Fantasy
Dodge Tanner’s Highly Unrecommended Travelogue - #94 Water Lions: A Masterclass in Tactical Regret
The day had started well enough. By which I mean, I had not yet been hunted by an aquatic apex predator. But, as fate (or my terrible decision-making skills) would have it, that peace was not to last.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
Dodge Tanner’s Highly Unrecommended Travelogue - #127: The Worst Salad Ever
With wide, dazzled eyes, Dodge stared at the small pile of glittering gemstones nestled in the heart of the jungle clearing, the map on which he was carefully charting landmarks forgotten in his grasp.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
Dodge vs. the Relentless Tyranny of Gainful Employment
Dodge loved his job. Sometimes. When it didn’t require effort, discomfort, or leaving his house. Teaching was where it was at! And by 'Teaching', Dodge meant letting people read his book and leave him alone. Unfortunately, the Wayfinders' Guild had a very different interpretation of what being a Wayfinder actually meant
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
When I Lost My Love
The wind felt colder that morning—not because of the season, but because of the silence you left behind. When I lost my love, time didn’t stop. That’s the cruel part—it kept moving, mocking me with every tick of the clock, dragging me further from the last time you said my name. We met at a bookstore, of all places. You reached for the same copy of The Little Prince, and our fingers brushed like the universe had planned it all. You smiled and let me take it, but returned a week later to tell me you'd gone back and bought your own copy—just so we’d have something in common. That’s who you were—quietly thoughtful, effortlessly kind. Falling in love with you felt like coming home after being lost in a storm. There was warmth in your voice, light in your eyes, and laughter that made even the worst days seem survivable. You didn’t just become part of my life—you became the reason for it. When the doctor called with the results, I remember squeezing your hand so tightly, hoping that if I held on hard enough, the truth would change. But cancer doesn’t negotiate. It doesn’t care how good a person you are, or how deeply you are loved. It just takes. The months that followed were both too long and too short. You fought with grace, never letting fear steal your smile. I watched you lose your hair, your strength, but never your spirit. Even on the worst days, you still found ways to make me laugh. You made me feel strong, when it was you who needed it most. I didn’t want to believe that goodbye was coming. I convinced myself every breath was another miracle, every sunrise another promise. But love doesn’t stop death—it only softens the landing. And on that final morning, as you lay in our bed with my hand pressed to your heart, I felt the world shift as yours stopped beating. Grief is a thief. It robs you of joy, of appetite, of sleep. It plays cruel tricks—making me think I heard your voice in the next room, or feel your hand in mine at night. I kept reaching for my phone to text you, only to remember there would be no reply. It broke me in ways I never thought a human could break. I wasn’t just mourning your death—I was mourning our future, the children we’d never raise, the trips we’d never take, the arguments we’d never laugh about afterward. People tried to help. They brought food, they shared memories, they told me time heals. But they didn’t see me crying in the shower so no one would hear. They didn’t know that some nights, I slept with your scarf just to pretend you were near. Time didn’t heal. It just made the pain quieter, more private. But somewhere in the silence, something else grew. I started writing letters to you, pouring my heart onto pages you’d never read. I visited the park where we had our first picnic, not to dwell, but to remember. Slowly, your love stopped feeling like a wound and started becoming a part of me again—not as pain, but as presence. You’re still here, in all the best parts of me. When I comfort a friend, when I see beauty in small things, when I hear The Little Prince quoted, I feel you. Loving you changed me. Losing you broke me. But remembering you is what puts me back together, piece by piece. I’ll never stop missing you. But I carry you with me, in everything I do. And somehow, that’s enough to keep going.
By Dr Gabriel about a year ago in Fiction
"The Long Way Around"
We sketch out our dreams in bold ink — a clear vision of what we want, where we’re headed, and how long it should take to get there. We imagine we’ll follow a clean path from point A to point B. Graduate by this age. Land a job by that one. Find love. Settle down. Climb the ladder. Check off each goal like a to-do list. But the truth is, life doesn’t care about our timelines. For many of us, things don’t go according to plan. We miss exits, make wrong turns, circle back, stall out, and sometimes start completely over. It’s easy to feel like we’re behind. Like we took too long. Like we somehow failed. But what if we didn’t fail at all? What if we were just taking the long way around? That phrase — “the long way around” — used to sound like a curse to me. Like a euphemism for being lost or late or lagging behind everyone else. But with time, I’ve come to see it differently. Now, I think of it as the scenic route. The path full of growth, unexpected detours, surprising lessons, and hidden beauty you wouldn’t see if you were speeding through. The long way around might not be efficient. But it can be extraordinary. My own journey has been anything but direct. I graduated college with a degree I don’t use. I changed careers twice. I fell in love, got my heart broken, and then fell in love again — in an entirely different way, when I wasn’t even looking. I’ve lived in places that didn’t feel like home until I left them. I’ve quit jobs without a plan, taken risks that didn’t pay off, and made decisions that scared the life out of me. And yet, somehow, all of those winding roads have brought me here — not where I thought I’d be, but somewhere meaningful all the same. Along the way, I’ve met people I never would have encountered if I’d stuck to the script. I’ve had conversations that shifted my perspective. I’ve experienced setbacks that cracked me open in ways that led to something better. It hasn’t always been easy. In fact, sometimes it’s been painful. But growth often hides inside those detours. There’s wisdom in the slow path. When we rush through life, focused only on getting to the “next” thing, we miss what’s happening now. We forget that value isn’t just in outcomes — it’s in the experience. The long way teaches patience. It invites reflection. It humbles us. It reminds us that we don’t need to have everything figured out to be moving in the right direction. I used to look at people who seemed to have it all together and feel like I was failing. The ones who climbed fast, hit milestones early, checked all the traditional boxes. But what I’ve learned is that everyone has their own version of the long way — even if it doesn’t look like mine. Some journeys wind quietly, inward. Others are loud and messy and public. There’s no one right way to live a life. One of the most liberating things I’ve realized is that there is no “behind” — not really. Time isn’t a race. Life doesn’t grade us on punctuality. It rewards presence, authenticity, and resilience. Taking the long way around has helped me define success for myself. It’s no longer about hitting benchmarks on someone else’s timeline. It’s about alignment — about living a life that feels honest and rich, even if it looks different from the one I once imagined. If you’re in a season where things feel slow or uncertain, I hope you give yourself grace. Maybe you’re not lost. Maybe you’re just in the middle of becoming. And maybe becoming takes time. Sometimes the long way offers what the shortcut never could: depth. Perspective. Strength. A chance to rebuild on your own terms. So take your time. Sit with the questions. Wander. Get curious. Pause when you need to. Start over if you must. The path might not be straight, but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. The best stories are rarely the neatest ones. They’re the ones full of pivots and plot twists, of valleys and summits and wide-open skies you never saw coming. The long way around might just be the path that leads you to the most unexpected, most meaningful version of your life. And when you look back, you might realize: it was never about getting there fast. It was about becoming someone worth arriving as.
By Kaleem Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
In the Arms of the Night
The next morning, sunlight streamed through Mira’s window, casting warm patterns on the floor. Yet, despite the brightness of day, her mind kept drifting back to the night before — that profound quiet, the comforting darkness, the stars watching silently like ancient guardians.
By Esther Sunabout a year ago in Fiction
