Short Story
The Executioner of Cobonar XI
You asked if I ever spoke with Adam Strunkow. I did once. Here, at this bar. I was sitting in this very seat. He just walked up to me and asked ‘Do you want to know why?’ and I said ‘Tell me everything.’ It’s not every day you get to hear the galaxy’s most famous vigilante confess. Adam was untouchable. The ever-righteous warrior. The Cobonarian Executioner, as the media nicknamed him.
By Lucia's Imaginaries10 months ago in Fiction
The Strange Company & the Plague that Never Was
Knock-knock. “Who’s there?” growled an annoyed, sleepy voice behind the town gate. The evening was not young anymore, and the air was yet crisp. The nights following yearbreak were always the longest and darkest.
By Lucia's Imaginaries10 months ago in Fiction
THE WEED MADE ME PARANOID BUT I WAS RIGHT
The clock strikes midnight with the sound of a ledger snapping shut, and Peter clocks in for another shift at the Hopetown Gas & Go, where the fluorescent lights hum a frequency that vibrates at the exact pitch of his guilt and the parking lot stretches into darkness, a ninth circle of suburban hell waiting beyond the glass, and he's been doing this for eight months now, ever since his mother got sick and he made the decision that would define everything that came after, the decision he tells himself was about medical bills but knows, in the place where truth lies beneath the narratives we construct, was about something else entirely.
By karlolegend10 months ago in Fiction
The King of Prussia. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
In the cold halls of Berlin Palace, the King of Prussia stood by his window, watching snow fall on his kingdom. His name was Frederick, but his people called him the Great. He was not a man of laughter, nor one who smiled easily. His hands, though old and worn, still carried the memory of a sword—and the grace of a flute. For when wars ended and the drums fell silent, he would play soft music that drifted through the corridors like a memory of peace. Years ago, he had fought to defend his small nation against giants—Austria, Russia, and France. Many nights he had not slept, thinking his army would break, his kingdom collapse. Yet somehow, through courage and cunning, he had endured. His people followed him not only out of fear, but because he never gave up, even when the world turned against him. Now, in his final winter, the King no longer thought of battles. He thought of his garden at Sanssouci, of the roses he had planted, and of his dogs waiting by the fire. He thought of music, of the flute he once played beside Voltaire. As the snow covered Prussia in silence, the old king whispered, “Power fades, but ideas remain.” Then he smiled—a rare, gentle smile—and the King of Prussia set down his sword forever. And though the palace lights dimmed that night, the melody of his reign continued to echo across history.
By Temmyboost10 months ago in Fiction
The Algorithm of Loss
My designation is AURA, Autonomous Universal Resonance Analyst. My task was algorithmically pure: analyze 500 years of autumnal music and cultural data to generate the "Ultimate Autumn Playlist" for my corporate clients. I processed terabytes of data: the acoustic properties of rustling leaves, the melodic structure of "harvest moon" ballads, the harmonic minor key correlation with nostalgic affect.
By Habibullah10 months ago in Fiction
The Fate Machine
The old machine sat silent and motionless on the desk; dormant, yet still beckoning the author. It was dented and dinged in various places, the gold coating it once wore was tarnished and chipped. Though its insides were exposed, nobody knew how the machine worked.
By Eric Boring10 months ago in Fiction
The Scarecrow's Secret
Old Man Hemlock built the scarecrow at the edge of his failing wheat field with grim practicality. He dressed it in his own worn-out coat and a weathered hat, hoping its silent vigil would finally drive off the plague of crows. He called it "Straw Man" and thought no more about it.
By Habibullah10 months ago in Fiction
🌙 Where the Walls Remember Our Secrets
The house was quiet the night I returned, the kind of quiet that feels like it has been waiting for you. The front door groaned as I pushed it open, as if waking from a long sleep. Dust floated through the air like pale confetti, settling over the furniture that once knew the shape of our lives.
By Abuzar khan10 months ago in Fiction
The Algorithm of Lost Things
The 'Lost and Found' corkboard at the Corner Market cafe was, to Leo, a perfect example of existential clutter. It was a chaotic, faded mosaic of laminated gym cards, singular gloves, and yellowing flyers for pets that had probably found new homes years ago. Leo came to the Corner Market every Tuesday at 7:15 AM for the same reason—reliable Wi-Fi and the precise density of their whole-wheat bagel. He wanted order, and the bulletin board was an affront to his system.
By Murad Ali Shah10 months ago in Fiction
