Short Story
The Man Who Collected Lost Time
The Man Who Collected Lost Time By Muhammad Ali In a quiet village tucked between two misty mountains, where clocks ticked just a little slower and the wind carried stories in its breath, lived an old man named Eliot. No one really knew how old he was—some said he was there before the roads were paved, others believed he had simply appeared one morning, just as the dew did, with no beginning and no end.
By Muhammad aliabout a year ago in Fiction
No Notifications Sent: My Quiet Search on Clarity Check
Disclosure: Some links, like Social Catfish, are tools I’ve personally used and found helpful. If you use them, I may receive a small commission at no extra cost to you. My recommendations are based on genuine experience.
By Sumit Kumarabout a year ago in Fiction
I Was A Teenage Anarchist
Before she coughed in clouds of tear gas; before she threw her first brick through a corporate window; before she was tackled at the Republican party convention for dumping bloody tampons over the head of a congressional candidate; before screaming into microphones, megaphones, and the face of ignorance; before she became known in memes and headlines across the world for direct political action; before she was a famous punk rocker, fashion icon, activist, and all-around badass—
By Tyler Clarkabout a year ago in Fiction
The Silver Whistle - Episode Two (You might enjoy this more if you read episode one first.)
It's Tuesday night, and the regulars are back in. Frank notes the arrival of each one. After they have ordered a scotch from Penny at the bar, they trot to their usual space in the back room. The snooker table has been pushed aside this evening to make room for a round rickety number that is determined to wobble even with folded beer mats under every leg. A curtain seperates the smoky little den from the main bar. Rex deals the cards like he's born to it, but then, that's how he approches most things. Sarge looks as doleful as ever, but that's just his face. He might have a hand full of aces for all anyone knows. Bruno eyes his cards, trying to keep the tremor from his paws. This is not the kind of contest he is most used to. Nigel and Milo, on either side of him, look just as twitchy. A Doberman has joined them tonight. His cigar glowed, but if not for that, he could have been a statue. Toffee the corgi has an eye on the odds, as always. His stack of chips was pretty high. Then the door creaked. Four mastiffs walked in. Not barked. Not growled. Just walked... but with the slow, deliberate, tread of enormous paws. The floorboards squeaked in protest under the weight of muscle. They stood at the edge of the table, watching, their fawn coats gleaming in the lamplight. Except for the largest, whose brindle for was crisscrossed with a network of scars one scored his grizzled muzzle. None of them wore a hat, or a sweater, or even a collar. Frank nudged Penny to offer the newcomers drinks. Penny opened her mouth to remind him they'd never offered a table service, but saw the expression on his face, and bit her tongue. Back at the card table, Bruno did his best not to flinch. “You boys play?” The brindle mastiff stepped forward, his impressive collection of scars rippling and apparently crawling over each other. "We play." Toffee raised an eyebrow. “Buy-in’s steep.” The biggest mastiff curled his lip. He smelled offended. A heavy pouch dropped on the table with a lucrative-sounding thud-clink. The entire table swallowed. Between the smoke and the tension, you could have cut the air with a steak knife. "Well," said Nigel at last, "Deal them in." There was considerable creaking and scooching while the regulars made space for the new arrivals. The mastiffs took this as their due. They settled in, and subtly spread out. Like a middleaged man undoing the buttons on his trousers. The game shifted. The air thickened. Poor Bruno looked like he was about to vibrate right out of his seat. Milo looked like he was a whisker away from climbing across the table and taking all four mastiffs down several pegs. Outside, the wind picked up. It howled, as if it understood the tension creaking under the beams of Silver Whistle. Inside, the stakes changed. Toffee had folded, never a good sign. Worse, he'd packed up his stuff, tipped his hat respectfully, and left. He was not, for once, smiling. Milo's pile of chips shrank with every hand. "I don't know, gents," he said, his bravado dwindling just a fraction. I think this might be it for me. I'm all out." He turned his pockets inside out. They were, indeed, empty. "You got a basket, don't you?" "Well, now, fellas, I dunno..." Milo's brown ears flicked back, trembling. "I can't just.... I mean, Dom and Sally, they're nice folks, but they would definitely notice if a chap your size showed up... I mean, you and l, we look nothing alike, siri, if you get my meaning..." The rest of the table were deathly silent. No one panted. No one scratched. This was the closest Milo had ever come to admitting he was... well... not actually a big dog. The mastiffs waited, hulking in their seats. Milo's teeth showed for just a moment, then he shoved his chips into the middle of the table. *
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
When True North Fails
They always say, “Just follow your compass.” Like it’s that easy. Like life always offers a clear path — a direction to walk in. For most of my life, I believed that. Maybe I wanted to believe it. Until the day I ended up somewhere that compasses don’t work — a place called Entropia.
By Vocal Member about a year ago in Fiction
