Fantasy
Embracing The Darkness Of Light
In Science, it is said that light is source of energy. But there was a world which has been surrounded by the eternal darkness from ages, there was a small village called "Dolcera" existed, the inhabitants of the village are unfamiliar with the concept of light, for them there is no morning and evening , the sky was always covered with the dark fog. The sun had vanished ages ago, leaving the land in perpetual night. In that gloomy realm, a girl name Lumina was leaving with her grandmother in that village of Dolcera, she was a young girl born with a mysterious glowing mark on her hand. Her radiant presence earned her both admiration and fear from her fellow villagers.
By Himanshu 88023 years ago in Fiction
Waiting for Another Train
He was right there, hanging tight for another train. He was so tired of the metros. Continuously late. Messy. Uproarious. Flying neurotic children moving for dollars. Awful performers. Vast beggars. Also, the purported declarations? An obfuscated, muttering wreck. He stood near the edge of the stage. Not extremely savvy. Individuals got pushed onto the tracks. It was occurring a great deal of late, however all he could imagine was his current go-to word: makes no difference either way. It was a good word. It covered everything. It was his birthday, so he was pondering his life, obviously. For example, it was. Things were going no place. There was no place to go. With time to spare. There were no new plans, no new methodology. It had halted abruptly, the enormous dream. He was conscious at this point. Recently had been the straw that broke the camel's back. It won't work out. Also, presently he didn't have the foggiest idea what to do, who to be. So he remained on the edge of the stage, grasping his folded paper pack, which contained a jar of lager. For what reason did he try and mess with the paper sack? Who in the world minded? When he saw somebody moving a joint on the A train. Some other time he got a brief look at a break pipe party on the M60 transport. So what was he, truly? Only a legacy. An old fellow and his brew, concealed in a paper sack. Who on earth minded? He took a drink and sat tight for the train. And afterward he heard her, behind him and to one side. She was on her telephone. "Hi?" And afterward shock — abrupt, soul-squashing shock as she shouted out, "What?" Her voice fell into a stopping cry. The most awful thing that might have happened had clearly simply occurred. He went to look. Her face was softening. Tears gushed down her cheeks. A man on her left side looked, then returned to his telephone. The lady to one side moved away. The remainder of the group remained in their air pockets and trusted that the scene will end. Try not to look. Try not to respond. Plus, each road show in New York was not entirely clear: was it genuine? Could it be said that she was genuine? Is it safe to say that she was nuts? Was it a put-on? Execution craftsmanship? Intoxicated? Drugs? The majority of the group normally decided not to be essential for the crowd. It was an intense room. In any case, he realized it was genuine. Some way or another. He looked, and afterward he found he was unable to turn away his eyes. He saw her breakdown, her breakdown, her tears. Then out of nowhere a train was there. It was hers yet not his. The entryways opened and she staggered on, crying wildly. He remained there, and afterward unexpectedly he felt something. Distress. Grief. Feel sorry for. For somebody other than himself. He needed to slow down and rest. He gazed as she sat down on the train. He realized he shouldn't, yet he did. Unexpectedly, he felt a sense of urgency to work on something for her. However, what? There was nothing he could do; she was an outsider. Also, that is something else, he thought. For what reason would it be advisable for me to mind? I have issues of my own! I couldn't help myself! Yet, he detected her urgency, and some way or another felt frantic himself. He needed to help her. Yet, how? He continued seeing her, trusting she would think back. Yet, consider the possibility that she did. What then, at that point? A grin? Approval? Despicable! Would it be a good idea for him to get on her train? His brain hustled. To do what? This is insane! He made a stride, yet the entryways were shutting. It was past the point of no return. He kept his eyes on her, watching her through the window, and unexpectedly, without understanding, he had assembled his hands, as though to supplicate. He was stunned. What was this? He didn't supplicate! However, perhaps she would see it, the signal, perhaps it would mean something. He continued to take a gander at her, however she didn't think back. And afterward, very much like that, she was rolling ceaselessly, then, at that point, gone, leaving him remaining there with his request and his lager, hanging tight for another train.
By Edris Post3 years ago in Fiction
Miguel And The Mytical Kapre
In the heart of a dense forest on a remote island in the Philippines, there lived a mythical being known as the Kapre. Standing tall and imposing, with eyes that glowed like embers and skin the color of moss-covered tree trunks, the Kapre was a creature of legends.
By Dennis Rodriguez3 years ago in Fiction
Victor The Vampire
In the heart of a hidden city, shrouded by centuries of mystery, lived a vampire named Victor. Unlike his nocturnal brethren, Victor had made a conscious choice to forsake his thirst for blood. He had seen enough suffering and pain caused by his kind and was determined not to add to the darkness that already engulfed the world.
By Edwin J. Gasque3 years ago in Fiction
Short fiction about to Counting on the Waves
He didn't see the lady remaining close to him until her face, white and round as the moon, was looking into the vehicle. Her silver hair, long and slender, moved in the breeze. Her hand moved around and around, motioning toward him to lower the window.
By Edris Post3 years ago in Fiction
"Eternal Embrace"
1. The Unexpected Encounter In a bustling city, amidst the chaos of everyday life, two strangers found their paths entwined by chance. Emma, a spirited young woman with a passion for photography, was on an assignment capturing the beauty of the urban landscape. Adam, a reserved writer seeking inspiration, crossed her path as he searched for his next story idea.
By Muazzam shahzad3 years ago in Fiction
Wicked Stench
In the bustling city of Serenborough, there lived a peculiar individual named Felix. He possessed a unique ability that set him apart from the rest of society ; he could smell the sin. The more sinful a person was, the worse they smelled to him. This extraordinary gift made Felix an outcast, for he could not bear to be in the presence of those who emitted an overwhelming stench of wickedness.
By Edwin J. Gasque3 years ago in Fiction
Short FictionSlice of LifeModern Love 5 min Finalist Jury
Long Way Home My mom let me know I ought to never date a person who didn't have his own vehicle. She said that it set some terrible trend, stirred up the lines among supplier and accommodated. There's nothing more polite than the front seat, is what she shared with me. She's forever been a piece outdated in like that. I sort of got what she was talking about. Who needs to be with the person who's continuously making an inquiry or two to get someone's truck? However at that point once more, I was somewhat frantic. My mom and her principles didn't consider the dating pool's desperate state. So I chose rather to never drive a person around anyplace. I won't be the driver. I met my delightful transport sweetheart at a local party underneath a haze of smoke. He had these grandiose rings on his fingers, the sort you purchase at an expressions and specialties fair on a Saturday morning. Wavy, unkempt hair. I won't ever be so dumb as to say it was head over heels love, yet I saw the potential. I'd take the rings off his fingers, remove the cigarette from his thin left hand, pin the wavy hair behind his noticeable ears. We'd be wizardry together. Perhaps transport sweetheart is somewhat of a misnomer. He didn't drive a transport or anything. I simply consider him my transport sweetheart since we hung out between objections, reviving live reports on his iPhone 5, knocking along inadequately cleared black-top. More than his sleep time propensities or social graces, I knew his side profile, his stance at transport stops. I noticed the distinction in the tone of his voice when he hollered to thank the driver before we left the vehicle. He generally paid for my toll. We took the transport to the lake for picnics, we took the transport to our school companions' evening gatherings, filling our glasses without any discussions of an assigned driver, cautious to resign before the last course of the evening. We killed the hour it took to take the transport over the scaffold into the city by concocting games:
By Edris Post3 years ago in Fiction
