Stream of Consciousness
Beneath the Tree That Watched Us
The Tree on the Hill On the edge of a quiet village named Kalwara, stood a tall, old peepal tree, alone on a small hill. Its branches were wide, its bark dark and cracked like an ancient face, and its leaves sang with the wind. The villagers called it “The Watching Tree”, because no matter where you stood on the hill, it felt like the tree was looking right at you.
By Muhammad Hayatabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Chronicles of a Sarcastic Girl Who Just Wanted Chicken Soup and Clarity”
It’s not 3AM but she’s writing again. She just watched a tutorial on Python indentations and zoned out 13 times in 11 minutes. A lot is going through her head, but she can’t unravel anything because her brain keeps circling back to one temptation — Kilishi. Yes, Nigeria’s famous spicy dried meat. The kind of spicy that slaps you out of depression and says, “Oya now, stand up!”
By That_Uninterested_Engineering_Studentabout a year ago in Fiction
A Cafeteria
Now my school did not have an outside cafeteria, but we did have an area if we wanted to go out just for some fresh air. School cafeterias places of so-called mystery meat and other culinary somewhat disasters in the name of healthy, nutritious eating. No wonder I was mainly a brown-bag person.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
The Bone Collector’s Daughter – II: Whispers from the Crypt. Content Warning.
Part 1: The Bone Collector’s Daughter – I: The Inheritance of Shadows III: Whispers from the Crypt The days bled together after the prince’s offer. Vera wandered Blackthorn Hall like a ghost herself, her fingers trailing over the relics of her father’s obsession. The skulls seemed to watch her now, their hollow gazes heavy with secrets.
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"about a year ago in Fiction
Beneath the Raven’s Wings
The Raven’s Kiss The first time I saw her, she was standing at the edge of the Wood, where the mist curled like phantom fingers around the ancient oaks. Her gown was the color of a moonless night, her lips darker than spilled wine. She did not speak—only smiled, and in that smile, I felt the weight of centuries.
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"about a year ago in Fiction
The Tracks
Why don't trains travel on me anymore? I know there are weeds from time to time on my rails, but won't the wheels on the trains cut the weeds away? I swear I can hear many trains, but why don't they travel on me now? Too many questions and no answers for me.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Footprints in the Wrong Direction
A Trail That Shouldn’t Exist In the cold, mountain village of Ravenshade, 15-year-old Noah Elwin had always followed the rules. He never wandered into the forest, never stayed out after dark, and never questioned why the old northern path was forbidden.
By Muhammad Hayatabout a year ago in Fiction











