Mystery
At 40, I Finally Learned How to Be Happy
Turning 40 was a revelation. For years, I chased happiness like it was a destination—something I’d find once I had the perfect job, relationship, or bank balance. But when I hit 40, something shifted. I stopped running and started embracing a quieter, deeper kind of joy. Happiness, I learned, isn’t about getting everything right; it’s about redefining what matters. Here’s what changed to make 40 the year I finally cracked the code on being happy.
By David Andrews2 years ago in Fiction
The Choice of the Soul. Content Warning.
Dr. Lynsey Aldred was the first person to map the soul. Not metaphorically, literally. Through a miracle of quantum neurology and deep-conscious resonance imaging, she traced what she called the Soul's Echo Vector. A measurable wave signature that escapes the brain at the moment of death. It was no more than a flicker at first, a blip across the screens. But, Lynsey followed it through data, repetition, pattern, and noise.
By Daniel Millington2 years ago in Fiction
The Last Train to Yesterday: A Journey to Reverse Time
Rohan stood on the deserted platform, the fog curling around his feet like ghostly whispers. His watch read 11:57 PM, and the clock above the ticket booth ticked loudly in the silence. He glanced at the old, rusted sign that read Platform 9¾ - The Last Train to Yesterday. It had always been a myth, a story his grandfather used to tell him, but here it was, standing before him in all its eerie glory. He had heard the stories: a train that only appeared once every ten years, at midnight, and if you boarded it, you could go back to one specific day in your life. Rohan knew exactly where he wanted to go—two years back, to the night of the accident that had changed everything.
By Masih Ullah2 years ago in Fiction
"The Great Goat Escape of Maple Street"
It all started on an otherwise normal Saturday morning on Maple Street. Birds chirped, sprinklers hissed, and Mr. Jenkins, in his trademark Hawaiian shirt and unmatched socks, was out trimming his overgrown rosebush like he was Edward Scissorhands after five espressos. But then came the goat. No one knew where it came from. One moment, everything was quiet, and the next—BAAAAAA—a goat with one lazy eye and a mischievous grin came trotting down the street like it owned the neighborhood. Mrs. Carmichael screamed so loud her cat fainted. The goat stopped, blinked slowly, and then proceeded to eat the "For Sale" sign on the Thompson's lawn. Mr. Thompson came out, saw the goat, and muttered, "Not again," before walking back inside to retrieve a broom like he was about to duel the creature. Now, a sane goat might be scared off by a broom. Not this one. It took it as a challenge. The moment Mr. Thompson approached, the goat lowered its head and charged—not at him, but at the inflatable pool flamingo in their yard, launching it three feet into the air like it was the goat's lifelong enemy. By now, a crowd had gathered. Kids cheered. Adults gawked. Old man Murray pulled out his ancient camcorder and shouted, “This is going on YouTube!” even though no one had the heart to tell him it wasn’t 2008. Then came little Timmy. Timmy, age seven, believed he could talk to animals ever since he watched Dr. Dolittle twice in a row. He stepped forward, arms outstretched, and said, “I got this.” The crowd parted like he was Moses. He walked up to the goat, knelt, and whispered, “We come in peace.” The goat responded by licking his forehead and stealing his sandwich. Chaos followed. The goat took off like a rocket, sandwich still dangling from its mouth, and the entire neighborhood followed. Mr. Jenkins ran with garden shears. Mrs. Carmichael wielded a mop. The Thompson twins rode scooters like bounty hunters. The goat was fast. It weaved through backyards, knocked over a lemonade stand (the lemonades were fine, but the cookies didn’t make it), and somehow ended up inside the Wilsons’ garage, where it discovered rollerblades. Yes, rollerblades. No one is sure how it got them on, but by the time the neighborhood caught up, the goat was skating in circles, baa-ing in what could only be interpreted as mockery. One of the twins tried to record it, but he dropped his phone in a birdbath. Just when all hope seemed lost, Grandma Edna appeared. Edna was 92, wore a tracksuit with glittery flamingos, and had zero tolerance for nonsense. She came out with a banana and a firm stare. The goat stopped. Stared. And slowly rollerbladed over. She handed it the banana. It blinked. Sniffed it. Then sat. The crowd gasped. Edna simply said, “I raised seven children and two husbands. You think I can’t handle a goat?” And that was that. Animal control showed up an hour later, confused and slightly terrified. They took the goat away, who looked genuinely disappointed, like it had just started having fun. They said it had escaped from a petting zoo three towns over, apparently bored of eating hay and being hugged by toddlers. By the next day, the story made local news. The headline read: "Rollerblading Goat Causes Mayhem, Befriends Grandma." And on Monday, Mr. Jenkins started putting up signs: “Goat CrossingCrossing—You’ve Been Warned.”
By Love of mom2 years ago in Fiction
Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment
It was a cold evening when Ravi walked down the narrow alley behind the market. The streetlamps flickered weakly above him, casting long shadows on the cracked pavement. His hands were shaking—not from the cold, but from what he was about to do.
By Manatwal Khan2 years ago in Fiction
Little House in the Woods
In reading the old journal that was on the shelf you start to look around. The journal is quite descriptive, and the first page describes the big rocks in the front yard. They are the tombstones of the couple that lived here. They were not young, but not old either. Who were they?
By Mark Graham2 years ago in Fiction
A Little Cabin
What a cute little house. I wonder who lives there. Let's knock on the door. The door creaks open as I knock. All it is, is one room with an old table and some shelves. There's a book on the shelf. I pick it up and begin to read. It's a journal of sorts.
By Mark Graham2 years ago in Fiction
The Day the Sky Forgot to Be Blue: A Story About Hope in a Hopeless World . AI-Generated.
There was a day the sky forgot how to be blue. No one noticed at first. The news didn’t report it. Scientists didn’t measure it. Children still colored the sky with cerulean crayons, and parents still told them to wear sunscreen. But little by little, the color faded.
By Muhammad Sohail2 years ago in Fiction
The Silence Between the Pines
The sun was gone. Not just hidden behind clouds or sinking beyond the ridge - but gone, swallowed by a sky so dark and deep, it felt like falling. Lily tightened her grip on the Swiss Army knife. It wasn't much, but it was the only tool she had left.
By HazelnutLattea2 years ago in Fiction
