Short Story
The Goal Machine ⚽ Cristiano Ronaldo
🌟 Amazing Facts About Cristiano Ronaldo 🌟 1. The Goal Machine ⚽ Cristiano Ronaldo is the all-time top scorer in men’s football history, surpassing 850 career goals. His ability to score in almost every way—left foot, right foot, headers, free kicks, penalties, long shots—makes him one of the most complete forwards ever.
By Mudasir Hakeemi about a year ago in Fiction
The Dog That Could Not Be Fought
You are moving along a solitary, unbending path beneath a starless, profound night. On both sides, an immense and shadowy woodland looms, so dense and light-absorbing it feels less like trees and more like a wall at the edge of existence. There are no alternate routes. No diversions. No alternatives. Your will has been simplified into a single imperative: you must continue.
By Sullivan Davisabout a year ago in Fiction
Today, I found out my girlfriend has a secret Snapchat account — and it changed everything
Hey there, I'm Newman Singer, a solo traveler from California. I usually write about my adventures—like chasing sunsets in Thailand or finding the best tacos in Mexico. But today, I'm sharing something personal and tough: how I figured out my girlfriend was hiding a secret Snapchat account and cheating on me. This isn’t my usual vibe, but maybe my story can help someone else going through the same mess. Here’s what happened, in plain talk, from one regular person to another.
By Newman Singerabout a year ago in Fiction
Marvel/DC Comics Presents #7
Dr. Strange/Dr. Fate Baltimore, Maryland 1968 Dr. Stephen Strange watched as the ambulance carrying Mr. Robert Reynolds, accompanied by his estranged wife, faded off into the distance. There was a small crowd of neighbors that slowly dispersed to their nearby homes. Dr. Strange noticed Kent Nelson, better known as the hero Dr. Fate, earlier speaking with a cop that came onto the scene. Though he was not within earshot at the time of their conversation, he recognized the effects of an enchantment placed upon the cop by Kent. The cop left before the ambulance did. The same calm blank look upon the cop’s face had eventually spread to the bystanders that had earlier gathered and they too left the scene as well until Kent and Strange were the only ones left outside across from the Reynolds’ apartment.
By Derrick Billups about a year ago in Fiction
The Ghost
Grandma Baker and I stood out in the pouring rain, milling over our choice for a potential Jack O’ lantern carefully. I picked up various pumpkins, feeling them for heft and softness. Once I found the perfect one, I showed it to Grandma Baker and carried it to the checkout stand, already set up near the entrance to the pumpkin patch! Mr. Gravy wore blue jeans and an oversized Kent State Hooded sweatshirt.
By DJ Robbinsabout a year ago in Fiction
The Dead Are Too Loud
I mean, he wasn't exactly a person. So what I did wasn't that bad. This is what I'm thinking this as the sun beats down on my unaccustomed limbs, and I signal the waiter to bring me another drink. It's good and cold, with plenty of ice. My sunglasses shield me from the worst of the glare. Keeping my book open and my eyes trained on the pages means that most people will leave me alone to my thoughts. It's silly, then, with this moment of respite, to travel mentally back across the ocean. To the problems left behind. Prodding at it, like you might niggle at a loose tooth. He used to be a person, okay, but now something has gone wrong and he's just a human-shaped robot. Malfunctioning, too. So what I did was actually a good thing. When you think about it. Look at it this way, it would have been worse to leave him it wandering around unchecked. Who knew what he it might do? I didn't kill him. He might not be a person, not properly, in fact I'm almost definitely sure about that, but he still looks basically like one. You'd have to be a real psycho to hurt a person-shaped person, even if they weren't actually a person. Even if I was the pyscho sort, the killing kind, I wouldn't bump him off. Bodies are too much hassle to get rid of. Unless you're experienced and skilled, I suspect the living are quieter, and easier to hide. No I just sewed his mouth closed so that he couldn't keep screaming, which he does a lot, and locked, him in the spare room. I couldn't leave the implant in it, so I took that out. Besides, my Jac is still on there. I can't bear to leave him. Once he was unconscious, I made the smallest incision I possibly could. Wielding a small pair of boiled pink tweezers and lot of confidence, I got the chip out through the tiniest hole. I closed my fingers around the little prize, soft and gentle as you like. The only thing stopping me from kissing it tenderly was the blood dripping from it.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Held the Book of Time
In a world that often rushes forward without pausing, where moments slip through our hands like sand in an hourglass, there stood a girl on the edge of a cliff, holding a glowing book. Her wings, delicate and luminous, stretched behind her, brushing against the winds of change. Around her floated symbols of life itself — a clock, a rose, a tree by the river, and a geometric light that hinted at the future of technology. Each one was more than just an image. They were chapters of a greater story, a story the world needed to hear. The Clock: Time as a Silent Teacher The clock above her glowed warmly, its hands frozen at a moment she could not ignore. Time is the one currency we can never earn back, the one treasure we all share yet treat with carelessness. As she gazed at the clock, she remembered her childhood days when hours felt endless, where laughter rang across fields without worry of deadlines or losses. But as years passed, she began to feel the weight of every second. She saw people living in the shadows of regret, holding on to the past or rushing toward futures that never arrived. She realized that the true gift of time is presence — being fully alive in this exact moment, the one right in front of us. The clock whispered to her: “Do not fear my ticking. Fear only the moments you waste not loving, not creating, not becoming.” The Rose: Love in Fragile Form Floating beside the clock was a rose, crimson and vivid, its petals soft yet edged with thorns. To the girl, the rose was a reminder of love’s duality. Love could heal wounds deeper than oceans, but it could also pierce like fire through the skin of trust. She had known love — the pure laughter of friendship, the ache of first heartbreak, and the silent loyalty of her parents who believed in her when the world doubted. Yet she had also seen love abused, manipulated, and taken for granted. The rose glowed not to remind her of loss but of resilience. For even when its petals fell, the roots remained alive, capable of blooming again. She thought of how many people give up on love when it fails once, how many forget that love is not only romance but also kindness, empathy, and compassion. The rose whispered to her: “Do not measure love by what is lost. Measure it by the courage it gives you to bloom again.” The Tree and the River: Growth and Flow Below her, on the green rolling hills, grew two trees. They were grounded and strong, their branches stretching upward as if reaching for the stars. Beneath them, a river meandered gracefully, neither in a rush nor in hesitation, but steady in its flow. The girl saw herself in both the tree and the river. Like the tree, she had grown through seasons of storms, losing leaves in winters of grief yet always regaining strength in springs of hope. Like the river, she had learned that life’s journey was never straight, but winding, carving its own way through mountains and valleys. The trees reminded her of patience — growth that is slow but powerful. The river reminded her of surrender — the wisdom to let go and move forward even when paths are uncertain. The earth whispered to her: “Do not resist change. Let yourself grow, let yourself flow, and you will always find your way.” The Geometric Light: The Future in Our Hands Above her, a geometric cube of light shimmered, glowing like the pulse of a digital heart. It represented the future — technology, progress, and the uncharted paths humanity would walk. She thought of the world’s obsession with advancement, how society chased innovation without always questioning its cost. The cube was a symbol of potential, but also of responsibility. For every invention that brought healing, there was one that brought destruction. For every connection the digital world offered, there was also disconnection from reality. The girl knew the book in her hands was a choice. Inside it were stories unwritten, futures undecided. She could fill its pages with hope, with wisdom, with harmony between humanity and progress. Or she could let the cube blind her into believing that faster meant better, that convenience meant meaning. The cube whispered to her: “Do not fear the future. Fear only a future where humanity forgets its soul.” The Glowing Book: A Story Yet to Be Written All these symbols circled around her, but it was the glowing book in her hands that mattered most. Its light illuminated her face, filling her with both awe and responsibility. She realized that the book was not just hers — it was everyone’s. Each person alive holds their own book of life, waiting to be written with choices, dreams, and actions. The symbols around her were universal chapters: time, love, growth, and the future. But how those chapters are written is different for each soul. She felt the weight of possibility. Would her story be one of courage or fear? Would she choose kindness or bitterness? Would she value moments or let them slip away? The book did not answer. Instead, it waited. Standing on the Edge The girl stood on the cliff, the river stretching endlessly into the horizon. The sun was setting, painting the sky in fiery gold and deep blue, as if the heavens themselves wanted her to decide. She could close the book and let life write itself, passively drifting through time. Or she could write with intention, using every page to create a story worth remembering. And then, she understood. The book was not magic. The wings on her back were not gifts. The clock, rose, tree, river, and cube were not destinies. They were reminders. The real magic was in the act of choosing, of living, of loving, of creating. A Story for Us All Her story is not only hers — it is ours. Each of us stands on our own cliff at some point in life, holding the same glowing book. Each of us faces the same whispers: Time urging us to be present. Love calling us to keep blooming. Growth reminding us to be patient. The Future asking us to use wisdom. And in our hands lies the same choice — what story will we write? As she opened the first page, the light grew brighter. The wind shifted. The cliff beneath her felt less like an edge and more like a beginning. The girl smiled, knowing that her story, like all stories worth telling, would be imperfect but alive. And with that thought, she began to write.
By Fazal wahid about a year ago in Fiction
The Boy With Half a Name
She noticed it first in his voice. He came in from the backyard, cheeks still flushed, cuffs heavy with grass. Her name rose on his lips and faltered, the sound snagging in his throat like a word left too long in silence. He lingered there, eyes narrowed, head tilted, as though the missing part might drift back on its own.
By Fatal Serendipityabout a year ago in Fiction
