Mystery

The Girl Who Waited by the Sea
The sea was a thief. It stole things from the land and held them hostage in its fathomless depths. But for Elara, it had stolen a future. Every day for twenty years, she walked down the winding path to the jagged cliffs overlooking the ocean. The townspeople of Port Caelum called her "the girl who waited," a title that had long since replaced her name. Her ritual was as predictable as the tides: she would arrive just before sunset, a solitary figure etched against the dramatic sky, and watch the waves for a sail that would never come.
By Express Laneabout a year ago in Fiction
Cast No Shadow
The road takes all. She laid atop him, thigh against thigh, breath heavy on his neck. The first light of morning registered through the window slats, painting the rough and worn floorboards a dazzlingly soft orange. The movements, the breaths, all performative at best: hers for the coin in the offing, his because his thoughts were far from the dingy rented bedroom. Liquor, women, God–all failed to draw his mind away from the horizon.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction
City?
‘Who ever heard of sloe berries with eyes riding a sheep to the city?’ Said David with a posh accent. His upper lip barely leaving the lower, a closeted power under his tongue as it projected into Thorn's ear.
By Caitlin Charltonabout a year ago in Fiction
A Satirical Sword: Unpacking the Literary and Cultural Impact of R.F. Kuang's Yellowface
In the dynamic landscape of modern publishing, few novels have ignited as fierce a debate or captured the zeitgeist as effectively as R.F. Kuang’s Yellowface. Released in 2023, the book is a sharp, biting satire of the publishing industry, identity politics, and the relentless churn of social media. More than just a thriller, it’s a literary-cultural bomb, meticulously crafted to provoke and expose the hypocrisies of an industry that often commodifies and exploits the very voices it claims to champion.
By Kim Jonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library of Unwritten Letters
The Library of Unwritten Letters BY (MR.SAIF) Ethan Marlowe had been living by himself for three years. Since the passing of his wife Claire, the days had merged into a dull, unvarying flow. He continued to hold onto her slippers near the bed, her beloved mug in the cupboard, as though she could come back. Yet sorrow is peculiar—it propels you forward even when you sense you've ceased to exist.
By MUHAMMAD SAIFabout a year ago in Fiction
The Painter of Forgotten Faces
The Painter of Forgotten Faces BY (MR.SAIF) Julian Hale had consistently been a regular painter. His small apartment had the scent of turpentine and old coffee, while his paintings went largely unnoticed by others. He created depictions of street life, still lifes, and sometimes portraits for a modest fee. However, no gallery was interested in his art, and no critic lauded him.
By MUHAMMAD SAIFabout a year ago in Fiction
The Stranger Who Knew My Name. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
I still remember the evening it all began. It was early autumn, the kind of night when the air feels crisp, and the streets glow faintly under the flicker of old street lamps. I had just left the bookstore, clutching a novel I had been waiting to read, when I felt the distinct sensation of being watched.
By Tariq Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Library at the End of the World. AI-Generated.
The year was 2147, and words had been outlawed. Screens ruled the world now—short bursts of images, endless noise, hollow distractions. Books had been burned decades ago during the Silence Act, when the ruling Council declared that written stories were dangerous. They said books gave people “too much memory and too much imagination.”
By MUHAMMAD SAIFabout a year ago in Fiction
The Painter of Forgotten Dreams. AI-Generated.
Adrian Hale was a painter who had long stopped believing in himself. His canvases collected dust in a small attic studio, ignored by galleries and unseen by the world. Once, he had painted with fire in his soul, chasing dreams of capturing emotions too fragile for words. Now, his brushes lay idle, their bristles stiff, his hands too tired to chase inspiration.
By MUHAMMAD SAIFabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library of Forgotten Sounds
Thomas had always loved the quiet corners of the library. As the town’s archivist, he spent most of his days surrounded by brittle newspapers, parish records, and maps that no one had touched in decades. The work was steady and unremarkable, which suited him fine.
By arsalan ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Song Beneath the Stars. Content Warning.
Seren had always known she was the last. The Observatory’s glass dome groaned beneath the winds that scoured the dead Earth, but she barely noticed anymore. The hum of the machines was her lullaby, the stars her only companions. When the world fell silent decades ago, the radio towers had gone dark. She had been a child then, too young to grasp the word extinction, but old enough to remember what silence felt like after the voices vanished. Now, she lived inside that silence. Every night she climbed the spiral stair to the Observatory’s roof, wrapped herself in her father’s coat, and whispered the stars’ names as if they were prayers: Sirius, Vega, Altair, Deneb… Reciting them felt like calling ghosts back into existence. It was on one such night, with her breath crystallizing in the air, that she heard it. Not the wind. Not the groan of steel. Music. Faint, broken, buried in the static of her battered receiver. A voice—no, not a voice, but something like one—singing. Notes stretched like threads of light across the void. Her hands shook as she turned the dials, clinging to the sound. For the first time in years, she wasn’t alone. --- The song returned the next night. And the night after that. Seren began to live for it. She would wait in trembling silence until the melody slid once more through the static. It was in no language she knew, yet emotion poured from every note. Longing. Sorrow. Beauty persisting beyond ruin. She answered. Her father had taught her the piano before the world ended. The Observatory’s instrument was cracked and stiff, but her fingers remembered. She played back through the transmitter—fragments of Chopin, Debussy, lullabies her mother once sang. She poured herself into the keys, praying something, someone, was listening. And always, the song returned. --- Weeks blurred into months. Seren pieced together fragments, learning patterns as though she were being taught a language built from music. She dreamed of the voice, of the being who sang back to her. One night, the melody changed. It pulsed, insistent, repeating a sequence of rising and falling notes. A message. She mapped the pattern against the stars and froze. It pointed toward Orion’s belt, where clouds of gas shimmered like spilled ink. It’s telling me where to go. --- The Observatory had never been meant for travel, but the old escape shuttle buried beneath it still held promise. Her father had once forbidden her from touching it, saying it was only for the end. Perhaps, she thought, this is the end—or the beginning. She worked tirelessly, scavenging, repairing, teaching herself from brittle manuals. Her hands bled. Her body weakened. But the song drove her forward. When at last the shuttle roared to life, she strapped herself in, embracing her father's coat still around her shoulders to not feel lonely. The engines screamed, and the horizon fell away. Grey deserts, broken oceans, forgotten cities shrank behind her, and the black sea of space opened its arms. Seren wept. she wept screams of hope and happiness.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Secret Agent Jonson's File Finding Mission
A beautiful day displayed fresh green glistening turf qualities, welcoming Special Agent Jonson arriving from his secretive show.
By Marc OBrienabout a year ago in Fiction