Mystery

Selections from the Grand Bazaar
Missy was ecstatic. She finally had enough cash to get her hair trimmed and maybe even enhanced with some synthhair product if she could sweet-talk the stylist. She’d worked fifteen-hour days at the Buzzway coffee shop for a month straight to afford it, and it was finally time to get her style where she wanted it to be.
By R.R. Stephenson2 years ago in Fiction
Fox Hunt; Chapter 10
By the time I reach the next town I'm heading for, the sun has reached its peak. I study the town as I approach. It's small, smaller than the town I grew up in. I can see straight through it. In a town like this, I'm bound to be noticed. My jaw tightens in annoyance. This is not a town I want to go through. I'm sure to be noticed. Yet I don't have a choice. I had skipped getting supplies in the last town. After talking with that militiaman, I hadn't dared to stay longer than necessary. Of course, not getting supplies hadn't proved too problematic the first two days, but now I needed the extra supplies I should have gotten back in the last town. Hopefully, I was just being paranoid and they weren’t looking for me.
By Katarzyna Crevan2 years ago in Fiction
When the Heads Begin to Roll
A soft thud. That was what I heard that day, when the executioners axe fell upon my father’s head. As this happened, all I could do was stand there and watch. The feeling of impotence was so overwhelming that I could barely look at him as his head was picked up by the man holding the axe and it was raised above him, showing the crowd what they came here to see. The unjust beheading of a man. That man being my father.
By Aryan Uzcategui2 years ago in Fiction
Selections from the Grand Bazaar
“Now, don’t talk when we meet these guys. If you get flatlined out here, no way I’m sticking around to clean up the bits.” Chuck said it with such nonchalance that Blanco almost had to stop himself from asking if he was serious.
By R.R. Stephenson2 years ago in Fiction
The Last Letter
The ancient oak tree stood firm at the meadow's edge, its branches reaching out like the hands of an old friend. Eleanor sat in its shade, shaking a yellowed envelope. The handwriting was unmistakable—stylish, unique, and clear. Fifty years. That’s how long it had been since James walked out one crisp autumn morning, promising to return but never did.
By Mirza Afzal Baig2 years ago in Fiction
"The Last Letter"
Ayaan sat in his tiny apartment, staring at the pile of rejection letters. His dream of becoming a published author seemed further away than ever. Every night, he poured his soul into his stories, only to be met with silence. His family urged him to choose a “real job,” but writing was the only thing that made him feel alive.
By umme hani2 years ago in Fiction
The Mystery of Dreams: Can Dreams Come True?
**The Mystery of Dreams: Can Dreams Come True?** Dreams are a world of our subconscious where we live our desires, fears, and experiences. Sometimes, we have dreams that are so vivid and clear that they seem like they could come true. But do dreams have any meaning? Can some dreams actually turn into reality? In this article, we will explore the mystery of dreams and discuss those dreams that have a 90% chance of coming true.
By Nikita Angel2 years ago in Fiction
March The Mad Scientist, The Lion And The Lamb
March seemed to live an almost hermit-like existence, people didn't know him but knew his house with the strange statue conjunction on the gateposts of his mansion.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 2 years ago in Fiction
The Old Man and the Golden Fortune
The ocean had been Albert's friend since childhood. A salty old fisherman, he had spent more than sixty years out on the waves, surviving off the ocean's mercurial largesse. Now, seventy-five years young, his aged hands still grasped the oars with conviction, and his heart seethed with a final quest. Albert had been hearing rumors about a lost shipwreck, a story the sailors told who said it contained gold before the vessel disappeared in the turbulent darkness. The rumor intrigued him, and while everyone else wrote it off as folklore, Albert held out hope otherwise. He didn't have much to lose—he'd lost his family, and his fishing boat kept him treading water only. If there was even the slightest chance in the legend being true, he had to pursue it. One day, early before dawn, Albert embarked alone. The horizon was smeared with pink and golden colors, but his thoughts were on the depths of the sea. He had read maps and archival documents, piecing together where the ship might have been when it sank. It would be a test of endurance, but he had battled the sea all his life. He could do it again. For days, he fought the waves, his aged boat groaning under the pressures of the open sea. There was little food, and the sun pounded relentlessly. At night, he spoke to the stars, pleading with them for direction. When a storm broke out on the fourth day, Albert's boat was hurled about like a toy in the raging sea. His gear washed overboard and he clung to the mast by sheer will, the thunder booming above. By the time the tempest had passed, Albert was spent, his body battered and bruised. His boat was way off course. He thought of going back, but something within him told him that he was close. He got out one final rally of strength and pressed on. On the seventh day, his patience was rewarded. Through the fog, he saw the ghostly outline of a shipwreck, its mast rising from the sea like a bony finger. His heart raced with excitement. Could this be it? Reaching the ship was not easy. The waves were powerful, and the wreckage was not stable. He secured a rope around his waist and plunged into the water, fighting the current. The ship had run aground on a sandbank, the lower decks submerged in the ocean. Panting for air, Albert crawled onto the wreckage of the deck, his hands splintered by the rough wood. He thought frantically, splintering open decayed crates and corroded chests. They contained little more than destroyed equipment. Despair crept in, but he suppressed it. Then, in a secret space beneath an unscrewed plank, he glimpsed it—a glint of gold. His heart stopped. Burrowing deeper, he found piles of gold coins and trinkets, their brightness unmarred by the years. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He'd done it. All the effort, all the suffering, all the isolation—it had all been worth it. But there was a new problem: how would he retrieve the gold to his boat? With the last bit of strength left in him, Albert came up with a homemade pulley system using ropes from the wreckage. He pulled in the treasure piece by piece on his boat, one at a time. It took him hours, and he was exhausted. But he never gave up, never letting the sea claim his triumph. As he sailed back home, he felt a profound sense of satisfaction. This voyage had strained every shred of his will, yet he had held out. He had shown that age mattered not, that will power could even conquer the bleakest of chances. When finally he arrived at the shore, he was no longer merely a fisherman—but a legend. The village was amazed at his wealth, but what they admired the most was not gold—it was the indomitable spirit of the old man who had been willing to pursue his fantasies up until death.
By Sikandar prasad2 years ago in Fiction
King Kuan's Galactic Odyssey
The Endeavor hurtled through hyperspace, its engines humming steadily, yet the tension on the bridge was thick. The crew sat in silence, still shaken by the horrors they had encountered. The wraiths, the whispers, the unnatural pull of the anomaly—none of it made sense, and yet, they had barely escaped with their lives.
By Patient Joel NISHIMWE2 years ago in Fiction
King Kuan's Galactic Odyssey
The derelict ship groaned as King Kuan and his team advanced cautiously, their boots echoing against the rusted metallic floor. The fog that filled the corridors seemed alive, slithering around their bodies as if studying them. The air was thick with an unnatural hum, vibrating deep in their chests, a sound both ancient and foreboding.
By Patient Joel NISHIMWE2 years ago in Fiction
The Midnight Passenger
Jack had been a taxi driver for over a decade. He had seen all kinds of passengers—drunk businessmen, exhausted nurses, suspicious loners. But nothing had ever unsettled him like the ride he picked up on that cold October night.
By Muhammad Okasha2 years ago in Fiction