Mystery
Death or Love. Content Warning.
Under the burning twilight of a kingdom falling into chaos, a lone warrior named Ean strode through a scarred battlefield. His eyes, filled with fierce resolve, mirrored the raw intensity of his spirit—a spirit that had chosen the honorable death of fighting for a dream over the lingering pain of love.
By Edge Alexanderabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Cup of Tea
The kettle whistled gently, its familiar song filling the tiny kitchen. It was 6:45 a.m., just as it had been every morning for the last thirty-two years. Samuel stood by the counter, waiting. He was no longer the boy who used to sit cross-legged at the kitchen table, legs too short to touch the floor, watching his mother move through her morning routine like a silent symphony. He was a man now—tall, broad-shouldered, with grey already whispering into his beard. But in this kitchen, in this moment, he felt like a boy again. His mother, Evelyn, sat at the table wrapped in her favorite cardigan, hands resting on the floral-printed tablecloth she’d sewn herself when Samuel was ten. Time had not been kind to her body, but her eyes—those deep hazel pools—still held the same warmth, the same unspoken strength. “Is it ready?” she asked, voice soft and brittle like dried leaves. Samuel nodded and poured two cups. The scent of chamomile filled the air, comforting and nostalgic. He placed one cup in front of her, and one in front of himself. They sat in silence, the kind that only years of shared life could build. “You remember when we used to drink tea and read poems on Sundays?” she asked, a wistful smile tugging at her lips. He nodded, throat tight. “You always chose the sad ones.” “Sad poems are the most honest,” she said. “They don’t try to pretend.” He watched her cradle the cup in both hands, as if it were something sacred. His chest ached. Not from sadness alone, but from the weight of what he hadn’t said yet. She knew, of course. Mothers always do. “You’re leaving tomorrow,” she said, not as a question. He nodded again. “The job in New York… it’s everything I worked for.” She looked at him with so much pride it nearly crushed him. “You deserve it, Sam. You’ve always deserved more than this little town could offer.” He reached for her hand. It was thinner now, skin paper-like, veins like blue rivers. But it was the same hand that had wiped his tears, held him through fevers, and taught him how to hold a pencil. “I just hate the thought of you being alone,” he whispered. “I’m not afraid of being alone,” she replied. “I’m afraid you’ll forget the sound of my voice.” “I never could.” She smiled again, though her eyes welled with tears. “Promise me something, Sam.” “Anything.” “No matter how busy life gets, no matter how far you go—make a cup of tea once in a while. Sit down. And remember me.” He swallowed hard, nodding. “I promise.” They sat there for a long time, sipping slowly, letting memory wrap itself around them like a warm blanket. Outside, the world stirred. But inside, time stood still. That evening, he packed the last of his boxes. She helped where she could, folding a sweater, labeling a book. They didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to. The next morning, he hugged her tighter than he ever had. Her small frame pressed into his chest, her breath warm against his neck. “I love you, Mom.” “I love you more, my boy.” He left, heart heavy but full. Years passed. New York was everything he’d hoped—and nothing like he’d imagined. Success came, accolades followed, and the pace of life drowned out the quiet rituals of the past. But every Sunday morning, without fail, he boiled water. He poured a single cup of chamomile tea. And he sat by the window, eyes closed, listening. For her voice in the quiet. For her love in the steam. And in those moments, she was never far.
By Dr Gabriel about a year ago in Fiction
The Pink Heart in the Cage: Escaping Society’s Expectations
The morning sun spilled over Melbourne’s skyline, painting the Yarra River in hues of rose and gold. Zara stood on her balcony, a chipped mug of coffee in hand, her eyes tracing the city’s pulse. At 26, she was a graphic designer at a sleek advertising firm, her days filled with client briefs and tight deadlines. Her apartment was a Pinterest board come to life—minimalist furniture, pastel cushions, a vision board pinned with quotes about “hustle” and “success.” But inside her chest, a pink heart beat wildly, trapped in a cage of expectations she hadn’t built but felt bound to. Today, that heart was stirring, demanding to be let out.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
"Signed, Jason Riley – From the End of Time"
Short Description: When physicist Jason Riley receives a mysterious box with no sender, he unknowingly unlocks a chain of events that bends time, reality, and identity. But some knowledge demands a price — and Jason’s about to pay it.
By Ahmed Abdeenabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Tarabić Prophets Predicted: The 'Yellow Race' Will Conquer the World – Are We Ready for That Future?"
Deep in the heart of the Balkans, in the small village of Donja Pecka, lies a place surrounded by legends and mysteries. This village, near the town of Bijelo Polje in Montenegro, is known for the Tarabić family, whose prophecies have attracted great attention across the region. The brothers Mitar, Risto, and Sekula Tarabić, who lived in the 19th and early 20th centuries, left behind unusual records and traditions about future events, which many considered remarkably accurate and astonishing.
By Beyond Knownabout a year ago in Fiction
To the Edge and Back Again: A Drive Through Darkness
The rain came down in sheets, blurring the world beyond the windshield. Ethan gripped the steering wheel of his old Toyota, the wipers struggling to keep up. It was just past midnight, and the highway stretched ahead, a slick ribbon of asphalt cutting through the Oregon wilderness. At 27, Ethan was a delivery driver, working nights to pay off student loans for a degree he wasn’t using. His life felt like this road—endless, directionless, and shrouded in a storm he couldn’t outrun. Tonight, though, the darkness would teach him something about survival, something he’d carry long after the rain stopped.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
Fear, Alone: The Quiet Words That Haunt Us
The morning was soft, the kind of dawn that draped the world in a hush, as if the sun itself was hesitant to rise. Clara sat on the edge of her bed, her bare feet grazing the cold hardwood floor. Her apartment was small, a one-bedroom in a quiet corner of Portland, where the walls were thin enough to hear her neighbor’s coffee maker hiss each morning. At 29, Clara was a poet, or at least she had been, before the words stopped coming. Now, she was a barista, a listener, a keeper of secrets—her own and others’. The quiet words, fear and alone, lived in her chest, heavy as stones, whispering truths she wasn’t ready to face.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
Midnight Whispers
They say not to knock on the witch’s door past midnight—unless you’re prepared to give something up. In the quiet village of Bellwick, nestled between wilted forests and forgotten hills, everyone knew of the witch named Circe. She wore velvet like royalty and lilac like dusk. Her cats, Mischief and Moonpaw, were the kind that stared too long and blinked too little. They say her eyes changed color depending on what you were hiding—and her lips curled when someone told a lie.
By Tsume's talesabout a year ago in Fiction
Fell Upon Creased Palms
“ You may have mastered something . You’ve learned to sculpt the perfect face for the world’s adoration. It broke sweety. A while ago actually .” Almon says as he paces carefully back and forth in Navien’s view. He throws a bucket of stinging ice water on Navien’s sleeping face. The sting where your head is held still by a numbing ache. Navien gains consciousness startled and uneasy with frantic anxiety. He was never seen so out of character which intrigues Almon merely enough to pause and observe his new mannerisms. Minutes of silence and disappointment disconnect the two.
By Brandi blue about a year ago in Fiction
