Mystery
To The Dead We Owe the Truth. Content Warning.
“We should be considerate to the living; to the dead we owe only the truth. " - Voltaire. I loved my Gran. I loved visiting her and wouldn't stop. But since her dementia had taken its vice-like grip. Since that evil disease had squeezed out everything that made her spectacular, it was harder.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
Rain That Never Ends
It had been raining for five years. Not a day, not an hour of silence from the sky. The people of Maravelle had long stopped waiting for the sun. The old roads were rivers now, and the hills were islands. Children learned to swim before they learned to walk. Markets floated on barrels and bamboo rafts, schools drifted in circles tethered to the remains of clock towers, and crops grew in hanging gardens on rooftops.
By Farooq Hashmiabout a year ago in Fiction
The Elimination Service
The visitor should never have been allowed past the reception desk. Mr. Ferguson only received guests by prior appointment, except for those with matters of extreme importance. Ferguson was a man who valued time as gold. But his secretary, Miss Dale, was young and impressionable. The visitor — an elderly, dignified man dressed in an expensive suit and leaning on a cane — looked every bit the part of someone important. Assuming he must be, Miss Dale ushered him straight into Ferguson’s office.
By Izabella Johnsonabout a year ago in Fiction
Those Who Survived the Flames
On the narrow street beside the old store in the center of the village stood a grand house — the home of Sotimkhon, the respected elder of Khurmoli village. Sotimkhon was a tall, broad-shouldered man, always wearing a waistcoat, a doppi on his head, and leather slippers on his feet. At every wedding or community gathering, he was the one to lead the people — firm, wise, and commanding.
By Izabella Johnsonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Night the Sky Caught Fire
The Night the Sky Caught Fire It began with whispers carried through small towns and quiet cities. People spoke of a light that would tear across the heavens, brighter than any star we had ever known. The scientists called it Comet C 2025 41, but to most it became the Fire Tail, a name that felt older, something our ancestors might have whispered when the world was still young. On October twenty first, they said, it would come close enough to see the ice melt from its skin, close enough to make the night burn.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk about a year ago in Fiction
