Love
The Room No One Enters
The taint of death lingered, even after every physical remnant had been cleaned away. Floors could be scrubbed and disinfected, carpets replaced, tiles and boards scoured, bodies removed... but the feeling remained. An odd miasma of horror, shock and bone-deep grief, tinged with the knowledge that no human had set foot in the room in years.
By Natasja Rose10 months ago in Fiction
The Watchmaker’s Silence
The shop smelled of dust and old oil. It was a comfortable smell. It was the scent of patience. Elias sat behind his heavy wooden counter. He wore a thick leather apron that had seen better days. The walls around him were filled with clocks. There were tall clocks that stood on the floor like soldiers. There were small clocks that sat on shelves. There were round clocks and square clocks.
By Muhammad Adil10 months ago in Fiction
Falling Through Thin Ice
Lena inhaled sharply. It was a lie; it had always been a lie and always would be a lie. But she didn't care! She kissed her husband back deeply. Kissing him left her breathless, and knowing this might be their last kiss for who knows how long made it all the more precious to her.
By Call Me Les10 months ago in Fiction
The Keeper of Oakhaven Farm
His name was Jeremiah, though no one had ever called him that. He was just the Scarecrow, a sentinel of straw and old flannel, staked in the heart of the cornfield on Oakhaven Farm. His world was measured in sunrises and storms, in the planting and the harvest. But his purpose, he had come to understand, was far greater than scaring off crows. It was to watch over the family in the white farmhouse.
By Habibullah10 months ago in Fiction
The Golden Bloom
For as long as anyone in the small town of Oakhaven could remember, the Harvest Festival float competition had been a cold war between two factions. On one side was Liam, the artistic, free-spirited owner of the local pottery studio. His floats were bursts of whimsical beauty, all flowing lines and abstract shapes that critics called "ahead of their time" and others called "a bit much."
By Habibullah10 months ago in Fiction
The Time the Land Forgot My Voice
The Time the Land Forgot My Voice. There was a time, far back in the quiet stretch of memory, when the land still carried my voice as though it were a part of its own heartbeat. I can almost feel it if I close my eyes long enough. A world where the fields breathed kindly, where the skies were steady, where the wind arrived like an old friend and not a warning. The seasons followed gentle paths back then, never rushing forward, never pushing too hard. They simply moved in harmony with the people who lived beneath them.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 10 months ago in Fiction
The Letters He Never Sent. AI-Generated.
Samuel Graves had not opened the study room in three years. Dust blanketed the shelves like tired snow; the curtains remained frozen in place, trapping darkness inside the walls. The house itself seemed to breathe differently when he stood at the doorway — as if recognizing him with a mixture of relief and sorrow.
By shakir hamid10 months ago in Fiction
The Last Song in the Snow. AI-Generated.
Anton Markovic was known only by the sound of his violin. He played every evening at the frozen train station under the city bridge, where footsteps echoed like ghosts and the cold bit the bones of anyone foolish enough to linger.
By shakir hamid10 months ago in Fiction
The Christmas Angel
The Christmas Angel Every year the town waits for Christmas, but for me it has always been something more than lights or gifts. It is the quiet that falls over the evening streets, the way the snow makes the world feel soft and patient, and the feeling that someone is watching over us. That someone has a name I cannot speak aloud, yet every Christmas I feel their presence. I call it the Christmas angel.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 10 months ago in Fiction
