Series

Whispers of the Lullaby(Part-5)
You can read out Episode 4 link in below... Episode 5: The First Wish The world, unchanged, the next day would bring about a new dawn.
By StoryTimeabout a year ago in Fiction
What Happens to Your Body if You Walk Just 20 Minutes a Day, According to Doctors
Walking is one of the simplest, most accessible forms of exercise—yet many people underestimate its power. You don’t need intense workouts or expensive gym memberships to improve your health. In fact, research shows that walking for just 20 minutes a day can lead to remarkable changes in your body, from boosting heart health to enhancing mental well-being.
By Niranjon Chandra Royabout a year ago in Fiction
Our Last Conversation
"Our Last conversation" Oh my beautiful sweet naughty girl. -Yes, yes. Tell me. You are so bad. -What did I do? If you forget me like this?
By Jr. Majahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Origins of Technology in Human Production
Technology and Production Equipment With the beginning of mankind, ''production'' began with the use of very undeveloped or ''tools'' by early man. Although there was no conscious understanding of scientific knowledge, and this was not recognized as science, there was science in the use of the first production tools, such as stone chips, clubs, spears, sticks, etc. When the first man used the above very crude, primitive tools to hunt animals and catch fish, what the first man did not know was the truth that ''for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.'' This is why, although the first production tools were simple and primitive, they also had simple and primitive technology. Therefore, it is clear that technology is born with the creation and use of production tools for production. Accordingly, technology is born with the birth of man. The technology that emerged in this way developed with the development of human society, accumulating experience and knowledge from generation to generation, and society gradually advanced in leaps and bounds. Technology also expanded in proportion to the expansion of the means of production in its path. It developed. Engels has mentioned this in his work as follows.
By Rohitha Lankaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lost Jungle of the Parrots
The Lost Jungle of the Parrots Long ago, hidden deep within the heart of the Amazon, there was a place untouched by man — a jungle so dense, so alive, and so vibrant that even the oldest maps didn’t mark it. The locals called it Selva Perdida — the Lost Jungle. Legends whispered of a mystical valley where parrots ruled the skies, intelligent and colorful, with voices that echoed the past and eyes that held ancient wisdom.
By Top stories about a year ago in Fiction
Fragments of the Future
The cities had no names anymore. Roads, rivers, and monuments—once mapped, celebrated, and fought over—were now anonymous scars on the earth. The machines remembered, of course. But machines didn’t mourn.
By k zarmalabout a year ago in Fiction
Thou Shalt Not Be Rude to Wait Staff
The queue stretches, and stretches, and stretches. Our hero cannot bear to look up at it. He couldn't see the end of it if he did, and not just because the sinking sun would be glinting in his eyes. It stretches down the hillside and winds out of sight.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Queen of the Hollow Crown. Content Warning.
Read the first story here: The Thief of Shadows I: The First Rebellion The dead moved differently now. Lirael saw it in the way the shades paused mid-wail when she passed, their hollow eyes tracking her with something sharper than fear. The obsidian floors, once cold enough to burn bare flesh, now warmed beneath her footsteps like stones left in afternoon sun. Even the air had changed—thick with the scent of overripe figs and the metallic tang of freshly unearthed grave soil.
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"about a year ago in Fiction
The Thief of Shadows. Content Warning.
I: The Heist in Hell The air in the Underworld didn’t move like air should. It clung, thick as funeral shrouds, pressing against Lirael’s skin with the weight of centuries of held breaths. The path before her twisted like a gutted serpent, paved not with stone but with the petrified bones of oath-breakers, their hollow eye sockets weeping black ichor that sizzled where it touched her boots.
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"about a year ago in Fiction
The Silence Between Screams. AI-Generated.
The house on Wren Hollow Road had been empty for twenty-three years—long enough for the town to forget the truth, but not the fear. When Claire Ramsey inherited the old two-story home from her grandmother, she almost didn’t take it. The house had a past, and in a small town like Ashbridge, people whispered. They remembered the Ramsey tragedy: a fire that claimed her aunt and two cousins. No cause was ever confirmed. No bodies were ever found. Now, Claire stood at the doorway, key in hand, the October wind tugging at her coat like a child begging her not to go inside. She went in anyway. The air was thick with dust and something else—faint, like burned sugar and old paint. The hallway was narrow and dim, lit only by the gray light leaking through the boarded windows. Floorboards groaned like the house itself resented her presence. She explored cautiously, eyes scanning old portraits where faces faded like memories. In the upstairs hallway, she found three doors: one ajar, one closed, and one sealed shut with rusty nails. She didn’t need to ask which one had been her cousins' room. That night, Claire didn’t sleep. Around 2 a.m., she woke to a soft creaking noise, like footsteps circling her bed. She held her breath. The air was cold, too cold for October. The sound stopped—but something else started. A whisper. Faint, not in her ears but in her bones. Help me. She sat up, heart racing. No one was there. The room was still. But the voice... it had been real. She was sure of it. The next morning, Claire visited the Ashbridge library. The fire was barely mentioned in the archives—just a short article about a "tragic loss," a "structural fire of unknown cause." No obituaries. No funeral records. She found Mrs. Dalloway, the librarian who'd been around since before Claire was born. "Funny thing about that fire," Mrs. Dalloway said, voice low. "They never found the kids, did they? But I remember hearing screams that night. More than just pain. It was like… something was being silenced." Claire’s skin prickled. That night, she returned to the house with a flashlight and a hammer. She stood before the nailed-shut door. One by one, she pulled the nails free. Each groan of the wood felt like a protest. Inside, the room was untouched by time. Toys scattered on the floor. A small bed with a pink canopy. A closet door cracked open. She stepped inside. A sudden thud behind her—she spun. The door had slammed shut. Then the silence came. Not normal silence. It was too quiet. Her own breath seemed muffled. Even her heartbeat felt distant. And then she heard it again. Help me. Please... it's still here. Claire turned her flashlight toward the closet. Inside, a small pair of eyes blinked. She gasped, stumbled back. The flashlight flickered. From the shadows of the closet, a child stepped forward. A girl. Maybe eight years old. Pale. Eyes hollow. Mouth trembling. "It's in the walls," the girl whispered. "It watches through the cracks. We screamed... but then it took the sound. It took our voices." The flashlight died. Claire froze. Total blackness wrapped around her like a wet shroud. Then came the noise. Not a scream. The absence of a scream. A void, sucking sound—like a vacuum pulling sound from the air. Claire tried to scream but nothing came out. Her mouth moved. Her throat strained. But silence swallowed everything. She backed up blindly, hands out, feeling the walls close in. Then—light. The flashlight buzzed back on. The girl was gone. So was the closet. She was standing in an empty, rotted room. No toys. No bed. Just a mirror on the wall, cracked straight through the center. And in the mirror, she saw herself. But not just herself. A tall figure stood behind her—faceless, stretching impossibly long, its arms reaching forward like ropes made of shadows. She spun around. Nothing. But her reflection still showed it. Closer now. She ran. Down the stairs. Through the hall. Out into the cold night air, heart pounding, breath short. Claire didn’t go back the next day. Or the day after. She moved into a motel and called a priest from out of town. But when they returned to the house, the door wouldn’t open. It was like the house had sealed itself shut. They broke a window to get inside. Everything was gone. Empty. Not abandoned—erased. As if no one had ever lived there. No one but Claire. And the silence. --- Weeks later, Claire sits in a psychiatric ward, eyes wide and mouth stitched shut by memory. No one believes her. Not about the house. Not about the girl. Not about the thing in the walls that feeds on screams, and leaves only silence. But sometimes, in the quietest hours of the night, the nurses swear they hear something echo from her room. A single, blood-chilling whisper: Help me.
By M.SUDAIS about a year ago in Fiction
Faceless Night [Part 4-ending].. Content Warning.
*** (At three-thirty in the morning). The conversation between two bodies was still ongoing among their peacefully sleeping children. It was about longing, "all because of your spell, oh female fish, that the sea water doesn't taste salty!", "you stupid male cat, you might never realize it, if you keep curling up in the corner of the suffocating alleys of your hometown, if you never cross the blue ocean. That your pearl-like eyes hold the wonders of the sky during the full moon...(the man flinched as he touched his blind eyes)...Yes, because of your eyes reflecting the full moon, my underwater kingdom that night became strange, no longer salty, but like a swimming pool owned by city people. So, I emerged to the surface, searching for you, finding you stranded, hungry and thirsty. Until you fell in love with my half-human body and flesh...(the two naked bodies rubbed against each other more tightly)...Only then did I darken the full moon with my cloudy magic. Making it sink before its time. You roared to wake up your wild side wanting to pounce on me, but what could you do, you were just a stranded black cat and already blind. And I am the princess of the blue ocean, because the foams of the waves are my urine. Until you wait for the return of another full moon in hunger, loneliness, darkness... The sky remained true to its promise. The girl and Gilang were getting deeper into their sleep, sheltered by the light of the full moon hanging in a quarter of the sky in the east. Both were still lying on their wet t-shirts and pants...you were so loyal to wait until the full moon returns. But you never knew what you were actually waiting for and what was waiting for you. That night, the second full moon of our encounter, with all the blessings of my blue sea, I transformed into a virgin girl. For the first time, my lungs breathed the air just like you did, my feet stepped on the grains of sand just like you did. Thus, that night I received my curse. Then, you tore apart every curve of my body in the form of a black cat, just like you tore apart a flopping fresh fish on the beach. You licked every pore of my body that was no longer scaly. I allowed it for the sake of the sea that was no longer salty because of your eyes. Eyes that would soon be blind, blinded by the lust that claimed to be love. Until I truly began to love you that night. The love of a fish for a black cat. A love that was actually just an escape from my fear of the ocean water that you turned into freshwater... (At four o'clock in the morning) Gilang woke up after being bitten by a mosquito, only to be startled by two naked bodies piled up next to his younger sibling, his mother and a blind man he didn't know. Gilang closed his eyes again, pretending to still be asleep... Then you are cursed to be my husband's human... "Gilang (in his mind): Father...?" ...after I cursed myself first to become a woman... "Gilang (sobbing in his mind): They are demons, my sibling and I are demon offspring.!!!" The child was startled by the reality, crying and screaming when suddenly the world turned dark. But he didn't recognize his own screams
By Shafa Ichwanusabout a year ago in Fiction
More Flesh. More Bone.. Content Warning.
Bracing himself, and ignoring the insistent tapping outside, our writer friend pulls himself to the desk (again). Why do I do this? It's a fool's errand. Only a very stupid intelligent person would do this... The machine in front of him sits silent and empty. Still, a bulging sense of growling hunger emanated from it. It's smaller, now, than it was in years gone by. Soon, it would be pocket-size. Yet it was, if anything, even hungrier.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction