Mystery
The Gemstone Search
It wasn’t a lie, or then again, maybe it was. Could I actually be so gullible as to believe such a thing really existed when my common sense told me it was totally illogical. Perhaps if I hadn’t listened to all those stories about pirate treasures and quests for lost cities or the holy grail, I would have dismissed this story as one more bogus pipe dream. Unfortunately, that wasn’t what happened.
By Mark Gagnonabout a year ago in Fiction
Sympathy and Cake. Top Story - September 2025.
Only she remembered what happened on the wedding day. But she was just a cat. It was their wedding, but they allowed her to be a part of it. Humiliating in its own way, but to have the ceremony so near the home was quite charming and peaceful. And it was a beautiful day…at first.
By Kendall Defoe about a year ago in Fiction
With a Wig
Gorzon Billingham, six foot seven inches of sturdy masculinity exited the bus. He wore a twelve thousand dollar custom made suit of black and crimson. It matched the Delaware Founders colors. His lankiness didn’t stick out amongst the rest of the team who had heights slightly shorter or his two centers who both stood at seven feet tall. The stop after being on the road landed him in the home city of Wilmington, Delaware to play the Baltimore Crabbers. The rest of the team left the vehicle with just as much vim and intent as Billingham.
By Skyler Saundersabout a year ago in Fiction
The Whispering Alley
M Mehran In the heart of Maplewood, a quiet town with cobblestone streets and flickering lamplights, there was an alley that everyone avoided. Locals called it “Whispering Alley,” not because of the wind or the rustling leaves, but because of the strange murmurs people claimed to hear when walking through it at night. Sophie Reynolds had grown up in Maplewood, and she had always been curious. While other children ran past the alley on their way home, she paused at its entrance, staring at the shadows dancing along the walls. Her grandmother had warned her countless times: “Some doors are meant to stay closed.” But Sophie had a way of following curiosity wherever it led. It was a rainy evening when she finally decided to step into the alley. The rain made the cobblestones slippery, and the air smelled of damp earth and old stone. She held her lantern high, illuminating the narrow path. At first, there was silence. Then, faintly, she heard it: a soft, almost musical whisper. “Hello?” Sophie called, her voice trembling. No answer. She continued forward. The whispers grew clearer, but still incomprehensible, as if speaking in a language she almost recognized but couldn’t understand. Halfway down the alley, Sophie noticed something strange. A small door, no taller than four feet, carved into the brick wall. It hadn’t been there before—or at least she didn’t remember it. The door was painted deep green, and a tiny brass knocker shaped like a crescent moon gleamed in the lantern light. Her heart pounded, but curiosity won over fear. Sophie lifted the knocker and tapped. The whispering stopped. For a moment, there was nothing but silence, broken only by the patter of rain. Then the door creaked open on its own. Inside was not darkness, as she expected, but a small room glowing with golden light. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books of every size and color. In the center, a table bore an assortment of quills, parchment, and inkpots. And standing behind it was a figure cloaked in a hooded robe, face hidden. “Welcome, Sophie,” the figure said. The voice was soft but carried a strange authority. “We’ve been waiting for you.” “I… who are you?” Sophie asked, stepping inside. “We are the Keepers of Stories,” the figure replied. “This alley is a gateway to the stories that never reach the world. Every whisper you hear is a tale seeking a listener, a story longing to be told.” Sophie glanced around, mesmerized by the stacks of books, some floating gently in the air, pages fluttering as if breathing. “Why me?” she whispered. “Because you listen,” the figure answered. “You hear what others ignore. You see what others overlook. The world needs storytellers like you, to carry these tales beyond the alley.” For what felt like hours, Sophie explored the room. She discovered stories of forgotten heroes, cities that floated in the clouds, creatures made entirely of light, and kingdoms hidden beneath oceans. Some stories were joyful, others sorrowful. Each had a unique rhythm, a heartbeat she could almost feel. The Keepers handed her a small, leather-bound notebook. “Take this,” they said. “Write what you see, what you hear. Let the stories live in the world.” Sophie nodded, feeling the weight of the responsibility. She understood that stories were not just entertainment—they were vessels of memory, emotion, and wisdom. Each tale she wrote could inspire, teach, or comfort someone she would never meet. When she stepped out of Whispering Alley, the rain had stopped, and the cobblestones glistened under the lamplights. The alley seemed ordinary again, silent and unassuming, as if nothing had happened. But Sophie knew better. Over the following months, she poured herself into writing. She shared the stories online, in newspapers, and at local readings. People were captivated by the vivid worlds, the characters who seemed to breathe off the page. Letters poured in from readers, thanking her for tales that moved them, gave them hope, or made them smile. Yet, the alley remained a secret between her and the Keepers. No one else could see the door, no matter how hard they tried. Sophie understood that some magic was meant to be discovered one person at a time. Years later, as she sat in her study surrounded by published books, Sophie realized that Whispering Alley had given her more than stories—it had given her purpose. She had become a guardian of voices, a bridge between the hidden tales of the world and the hearts of readers. And sometimes, when the night was quiet and the wind carried a faint melody, Sophie thought she could hear the alley whispering again. Not in fear, but in welcome, as if inviting her to continue the endless journey of listening, writing, and sharing the magic of stories. Because in Maplewood, and perhaps in the world beyond, stories never truly vanish—they wait. And for those brave enough to follow the whispers, a universe of wonder unfolds.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Promise. AI-Generated.
In a cobbled corner of Eldergate, where the air always smelled faintly of brass and lavender, stood a tiny clock shop called Morrow & Ticks. It was tucked between a crumbling bookshop and a florist that only sold blue flowers. Most people passed it by without a second glance. But those who entered often left… changed.
By MUHAMMAD AIZAZabout a year ago in Fiction
Shadows on the Edge of Tomorrow
The train station was almost empty, except for a few scattered travelers dragging their suitcases across the cold concrete floor. The air smelled faintly of rain, and the giant clock above the platform ticked louder than usual, marking each second like a reminder that time was both a gift and a thief.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Fiction
Behind the Locked Door — A Story of Secrets and Second Chances
The house had been empty for nearly three years when Ayaan returned. It stood at the edge of the small town like a shadow of its former self—paint peeling, shutters hanging loose, garden overgrown. To most people, it was just another abandoned property. But to Ayaan, it was home. Or at least, it had been once.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Fiction
Yixin Yixuan
ZBrush Sculpt - See more on IG or Artstation; Links below In a world divided by conflict and silent defiance, Yixin Yixuan travels as a seeker of peace. After losing her parents to violence and growing up with a warrior couple in the mountains, she stands for resilience and gentle strength. Her journey takes her from loss to legend, as she finds friends and shows a fractured world that sometimes the greatest victories come without fighting.
By Neshzivne Dadirriabout a year ago in Fiction
The Curse of the Sphinx: The Secret of the Dark Caves. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
On a quiet moonlit night, the streets of Giza were almost empty except for a cool breeze that caressed the face of Sam, an archaeology student with a passion for myths. Little did he know that night would change his life forever. He usually visited the Pyramids at night to sketch and write his notes, but this time, something was different. Standing in front of the Sphinx, he glimpsed a strange light seeping from between its stone claws. It seemed like a flicker of light that faded and reappeared. Unable to resist his curiosity, Sam advanced cautiously. When he touched the rock with his hand, the ground shook beneath his feet and a dark gap opened, leading to an ancient crypt. He hesitated for a moment, but his inner voice whispered, "This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity." He leaped inside, finding himself in a narrow passageway covered in mysterious pharaonic inscriptions, depicting battles between kings and creatures he had never seen before. With each step, he heard the echo of his breathing mingling with distant sounds, like whispers emerging from deep within the stone. He turned on his small flashlight, and suddenly something moved in the darkness. Glowing red eyes appeared between the cracks, then quickly disappeared. His heart trembled, but he continued walking. A few minutes later, he reached a huge hall, centered on a broken obelisk, surrounded by four statues of ancient gods, all looking toward the center of the hall, where a massive stone sarcophagus lay. He approached slowly, but suddenly the passage behind him closed with a resounding clang, and the place was plunged into a heavy silence. Sam tried to open the sarcophagus, and as soon as he touched it, the inscriptions on the walls trembled and a mysterious light emanated from them. A dark spirit emerged from the darkness in a plume of black smoke, coiling around the hall and laughing with a frightening voice. He heard it say, "You have awakened the curse of the Sphinx... You will not leave here except in blood!" Sam recoiled, trying to retreat, but the ground split beneath his feet, and he fell into another, deeper crypt. He found himself in a corridor filled with skeletons, the remains of adventurers who had tried to reach the secret before him. Among the skulls, an ancient book covered in blood gleamed. He trembled and picked it up. On its cover was an inscription: "The Book of the Guardian." He opened the pages, revealing glowing words in ancient Egyptian. Suddenly, the ghost of a priest, dressed in white and wielding a golden staff, appeared before him. He said, "If you want to survive, you must confront the Guardian. Recite the spell when the time comes, or you will join those who came before you." Before he could ask anything, the priest disappeared. Then a terrifying voice echoed from the darkness, and the ground began to shake. From the end of the corridor emerged a massive creature: its body was a lion's, its head resembled a human's, but distorted, and its eyes glowed bloodshot. It was the Guardian of the Catacombs. Sam ran down the corridors, pursued by the creature with a deafening roar. Every wall he passed moved as if it wanted to crush him. He fell to the ground, the book falling beside him, and he remembered the priest's words. He quickly picked it up and began reading the incantation in a trembling voice: "O Guardian Spirit, return to your eternal sleep, and close the damned door..." As he read, the creature slowed down, but suddenly it leaped at him, nearly tearing him apart with its claws. At the last moment, Sam shouted at the top of his lungs and finished the last words. Powerful golden rays shot out from the book, enveloping the creature, and it let out a thunderous scream before fading into nothingness. Sam fell to the ground, exhausted, as the book closed by itself. He heard the priest's voice again, whispering, "You have passed the test, but beware... the catacombs are only opened to those chosen by the curse." Suddenly, the light returned, and the walls began to swirl around him. Then, as if nothing had happened, he found himself emerging from the gap beneath the Sphinx. Dawn was breaking, and the air was cold. Sam looked behind him, but there was no sign of the catacombs, only silent rock. He grabbed the book, but it vanished as if it had never existed. All that remained was a small inscription in the sand written in blood: "The game is not over yet."
By ✒️ Journey with the Pen ✒️about a year ago in Fiction
