Fantasy
**Habits Reveal True Lineage: A Timeless Fable**
--- Habits Reveal Ancestry: A Tale of True Lineage A determined stranger, with an air of quiet confidence, presented himself at the opulent court of a powerful king, his sole desire to secure a position. When the monarch, seated on his grand throne, inquired about the man's particular skills and qualifications, the stranger's response was concise yet profound: he declared himself to be "siyasi." In the rich Arabic tongue, this term conveyed far more than a mere politician; it signified a master of astute judgment, a sagacious individual capable of navigating complex affairs with deep understanding and resolving intricate problems through a blend of wisdom and astute negotiation.
By Muhammad Saeedabout a year ago in Fiction
Little Texts, Big Love: How Tiny Messages Saved Our Spark
I used to think that keeping the spark alive meant surprise trips, fancy candlelit dinners, or expensive gifts. But I learned something extraordinary from the person I love: sometimes it’s the tiniest, cutest texts that keep the fire burning even brighter. It all started during a phase of our relationship when routine was threatening to slip in like a silent thief. We had been together for three years, living in different cities because of work. The calls were still there, the occasional weekend visits still happened, but the excitement—the giddy rush I’d felt in the first few months—had begun to fade into comfortable calm. Sweet, yes, but also a little scary. I didn’t want our love to settle into something that felt ordinary. One evening, while sipping my coffee and scrolling through old chats, I came across a random message from her. Just a simple line she’d sent almost two years ago: “Hey handsome, hope your smile is bigger than the sun today.” It was silly. Flirty. Utterly simple. But it made my chest tighten with something warm, something electric. Right then, I decided to bring that playfulness back, one tiny text at a time. So I texted her: “I hope your heart is dancing today. If not, send it over—I’ll teach it a move or two.” She sent back a laughing emoji, then: “Deal. But you’ll have to hold it forever.” That night, I lay in bed thinking about how easy it was to make her smile. No need for plane tickets or grand gestures—just a handful of words sent at the right moment. From then on, it became our little ritual. Each day, one of us would send a random, cute, and sometimes downright ridiculous text. Like: “Quick question: how did I get so lucky to be loved by a dream in human form?” “If kisses were raindrops, I’d send you a storm.” “Can you stop being so amazing? It’s making it really hard to focus on work.” Sometimes we’d turn it into games. I’d text: “Guess how many times I thought about you today?” She’d reply: “At least 5,000. Am I wrong?” “Totally wrong. It’s been 12,476. I’ve been keeping count.” Even on bad days—especially on bad days—these cute little texts stitched us together. Once she was stuck in a horrible traffic jam, frustrated and close to tears. I sent: “Sending you an army of invisible kisses to fight off the traffic blues. Check your shoulder—one just landed there.” She texted back a photo of her smile, slightly teary but brighter than anything else I’d seen all day. Over time, these tiny messages became more than just a way to flirt. They became reminders of why we chose each other, over and over again. A cute text could chase away the gloom of a hard week. A silly line could turn an ordinary Tuesday into something special. And when distance or routine threatened to dim our spark, these tiny digital notes fanned it right back into a roaring flame. I once asked her, jokingly, what her favorite of all my texts was. She surprised me by scrolling back months in our chat and screenshotting this: “I don’t just love you. I like you. I like the way you look at me when I talk about dumb things. I like how your laugh changes when you’re truly happy. I like the way you exist in this world—messy, gorgeous, and absolutely mine.” She said that line felt like I was seeing her, really seeing her, in all her messy, beautiful glory. That’s when I realized these small messages weren’t small at all. They were tiny keys unlocking doors inside her heart that might have otherwise stayed closed. So yes, I still plan surprises. I still want to buy her flowers and book those plane tickets. But I’ve learned that sometimes, the best way to keep the spark alive isn’t with fireworks. It’s with tiny, playful flames—each word a matchstick striking softly, beautifully, again and again.
By Aman Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Romantic Promises You Can Text Daily
They say distance makes the heart grow fonder, but no one ever tells you how painful it truly is to love someone you can’t touch, can’t hold, can’t simply sit next to in silence. We lived miles apart, in different cities, under different skies, yet somehow under the same spell of love that refused to break despite all odds. In the beginning, our calls were long and filled with laughter, our chats playful and endless. But as days turned into months, the distance began whispering cruel things in our ears. Doubts sneaked in like uninvited guests. Was she still mine? Was I still enough for her heart that could be tempted by someone nearer, someone real and tangible? One lonely evening, when my mind was a battlefield of love and fear, I decided to do something reckless yet sincere. I texted her, “Let’s try something new. From today, I’ll send you one promise every single day. Some will be tiny, some deep, but each one will be a thread pulling our hearts closer.” The first promise was simple, almost childish: “I promise to always say goodnight, no matter how tired I am.” The next day, it grew braver: “I promise to be patient with your silences.” By the end of the week, I found myself writing things I had never dared to say aloud, like “I promise to never let our fights mean more than our love.” And she… oh God, she surprised me in ways that still warm my chest. She would reply with her own gentle vows: “I promise to tell you when I’m sad instead of pushing you away.” Or “I promise to never let a day go by without reminding you that you are loved beyond measure.” Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and soon these tiny promises became the very backbone of our fragile, beautiful long-distance love story. We promised to grow old together, to dance in our kitchen when we’re gray and wrinkled, to read poetry under the covers even when our eyes struggled to focus. Yet love, real love, always gets tested. There was a time we fought so badly I thought this was the end. Ugly words were thrown, tears were shed alone in dark rooms. That night, my pride screamed not to text her, to let her be, let her miss me first. But my heart, stubborn fool that it was, picked up the phone anyway and typed with trembling fingers: “I promise to fight for us, even when we’re the ones hurting each other.” Her reply didn’t come instantly. Hours dragged by like slow poison. Then, at 3:07 AM, my phone buzzed: “I promise to never give up on us, no matter how broken we get.” It felt like breathing again after nearly drowning. From then on, our promises grew deeper, more intertwined with hopes and dreams that were too sacred to say before. “I promise to be your calm when the world storms against you.” “I promise to build a home in my heart where you will always belong.” Now, years later, we finally share the same city, the same sunlit mornings, the same coffee mug sometimes. But every single day, without fail, my phone still lights up. “Good morning, love. I promise to still choose you tomorrow, even on days you’re impossible to love.” And I grin like a fool because some rituals are too precious to ever outgrow. Some promises are made to be kept forever. Love, in the end, isn’t built on diamonds or grand gestures—it’s sewn together by tiny, fragile, heartfelt promises whispered across miles and years. And maybe that’s why, even after all this time, when people ask me the secret to loving someone from afar, I tell them: “Make a promise daily. Not to her, not to him—but to your love. That’s how distance turns into destiny.”
By Aman Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Animal Farm (George Orwell) - Chapter- 7 (Novel)
The winter on Animal Farm is harsher than ever, and the animals are suffering greatly. Food is scarce, and the cold cuts deep into their bones, but Napoleon’s regime continues to press on. To maintain appearances and maintain control, Napoleon uses propaganda, deception, and brute force to suppress dissent and silence the truth.
By Echoes of Lifeabout a year ago in Fiction
Animal Farm (George Orwell) - Chapter- 5 (Novel)
The arrival of winter brings new challenges and new conflicts to Animal Farm. Molly, the idle white mare, begins to act suspiciously. She is often late for work, complains about trivial matters, and is nervous when contacted. Eventually, Clover discovers that Molly has been secretly talking to one of Mr. Pillkington's men, letting him pick her nose and accept sugar and ribbons. When Clover confronts her, Molly denies everything, but after a while she disappears from the farm. Later, the pigeons see her pulling a cart for a man in a nearby town, wearing a shiny ribbon and enjoying sugar. Molly chooses a life of slavery over her hard-won freedom, and no one talks about it again.
By Echoes of Lifeabout a year ago in Fiction
Animal Farm- Chapter- 4 (George Orwell)
As summer turns to autumn, word of the animals’ successful rebellion spreads far beyond Animal Farm. Snowball and Napoleon send pigeons to neighboring farms to tell the other animals about their revolution and to teach them the song of the Beast of England. The pigeons carry the message far and wide, inspiring animals on other farms to rise up just as they have. Meanwhile, the human owners of neighboring farms—Mr. Pilkington of Foxwood and Mr. Frederick of Pinchfield—become deeply concerned that ideas of animalism might spread. They try to downplay the animal revolution, mocking Animal Farm and calling it a failure, but secretly, they fear a similar rebellion among their own animals.
By Echoes of Lifeabout a year ago in Fiction
Animal Farm — Chapter 3 (George Orwell)
With Manor Farm now transformed into Animal Farm, the animals waste no time in putting their new society into practice. They begin working enthusiastically in the fields, more motivated than ever under Mr. Jones. The pigs, thanks to their superior intelligence, take on leadership and planning roles, while the other animals throw themselves into physical labor. Boxer, a huge cart horse, becomes the farm's workhorse in both name and spirit. His personal motto - "I will work harder" - inspires everyone around him. Even the ducks and chickens do their best, picking up stray kernels of corn to ensure that nothing goes to waste. Although harvesting is difficult without human tools and skills, they manage better than expected, with greater success than ever before. There is a sense of pride and ownership in every mouthful of food they produce, which drives them to work harder and cooperate more willingly. The animals, for the first time, feel that their labor is truly for their own benefit, not for some master who steals the fruits of their labor.
By Echoes of Lifeabout a year ago in Fiction
Animal Farm — Chapter 2 (George Orwell)
After the powerful barn meeting where Old Major sows the seeds of revolution, the animals of Manor Farm find themselves transformed. Although Old Major dies peacefully in his sleep just three nights later, his ideas flash through their minds. The pigs, being the most intelligent of the animals, quickly take on the task of spreading his vision. Of these, three stand out: Napoleon, Snowball, and Squealer. Napoleon is a large, fierce-looking Berkshire boar with a reputation for getting his own way. Snowball is more lively, quick-witted, and inventive, while Squealer is a brilliant talker who can twist any argument to convince others.
By Echoes of Lifeabout a year ago in Fiction
Animal Farm (George Orwell) - Chapter- 1 (Novel)
The story begins at Manor Farm, owned by Mr. Jones, a carefree and often drunk farmer. One evening, Old Major, a highly respected 12-year-old middle-white boar, calls a meeting of all the animals in the large barn. Old Major has had a strange dream and wants to share it with everyone. News of the meeting spreads quickly through the farm, and the animals gather eagerly to hear what Old Major has to say.
By Echoes of Lifeabout a year ago in Fiction
Collateral
Collateral | currently draft one is sitting pretty at twenty two chapters. Yet to expand further from multiple sides, which are currently dormant in the story arc. I also need add the court scenes and press packages. That’s going to take a wee bit of technical research. I know what I want to say but I want to sell it.
By Scott Catheryabout a year ago in Fiction
She Waits For the Key to Be Given. Content Warning.
There weren't many reasons to sleep anymore. Pure necessity, sure, but beyond that, it wasn't an enjoyable time. Cali didn't find sleep restful. Her little townhome didn't feel like safety anymore, but thanks to a mortgage, she was locked in. Her home was a series of half-done things; a half-eaten dinner that sat next to her spot on the couch. Her sink was full of half-washed dishes soaking the dried on mess. Half her bed was covered in half-folded laundry. Her phone was full of never-sent texts, half written and half-forgotten.
By Autumn Stewabout a year ago in Fiction
