Sci Fi
The Keeper of Oakhaven Farm
His name was Jeremiah, though no one had ever called him that. He was just the Scarecrow, a sentinel of straw and old flannel, staked in the heart of the cornfield on Oakhaven Farm. His world was measured in sunrises and storms, in the planting and the harvest. But his purpose, he had come to understand, was far greater than scaring off crows. It was to watch over the family in the white farmhouse.
By Habibullah11 months ago in Fiction
The Golden Bloom
For as long as anyone in the small town of Oakhaven could remember, the Harvest Festival float competition had been a cold war between two factions. On one side was Liam, the artistic, free-spirited owner of the local pottery studio. His floats were bursts of whimsical beauty, all flowing lines and abstract shapes that critics called "ahead of their time" and others called "a bit much."
By Habibullah12 months ago in Fiction
The Letters He Never Sent. AI-Generated.
Samuel Graves had not opened the study room in three years. Dust blanketed the shelves like tired snow; the curtains remained frozen in place, trapping darkness inside the walls. The house itself seemed to breathe differently when he stood at the doorway — as if recognizing him with a mixture of relief and sorrow.
By shakir hamid12 months ago in Fiction
The Last Song in the Snow. AI-Generated.
Anton Markovic was known only by the sound of his violin. He played every evening at the frozen train station under the city bridge, where footsteps echoed like ghosts and the cold bit the bones of anyone foolish enough to linger.
By shakir hamid12 months ago in Fiction
Day 3: Gossip in the Religious Routine. Content Warning.
I can only compare the 02:19 wake-up call to a boot camp built right into your childhood treehouse. Having a tank's echo was the real blistering fire finger poker to my headache. Bunked near Ron, I followed him toward the howling echo octaves bolstering of a dying bat squeal out of the bellend that rang deeper and lower the closer you were by the inch. Their solution to this explains the why on the journaling exercise, demented spirits or not, it’s smarter to have pen and paper in this damp, hovering humidity cesspit of body odors before the raid.
By Willem Indigo12 months ago in Fiction
Echoes of a Ghost
An aspiring and reclusive physicist, following in his late father's footsteps, Ringo was delving deep into his latest creation. He hadn't realised quite how long he'd not seen the sun, or breathed fresh air, this experiment of his had been messing with his interpretation of time.
By Liam Storm12 months ago in Fiction
