Short Story
Haunted
I'm not sure when she turned up, exactly. At first she was easy to ignore. Thin and sad-looking. Washed out. Colourless. People say things like, all children are everyone's business, and it takes a village... But so few people really mean that. Most of the time, they don't want anything disrupting their day today life, and they don't want to confront someone else to disrupt theirs, either. It took a long time for me to notice her. By the time I did, she'd been hanging around for a while. Who even knows how long. Ages. Honestly? She was kind of creepy. Always there. Hanging around. Staring. Getting closer and closer. I gritted my teeth and kept my eyes averted, but it got harder to ignore not just her, but also how uncomfortable she was making me feel. I had a feeling she wasn't real. Not really real. Not really.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
The Bay Leaf Trick and My Lucky Win
The Bay Leaf Trick and My Lucky Win Sometimes, all it takes is a leaf, a lighter, and a little bit of belief. I’ve always liked little rituals. Not the big flashy spells or candles and cauldrons kind, just the small ones. The quiet things you do that feel like hope in your hands. Like scribbling a wish on a scrap of paper. Or, in my case last Saturday, burning a bay leaf. It was so easy too.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk about a year ago in Fiction
Thurgrim Ironhold - The Hammer of Eniche
Thurgrim Ironhold - The Hammer of Eniche The moon hung low over the ruined chapel, its pale light casting long shadows through broken archways and shattered stained glass. The once-holy ground had become a desecrated battlefield, littered with the rattling remains of the restless dead. They clawed forward, skeletal hands grasping at the dwarf who stood in their path, his breath steaming in the cold night air.Thurgrim Ironhold tightened his grip around his weapon—a massive spiked maul, the head of which was adorned with jagged steel, each edge blessed by the unyielding will of Eniche. His armor, plated and brutal, bristled with spikes of its own, a reflection of the god he served. A deity of war, of discipline, of strength unbroken in the face of evil.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
The Book That Sings
In a world overflowing with books, very few have the rare ability to do more than tell a story. Some entertain, some inform, and some quietly change us. But once in a while, there comes a book that does something more extraordinary—it sings. Not with literal notes or lyrics, but with a melody woven from words that linger in the heart long after the final page has turned. Such is the case with the book that has, quietly and powerfully, sung its way into the hearts of readers around the world. It didn't rely on flashy marketing or celebrity endorsements. It didn't need to. What it offered was something far more lasting—truth, emotion, and the sense that someone, somewhere, truly understood the human experience. At the center of this literary phenomenon is a story that is both deeply personal and universally relatable. Whether it’s about a child’s wonder, a young adult’s search for identity, or the bittersweet memories of love lost and found, the book speaks in a voice that is gentle but unwavering. Readers often describe the experience of reading it as sitting beside an old friend who knows just what to say. What gives the book its musical quality is the language itself. The prose flows with a rhythm that’s neither forced nor ornamental. It mirrors the way thoughts and feelings move through us in real life—sometimes in bursts, sometimes in quiet reflection. Every sentence feels intentional, crafted with care but never overworked. It breathes. Critics have praised the book not just for its style, but for its honesty. It doesn’t shy away from pain, but it also doesn’t dwell in darkness. There’s always a thread of hope that runs through its pages. In a time when readers are bombarded with noise, this book offers a kind of quiet clarity. It reminds us that sometimes the softest voices are the ones we hear most clearly. The book’s impact can be felt in countless testimonials. A young woman in Ohio said it gave her the courage to leave a toxic relationship. A retired teacher in India shared how it helped him reconnect with his grandchildren. A teenager in South Africa said it inspired him to start writing poetry. The story may be one author’s creation, but its reach has become global. Its song has become part of the soundtrack of many lives. Part of the book’s beauty is that it doesn't try to give all the answers. Instead, it invites the reader to ask questions—to reflect, to remember, to dream. In doing so, it becomes more than a story; it becomes a mirror, a journal, a letter, a prayer. The author, whose identity has become secondary to the work itself, once said in an interview, “I didn’t write this book to impress anyone. I wrote it to heal.” That sincerity has struck a chord with millions. In a publishing world often dominated by market trends and algorithms, this book stands as proof that authenticity still matters—and still sells. It’s also worth noting the role of readers in this book’s journey. Without massive campaigns or book tours, it spread organically. It was shared among friends, passed on at cafés, left behind on park benches. Social media played its part, but the book’s growth came mostly from word of mouth, powered by genuine connection rather than clicks. Book clubs around the world have chosen it for discussion, not because it’s controversial or trendy, but because it opens the door to deep, meaningful conversations. People don’t just read it—they revisit it. They quote it in weddings, in graduation speeches, in personal journals. Its lines have become tattoos, vows, and lullabies. What makes the book endure is that it doesn’t try to be everything. It doesn’t attempt to impress with complexity or shock with twists. It’s a simple song—honest, beautiful, and true. And like any good song, it stays with you. You find yourself humming its melody at unexpected moments, long after the final note. In a world that often moves too fast and speaks too loudly, this book has reminded us of the power of stillness and the beauty of listening. It has reminded us that a quiet story, told with care, can move mountains. That words can sing. And that sometimes, the most powerful voices are the ones that speak in whispers. Whether you found it on a friend’s shelf, picked it up by chance, or are just now hearing about it, this is one book that deserves a place in your life. Not just on your bookshelf, but in your heart. Because some books don’t just speak. Some books sing. And when they do, we can’t help but listen.
By Dipayan Biswasabout a year ago in Fiction
Baptized in Mud
THE WATER WAS SHALLOW, but it felt like he’d landed on bedrock. Mud sucked at his shirt. His hat was gone, and somewhere upstream, a longhorn was bellowing like damnation itself. The herd kept churning through the narrow ford, hooves pounding the riverbed, flinging water and muck and everything else the beeves left behind.
By Jason B. Bakerabout a year ago in Fiction
“When the Storm Came, So Did They: A Midnight Rendezvous You’ll Want to Get Caught In”. AI-Generated.
The Storm at Midnight The rain came suddenly that night, drumming against the windows of Lily’s small apartment like a thousand fingertips tapping out an urgent message. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and distant thunder. She’d always loved storms — the way they made the world feel untamed, wild, electric.
By Reiner Knappabout a year ago in Fiction
Ask The Trees
The girls go there to have their fortunes told. The boys go halfway, hoping for a kiss, or something, but they always mysteriously remember something very important that they have to turn back for. You can't get there in a car. You can only get there on foot. We all took off our jewellery and put it in Stacy's bag with her cigarettes and lighter, and Cherie's nail scissors. We tucked the lot behind the hedge, pulled some branches over it, left the road, and followed the track up the sloping field. We tottered a bit, because of the pink wine and high heels, but it felt delightful in the twilight, with the edges of our perfume mingling in the air. Like a wild sisterhood. Nicole was the first to take her shoes off, and the rest of us copied her by the time we got to the stile. Cherie squealed about splinters in her feet when we climbed over. Rhonda shushed her, and so did I. It was so quiet in this spot, and it felt like a soft, precious kind of silence. I wondered if someone might have put something in the wine, because I felt weird... but it was a good weird. Better than mushrooms. On a whim, I took my hair down, and when I looked round, Stacy and Cherie had done the same. Nicole's hair was too short to be up, but she looked just a bohemian as the rest of us. Like a real life pixie. It got darker and darker by the minute, but the path was kind to our feet, and after a while, the moon peeped through the thick green canopy. Our limbs shimmered under it, and my spine tingled. It was deathly quiet now, but that was okay. It was part of the story. There was only one track, and we followed it, smiling, until we reached the clearing. Without realising it, we were all holding hands. Cherie got too close, and I tugged on her arm to bring her back. We waited, sober as judges by now but moondrunk and half-dreaming. Possibility sparkled just on the edge of vision. We felt it in the corners of our mouths, tasted it in the air. I couldn't take my eyes off the ground in the middle of the clearing. It shifted and rippled, like water that didn't know how to behave. Then the chittering started. The balmy evening had gone chilly at last. I was prickly all over with gooseflesh. You were supposed to Promise them something. A year of your life, or a memory, or the colour of your hair after thirty. My mind went blank. What could I offer? An egg. Why not? I had loads of them. I wouldn't miss one. And now, my Question. The one I'd carried here seemed useless and trivial now. I'd wanted to know if Smithy really did love me, if we'd get married some day. The answer seemed so obvious, here in front of the wise old trees. Of course not.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Beneath the Dust
The wind was a constant sculptor in the Grey, a patient artist carving canyons from ruins and smoothing skyscrapers into tombstones. Kael knew its language—the high, thin whistle that presaged a glass storm, the low moan that carried the scent of Scrabblers on the hunt. He was a creature of this desolate wasteland, a reclusive scavenger defined by the silence of the spaces he inhabited. His lean frame was a testament to a life of scarcity, his eyes, the color of rust and watchfulness, missed nothing. He was cunning, a master of survival, but bravery was a currency he couldn't afford and didn't possess. His world was one of solitary, calculated movements, a life of evading conflict by being less than a ghost.
By Shane D. Spearabout a year ago in Fiction
Muffin’s Last Purr: A Love Written in Paws and Tears
The night I met Muffin, the world was broken glass and screaming metal. My car had skidded off the road, rain slashing sideways like silver knives. I remember the smell of gasoline, the dizzy spin of flashing ambulance lights—and then, a tiny, desperate meow.
By Sophia Davisabout a year ago in Fiction
The Serpent Queen
The river was known to run as though it had a mind of its own. It had to, in order to save itself. Poisonous black dust plumed overhead, settling atop the swift moving waters as the currents fought to go backwards against all odds, snagging whichever poor, unfortunate soul decided to jump into its tepid streams.
By K.H. Obergfollabout a year ago in Fiction
