Fantasy
Ms. Darling refuses to die.
Dear world or Whomever it may concern. Letter written in haste before I die, for I fear I may not escape her evil plans. I am Marjorie Greenwich, the estranged once best friend of Darlene Darling, who resides at #13 such and such road. To be read only on the event of my demise...or hers, whichever comes first. God only hope it is sooner rather than later, for she is not who she appears to be. Everyone though of her as a wonderful old lady.
By Antoni De'Leonabout a year ago in Fiction
Silken Leaves: A Song of Autumn
In a quiet village nestled between fading forests and distant hills, lived an old man named Elias. His cottage stood at the very edge of the woods, where the scent of pine mingled with the sweetness of damp earth. Every morning, he walked the same path — a winding trail blanketed with fallen leaves, their colors fading from brilliant golds to deep russets.
By wahdatullaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Emptiness Engine
The monastery of the Void Chapter was the quietest place in the known universe. It hung in the silence between stars, a simple asteroid hollowed out by centuries of meditation. Here, the monks practiced the Art of Release. They believed the cosmos was drowning in a cacophony of creation—a violent, wasteful struggle for more energy, more matter, more stuff.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Forest of the Forgotten
The Council of Shadows met in the hollow of an ancient oak tree so massive that its interior could house a dozen people comfortably. Amnity had been here only twice before—once when she'd first been recognized as a healer worthy of official notice, and once when she'd requested permission to gather rare ingredients from the protected groves. Both times, the experience had left her feeling small and overwhelmed by the weight of tradition and authority that seemed to seep from the very walls.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
The Cosmic Nomad's Burden
The Star-Sworn was not a ship; it was a tombkeeper’s silent procession. Its halls echoed with the ghosts of worlds. In its climate-controlled vaults rested the last of their kind: the Final Seed of the Xylosian Crystal Forests, the Last Egg of the Azure Wyvern of Lyra, the Root-Spore of the Singing Fungi of Kepler-186f. Kaelen was their guardian, the last of the Starfarer order. His purpose was singular: to keep them safe until a new, safe world could be found.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Doors of Tazir
For the first time in a thousand years, the knock would be answered. Sha'tia knew what would happen as she descended the spiraling staircase into the dark, bellowing depths below the great sloping walls of the fortress Ark that dominated Tazir City’s skyline. The others of the Blessed One Hundred descended with her, not bothering to keep their voices down. After all, there was only one subject of discussion, and the discussions were not private.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction
The Memory Sculptor
Silas’s workshop smelled of old wood, beeswax, and something else, something intangible: the scent of yesterday. He was a Memory Sculptor. He didn’t erase—that was a crude, dangerous art. He refined. He softened edges. He helped people carry their past without being crushed by it.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
