Short Story
The Murmurs of the Wilderness: An Ode to Nature and Wildlife
Deep within the untouched wilderness, ancient trees stood tall and proud, their branches weaving together like the threads of an age-old tapestry, creating a symphony of nature that reverberated through the pristine landscape. Here, the murmurs of the wilderness conveyed a language understood only by those who took the time to listen.
By Ali Raza (Story Bard)3 years ago in Fiction
Mr. Sandman
- Damn, it's been a long night. Mr. Sandman laid back within his own shadow and sighed. Every dreamer needs a reminder that he has visited; he did feel his delicate touch was underestimated by some of the deeper dreamers. Each night he placed a bit of small, yellowish grain in the inner corners of well closed eyes. He always stood back and had a good look before moving on to the next sleeper. Over the years he had split up the planet with some, let's just say, sand workers, to be sure everyone was covered. The art of placing sand near a human's eye was not easily learned yet although immortal he actually grew tired of doing the work solo. There was one thing weighing quite heavily upon this legend. Mr. Sandman never had the time for romance, dancing, or any thrill seeking and he began to find his work dull. The world had depended on him for far too long and not with one thank you, just moaning complaints he overheard. Mothers told children to wash the sand out of their eyes before school and in old folks homes nursing aides carefully wiped their patients eyes with moist clothes to freshen them up. What was the point? Mr. Sandman was long, lean and his skin was burnt sienna, like the infamous Crayola crayon. He had seen all the world's deserts from the Sahara to the Patagonian, he had even attended "Burning Man" twice. Funny thing is, no one truly believed him when they asked who he was and what he did and all. Immortality sounds quite intriguing to the fragile, human mind but Mr. Sandman swears it's a curse. No one put sand in his eyes, checked on him to see if he was feeling alright and other than with his understudies, he didn't have anyone to communicate with. One dusky evening, just around Christmas he had what one might call an epiphany. A muse fell into his hands and he felt driven, almost manically so, to become more decorative when leaving his trademark; perhaps then he would at least hear some praise or be the recipient of a much longed for cognisant recognition that would lend some status to his trade. Thus the tale of Mr. Sandman's artistic endeavours begins.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)3 years ago in Fiction
"Rise of the Phoenix"
In the bustling city of Stratosville, where dreams soared as high as the skyscrapers, lived a young artist named Maya. Her passion for painting was as vibrant as the colors she used on her canvas, but life had dealt her a series of harsh blows.
By Sameen lakhwera 3 years ago in Fiction
Echoes of the Forgotten Trail
In the heart of Africa, where the sun paints the sky in hues of orange and red as it bids farewell each evening, there lies a land scarred by the echoes of a war long forgotten by the world. A war that unfolded in the shadows of dense jungles, traversed through desolate landscapes, and etched its mark on the souls of those who witnessed its relentless brutality. This is the story of a small group of individuals, an unlikely alliance of veterans, scientists, and pacifists, who sought redemption amidst the ruins of a war-ravaged land.
By Okewu Emmanuel3 years ago in Fiction
"Wellspring of Dreams" . Content Warning.
In the bustling city of Lucknow, where the aroma of kebabs and the melody of classical music filled the air, the Wellas, a trio known for their unconventional methods of making money, found themselves at a crossroads. With dreams and premonitions having brought them success in the past, they now faced the challenge of financing their grand plan to take over the city and run for elections.
By Mubashira Kachhot3 years ago in Fiction
The Monk Who Traveled Far
An Irish monk by the name of O’Malley sank his foot into the deep African sand as he trudged along in the searing heat on his way to teach the people of a remote village. His unruly wispy hair was like fire and his eyes were as green as a three-leaf cover. St. Patrick had converted him to Christianity by explaining the Godhead with a three-leaf clover. It was all well and good until he found himself in the middle of nowhere parched of thirst and wishing for the beautiful, lush green mountainsides of his homeland.
By Becky Allred3 years ago in Fiction
The Good People
Chapter 1 “Ocama, Yuiza, ocama…” Inamoca presses me to listen. I hear the sounds of the rainforest all around me, but we are listening for the noise of the Yu’ Guami’ke’na, the white devils, the ari.’ They are invaders on our island. I am Yuiza, Warrior Princess. I once greeted them with a warm, hospitable Taíno welcome, yet they only brought death and destruction to my people.
By Margaret Jimenez3 years ago in Fiction
A Melody of Lost Love
In a city that wore a cloak of muted twilight as Luna cast her silver glow upon cobblestone streets. The air was laced with a melancholic symphony, and the fragrance of roses lingered, reminiscent of a love that had bloomed and withered like petals in the wind.
By Edara Otuk3 years ago in Fiction
A story On The Effects Of Bad Company And Environment
In the heart of a picturesque town nestled between rolling hills and surrounded by a tapestry of lush greenery, lived a young woman named Emily. The town, a haven of tranquility, was known for its close-knit community, where neighbors shared smiles, and the laughter of children echoed through the cobblestone streets
By Hashir Naseem3 years ago in Fiction
