasy, speculative fiction, suspense/thriller (my second personal favourite), young adult, new adult, etc. Now here comes a completely new genre, “Fanfiction.”
By A Little Butterfly2 years ago in Fiction
The Echoing Woods
Every town has its legends, and for the small village of Greystone, it was the tale of the Echoing Woods. They said the forest had a voice—a sentient whisper that lured travelers off the path with promises of answers to their deepest questions. But no one who followed the whispers ever returned.
By Mira Langston2 years ago in Fiction
