Short Story
In the Halls of the Apartment Queen
1A Mrs. Deidre Derrant trudged her way through the first-floor apartment hallway, grumbling to herself. Her stooped form took up half the width of the hallway. The pansy patterned dress she wore swayed from side to side as she ambled back to her own room. She shouldn’t have allowed that last man to rent 3C. He looked like a terrorist. That’s all those Muslims are good for anyway, blowing themselves up. The couple in 2B owe their rent today. She’ll collect it tomorrow; they were always a day late. She shouldn’t allow it, but at least they were consistent.
By Sean Selleckabout a year ago in Fiction
The Divine Pantheon of the World of Hurth
The Divine Pantheon of the World of Hurth The Divine Pantheon of the World of Hurth The world of Hurth is shaped not only by its people and lands but by the divine forces that guide, challenge, and inspire those who dwell within it. The gods of Hurth represent the many facets of existence, each wielding influence over their respective, sometimes overlapping, domains and watching over their followers with wisdom, fury, laughter, or cunning. Some shape destinies with a firm and guiding hand, while others revel in chaos, their influence unpredictable yet undeniable. Whether through grand temples adorned with sacred symbols, whispered prayers in tended fiends and hidden groves, or desperate cries upon the battlefield, the presence of the divine is inescapable.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
Elion - The Silent Collector
Elion - The Silent Collector Though its name suggested stillness, Port Silence was never truly quiet. The world continued as it always had, merchants locking their shops, sailors securing their vessels, revelers stumbling from taverns, their laughter carrying through the darkness. But beneath the hum of city life, unseen and unnoticed, a quieter force walked among them. Not a lord, not a warrior, not even a priest, but something far older, far greater.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
Beneath The Flour. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
In the heart of a quiet town, nestled between the cobblestone streets and ivy-wrapped lamp posts, stood a small, fragrant bakery known for its warm meat pies and delicate chocolate tea cookies. The townsfolk adored the young woman who ran it—Elara, with her long dark hair, kind eyes, and a smile as sweet as her confections. She had a way of making people feel like home.
By V-Ink Storiesabout a year ago in Fiction
Oh Babe You're So Wet
Hunkering on the damp altar, the unwitting nuptial participants blinked at each other. One flicked a lazy tongue. The priest chanted louder, the better to reach the damp ears of the rain gods. A fortnight later, the skies wept. Possibly over the drowned crops and devastated buildings. The newlyweds, who didn't care how soggy things got, were brought back for a swift divorcement. That done, the priest prodded the sodden earth with a doleful toe. He eyed the clouds, pondering divine bureaucracy.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
The Night We Left
We sat on the couch crying together at the last scene of My Girl. A movie about love, loss, and the admirable acting skills of Macaulay Culkin. Our racking sobs were so loud, neighbors probably thought there was something horrific going on in that shore house.
By Bria Lamonicaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Voice on the Commute. Top Story - June 2025.
Mable bit her lip as she looked at her car, the chill of the morning slithering past her clothes and sinking deep into her skin. She was on her way to work. In fact, Mable had to be there in about ten minutes. She had to leave now if she wanted to get there on time.
By Rebecca Pattonabout a year ago in Fiction
My Mother Is One in the World
--- The world is filled with people — millions and millions of faces, voices, hearts. Each person has their own story, their own journey. But to me, there is one person whose love and strength shine brighter than all others — my mother. She is one in the world. No one else compares. From my earliest memory, she has been the center of my life. I remember the softness of her hands, her warm embrace, her soothing voice when she sang me to sleep. In her arms, I felt safe — as if no harm could ever reach me. I didn’t understand it then, but my mother was already giving me the greatest gift of all: unconditional love. We didn’t have much when I was little. Life was not easy. My father worked long hours and my mother managed everything at home — cooking, cleaning, taking care of us children. Yet, not once did she complain. Not once did she show bitterness or regret. Instead, she filled our home with laughter and love, teaching us that joy doesn’t come from money or possessions, but from kindness, togetherness, and hope. My mother had a strength that amazed me. I saw it in the way she carried herself — graceful, steady, full of purpose. She woke up before the sun, preparing breakfast, getting us ready for school, ensuring my father left with a smile. Then came a full day of endless tasks — washing clothes by hand, sweeping floors, tending to the garden, helping neighbors when they needed it. Her energy seemed limitless. But it wasn’t just her hard work that inspired me. It was her heart. My mother’s kindness reached far beyond our family. If a neighbor was ill, she would cook meals for them. If someone lost a loved one, she was the first to offer comfort. Children in the street called her “Aunty” and ran to her with their problems. Her love was a light that touched everyone around her. One of the greatest lessons my mother taught me was about forgiveness. I remember once, as a child, I broke her favorite vase while playing inside the house. Terrified of her reaction, I hid in my room, certain she would be angry. But when she found me crying, she didn’t scold or punish me. She wiped my tears and said, “It’s only a vase. You are more precious to me than anything else.” Her gentle words stayed with me forever. Through her, I learned that forgiveness is stronger than anger. As I grew older, I began to see the sacrifices my mother made for our family. She often wore old clothes so we could have new ones for school. She skipped meals when times were hard, pretending she wasn’t hungry. She gave up her own dreams so we could chase ours. And she never asked for anything in return — not praise, not thanks. Her happiness came from seeing us grow and succeed. During my teenage years, I went through moments of rebellion. I wanted to be independent, to prove I didn’t need her advice. I spoke harshly sometimes, thinking I knew better. But my mother never gave up on me. With patience and understanding, she guided me back, showing me that real wisdom comes from love, not pride. When I faced failure, it was my mother who reminded me that setbacks are only steps toward success. “Every great tree,” she said, “begins as a small seed that must struggle through the earth to reach the light.” Her words gave me courage when I wanted to give up. Then came the hardest day of my life — the day I moved away from home for university. My mother helped me pack, her smile bright but her eyes wet. At the station, as the train pulled away, I saw her waving, standing tall, even though I knew her heart was breaking. That image of her — proud, loving, strong — stayed with me through every lonely night. Living alone, I began to realize all the small things my mother had done for me. The meals she cooked, the clothes she mended, the words of comfort, the quiet support. I missed her warmth, her wisdom, her unshakable love. I understood then: a mother’s love is a foundation, a source of strength that never fades. Years passed. I graduated, found a job, built a life. But no matter how far I traveled, my mother remained my anchor. Every phone call, every visit home reminded me of her boundless love. Her hair had begun to turn silver, her steps had slowed — but her spirit was as bright as ever. One day, I asked her, “Mother, how did you stay so strong through all those hard times?” She smiled gently and said, “When you love someone, you find strength you never knew you had.” Now, as an adult, I know that what makes my mother one in the world is not her work, her sacrifices, or even her strength — though all those things are remarkable. It is her heart — her endless capacity for love, forgiveness, and hope. In a world that often feels cold and rushed, her love remains a constant light. I hope to become like her — to live with kindness, to face challenges with courage, to give love freely. If I can be even half the person she is, I will consider my life a success. To the world, my mother may seem like just one person. But to me, she is the world. There will never be another like her. She is one in the world — and forever in my heart. ---
By Huzaifa Writerabout a year ago in Fiction
Scales of Trust . AI-Generated.
In the heart of the Emerald Jungle, where sunlight filtered through thick green leaves like golden syrup, two young snakes lived very different lives. Zari, a bright green vine snake, spent her days gliding through the treetops, watching birds, and listening to the wind. She was fast, clever, and proud of her arboreal acrobatics. Kairo, on the other hand, was a black-scaled pit viper who slithered silently through the underbrush. His life was slower, more cautious. He hunted by night and preferred the cool dampness of the forest floor. They had seen each other before—once when Zari dove too low while chasing a lizard, and once when Kairo coiled near the roots of Zari’s favorite fig tree. But snakes, by nature, were solitary. They had no real reason to speak. Until one summer day changed everything. A wildfire. It started with a crack of lightning and spread like a beast with endless arms. Smoke darkened the canopy. Birds screamed. Monkeys fled. The jungle pulsed with fear. Zari, high in the treetops, panicked. The fire was climbing fast. Her escape route—an old vine bridge—was already smoldering. She darted toward the edge of the tree, searching for a way down.
By Hazrat Umarabout a year ago in Fiction
