Short Story
The Princess of Shadows
In the kingdom of Everlund, life was serene for Lady Elara Ashwyn, the noble daughter of a minor lord. Elara, with her raven hair and striking silver eyes, was known for her quick wit and kindness. She had always lived simply, often mingling with the villagers and learning the healing arts from the town’s herbalist, Dame Lyra. Her father, Lord Alistair Ashwyn, kept a strict but loving watch over her, rarely letting her venture outside the estate's boundaries. But one evening, at her coming-of-age celebration, an uninvited guest appeared—a masked stranger, cloaked in shadow, who seemed to know far more about her than anyone else. When their eyes met, the stranger only whispered, "The rightful princess should know her throne." The words lingered with her for days. That night, she slipped out of the estate, driven by an insatiable need for answers. Her journey led her to the hidden archives of Everlund, where she uncovered her family's secret: she was not Lord Ashwyn’s daughter, but the lost princess of the kingdom. Long ago, Everlund had suffered under the tyranny of a king named King Mordain, who ruled with dark sorcery and an iron fist. But a rebellion arose, led by none other than Elara's birth mother, Queen Elysia. After overthrowing Mordain, Elysia sought to rid Everlund of magic altogether, fearing its corrupting power. However, when Mordain's followers threatened her young daughter, she used the last of her magic to hide the child, erasing all traces of her lineage and placing her under the care of the Ashwyn family. Queen Elysia vanished soon after, and the truth was lost to history—until now. With her true heritage revealed, Elara was thrust into a new world of political intrigue, magic, and ancient prophecies. As she tried to reclaim her place in the kingdom, she discovered the legacy of King Mordain still loomed large. His followers, a secret society known as the Veiled Order, had been waiting for the return of a powerful descendant: Elara herself. The twist was almost too much to bear—Elara’s lineage contained not only the noble blood of her mother but also the dark magic of Mordain, the very thing her mother had sought to banish. She was heir to both the throne and to the forbidden magic, a living paradox in a kingdom that despised the very thing she represented. Conflicted and terrified of the magic stirring within her, Elara had to make a choice. Should she suppress her powers and fulfill her mother’s dream of a peaceful, magic-free Everlund? Or should she embrace her heritage and harness the darkness to protect her people from a resurgence of the Veiled Order? Elara chose a middle path. She embraced her powers but vowed to wield them only in defense of Everlund. She sought guidance from Dame Lyra, who, she learned, was a former member of a magical order that believed in balance rather than suppression. Under Lyra’s tutelage, Elara honed her magic, learning to wield it without succumbing to the allure of power. In the end, Elara became the queen Everlund never expected—a protector who wielded the shadows as both shield and sword. The Veiled Order, furious that she had turned away from their promises of dominance, waged war against her, but Elara, guided by her mother's vision and her father's honor, defended Everlund with a resolve forged from both light and shadow. And so, Lady Elara Ashwyn—the Princess of Shadows—ruled Everlund as a beacon of hope, a warning to those who sought power at any cost, and a reminder that light and darkness often dwelt within the same heart.
By Grace Guise2 years ago in Fiction
BEYOND GOODBYE
I still remember the day my world shattered into a million pieces. The day I lost my beloved friend, Harrietta. We had been inseparable since junior high school, sharing every laughter, every tear, and every secret. Her twin sister, Harriet, and I had formed an unbreakable bond, a trio of friendship that seemed invincible.But life had other plans.When we went to different high schools, the distance felt like an eternity. We promised to stay in touch, but the silence grew thicker with each passing day.That fateful day, I found myself drowning in despair, locked away in my school dormitory. I reached out to my mom, seeking solace in her comforting voice."Alice, I know it's not easy, but take it cool, we are sorry," she said, her words laced with empathy."Who told you I'm not okay?" I asked, confusion etched on my face."I knew it," she replied gently. "Because I know how you loved Harrietta, and she's passed away without saying goodbye."Time froze. The words hung in the air like a guillotine, waiting to drop."No! No! No!" I screamed, collapsing onto the cold floor.My mind refused to accept the reality. Harrietta, with her bright smile and infectious laughter, couldn't be gone.In a haze of grief, I called my mom back, pleading with her to stop the inevitable."Don't take Harrietta to the mortuary! She can't be gone!"But it was too late.The next three days blurred into a coma-induced haze. When I awoke in the hospital, the pain hit me like a tidal wave.Harrietta's presence still lingered, haunting my dreams. We shared meals, laughed, and reminisced about old times. But every morning, I woke up to the cruel reality – she was gone.Those dreams became my sanctuary, my escape from the agony.In one dream, we sat together, the three of us, sharing stories and secrets like old times. Harrietta's eyes sparkled, and her smile radiated warmth.But when I woke up, the silence screamed her absence.Losing Harrietta felt like losing a part of myself. The memories we forged, the inside jokes, the late-night conversations – all echoes of a friendship that would never be again.Tears streamed down my face as I gazed at our old photos.Why did you have to leave so soon, Harrietta?The question echoed through my mind like a mantra.As I navigated the labyrinth of grief, I realized that Harrietta's legacy lived on.In my heart, our friendship remained unbroken.And in those dreams, she'd always be there, smiling, laughing, and reminding me that even in death, love never dies.Days passed, and I visited Harrietta's graveside often. Her elderly sister, Harriet, would join me, sharing stories and tears.One evening, Harriet grasped my hand tightly."Alice, promise me you won't let this go," Harriet whispered, her voice trembling. "If someone...if someone had a hand in her passing, you must find out."I nodded, though my mind reeled in shock."We'll get through this together," I assured Harriet, my voice cracking.But Harriet's words ignited a spark within me. Could it be true? Could Harrietta's death be more than just fate?Determined to uncover the truth, I began asking questions.The investigation led me down a dark path, filled with twists and turns. Each revelation sliced through my soul like a dagger.One evening, as I pored over old records and interviews, Harriet sat beside me."Alice, I remember the day Harrietta confided in me," Harriet said, her voice barely above a whisper. "She feared someone was watching her."My heart skipped a beat."Who?" I pressed.Harriet's eyes clouded."She didn't say. But Alice, I know my sister. She wasn't one to imagine things."The room seemed to shrink, suffocating me.I knew then that I had to dig deeper.The search for answers consumed me, driving me to the edge of sanity.But with each step closer to the truth, I felt Harrietta's presence around me.Guiding me.Protecting me.And in the end, it was Harrietta's own words that unraveled the mystery:"Alice, I'll always be with you."Those words became my mantra, fueling my quest for justice.For Harrietta.For our friendship.For the truth.
By Samuel Asamoah2 years ago in Fiction
Tortured Soul
Otherworldly lights winked in the freezing mist swirling off the river. It's beautiful. Sometimes. Like, when she's standing on the bridge with a partner. Sharing warmth. Belly full of an expensive meal, limbs lubricated by a bottle of wine. Cheeks blushed by the cold. On those nights Mishka's heart feels full. There's often a homeless person on the end of the bridge, and if she hasn't already left all her change on the table in the restaurant, she drops it at his feet. She hates walking by herself late at night, though. The cold isn't so benign when you're alone. It's vicious too, the coldest winter for many years. There's the worry that a man hiding in a dark corner might attack. These are just bog-standard, grown-up fears, though. Mishka could believe that she was standing over the Styx, not the Severn. Thick curling fog, unearthly lights... Her overactive imagination hisses: A river boiling with souls... Tonight, she doesn't feel kindly towards the shape bundled up on the corner. Fear leaves her heart shrivelled and dusty. Shrouded in shadow, he looks sinister. There's only one way home from here, meaning she must step within a pace of him to set foot on the bridge. Taking a deep breath, she forces herself to stride, banishing temerity from her footsteps. Closer. Closer. He's hunched over, head drooping. He looks like he's sleeping. Mishka curses her chunky boots and their noisy soles. Nearer still, she hears his breath rattling. Still, he hasn't looked up. Drawing level, her breath coming in frightened gasps almost as ragged as his... A blackened claw flashes out and grips her calf. Mishka shrieks. He digs his fingers in with surprising strength. I'll go over! He's going to throw me into the river of the dead! He tilts closer. Lipless, teeth rotting, eyes sunken. She screams again, but there's nobody nearby. Panicked, she lashes out, slamming her fist into his head. It makes no difference. She has nothing to use as a weapon, so she curls her fingers into his hair and slams his head into the bridge. Again. Again. He slumps, his fingers loosen, and she flees.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
Promenades of Asphodel
From the top floor of a high rent apartment building an inconspicuous middle aged man watched the rain pouring down around bright, holographic neon signs that clashed with the darkness around them. It was quiet, save for the rain and the whooshing of passing aerial vehicles. One of the few regulations placed on corporate entities in the city required that all holographic audio advertisements cease past 12:00 AM and not start again until the workday began at 7:00 AM. It didn’t matter at that point, he could still hear the affected metallic voices in his head pitching cybernetic enhancements and gene modifications. While the sun remained in the sky they played endlessly, drilling themselves into the minds of passersby until it drove them to madness or disappeared into the background as white noise.
By Kyle Ketterhagen2 years ago in Fiction
Love Is Blind
One hundred steps between my front door and hers. I know because I counted each one of them that first time, when her singing reached my ears. Her enchanting voice drew me in, made my heart race as one, two, three locks clicked open, then a pivot and the turn of a key locked my apartment back up tight.
By Laura Pruett2 years ago in Fiction
LITTLE CHAMPION
Three-year-old Jack sat at the starting line, his eyes fixed intently on the finish line. His father, a seasoned runner, had brought him to the track to teach him the basics. Jack's chubby little legs wobbled with excitement as he prepared to take off."Ready, set, go!" his father shouted.Jack sprinted forward, his tiny feet pounding the track. The wind rushed through his curly brown hair as he giggled with glee.Suddenly, Jack's attention shifted from the finish line to a butterfly fluttering nearby. He veered off course, chasing after the colorful insect."Jack, focus!" his father called out, laughing.But Jack was too captivated by the butterfly's dance. He followed it around the track, completely forgetting about the finish line.As they finished their "race," Jack's father scooped him up in a warm hug."You may not have crossed the finish line first, kiddo," he said, "but you won something even more important.""What's that?" Jack asked, curiosity sparkling in his eyes."You discovered the joy of exploring," his father replied. "Sometimes, it's not about reaching the finish line but about what you discover along the way."Jack's face lit up with understanding.Over the next few weeks, Jack returned to the track with his father. Each time, he'd start strong, only to be distracted by something new – a bird soaring overhead, a leaf rustling in the breeze, or a fellow runner's smile.His father never pushed him to focus solely on the finish line. Instead, they explored the track together, discovering hidden wonders.One day, as they strolled around the track, Jack's father pointed to a small, weathered plaque."See that, Jack?" he asked. "It's a quote from a famous runner: 'The real contest is always between what you are and what you could become.'"Jack's eyes widened as he read the words."What does it mean?" he asked."It means that the finish line is just the beginning," his father explained. "The real challenge is becoming the best version of yourself."Jack nodded thoughtfully.As the months passed, Jack's love for running grew. He still chased butterflies and explored the track, but he also began to understand the value of perseverance and self-improvement.One afternoon, as they prepared to leave the track, Jack turned to his father with a determined look."Daddy, I want to run across the finish line," he said.His father smiled."Let's do it, kiddo."This time, Jack focused on the finish line. His little legs pumped furiously as he sprinted toward the end.As he crossed the line, Jack beamed with pride."I did it!" he shouted.His father swept him up in a hug."You sure did, Jack," he said. "But remember, the real victory is beyond the finish line. It's in the journey, the growth, and the joy you find along the way."Jack grinned, already knowing that.From that day forward, Jack continued to run, always keeping in mind the lessons he learned beyond the finish line.Years later, as Jack stood at the starting line of his first marathon, he recalled his father's words.The real contest is always between what you are and what you could become.With a deep breath, Jack took off, ready to face the challenges ahead, knowing that the finish line was just the beginning.The crowd cheered as Jack crossed the finish line, his arms raised in triumph. Tears of pride streamed down his face as he hugged his father, now gray-haired but still beaming with pride."I did it, Dad," Jack said, his voice choked with emotion.His father smiled."You've always been a champion, Jack," he said. "Not just because you crossed the finish line, but because of the person you've become."As they walked away from the finish line, Jack realized that his journey had only just begun. The real victory lay beyond the finish line, in the lessons he'd continue to learn, the growth he'd experience, and the joy he'd find along the way.
By Samuel Asamoah2 years ago in Fiction
The Queen of Ash
The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished. Khione knew the turmoil it will cause when abandoning her role, however she had no other choice. Natures balance had been corrupted and dark forces where colliding. She had been called to war, one that her people would not survive if she took them with her.
By Daniel Millington2 years ago in Fiction
Kelly's Unfortunate Adventures
In the small town of Ever Ville, there lived a girl named Kelly who had a knack for attracting bad luck. From the moment she was born on a stormy Friday the 13th, it seemed like the universe had a quirky sense of humor at her expense. Despite her bright smile and cheerful demeanor, Kelly often found herself in the most unfortunate of situations. Her life was a series of mishaps, yet she faced each day with unwavering optimism.
By LaMarion Ziegler2 years ago in Fiction
The vanishing Queen
The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished. At first, no one noticed the shift in the River Elara. Dawn had barely broken over the village of Greenwood when a young fisher named Lina, casting her nets in the early light, was the first to realize something was amiss. She watched in shock as her nets drifted upstream, defying the natural flow of the water. The river, usually calm and steady, now churned and twisted as if an invisible hand were pushing it against its will.
By Taviii🇨🇦♐️2 years ago in Fiction
“Whispers of the Night Sky”
Once upon a time, there was a young poet named Haru who loved to write haikus. She found beauty in every corner of nature, but nothing inspired her quite like the vastness of the sky. Haru believed that every cloud, every star, and every ray of sunlight had a story to tell. She would sit for hours by the lake near her village, her gaze fixed upwards, trying to capture those stories in her verses.
By Taviii🇨🇦♐️2 years ago in Fiction
