Young Adult

A New Era
A New Era After a failed attempt to publish a book, I feel my strength restoring and strengthening. After all, I believe in my talent and I have faith that I am going to fulfill my dreams. I learned that everything happens in its time and I believe myself to be mature enough to realize my goals. Always Remember: When we really want something, the world conspires to make it happen. That is how I feel: renewed with strength. Glancing back, I think of the works that I read so long ago which certainly enriched my culture and my knowledge. Books bring us through atmospheres and universes unknown to us. I feel that I need to be part of this history, the great history that is literature. It does not matter if I remain anonymous or become a great author who is recognized worldwide. What is important is the contribution that each one gives to this great universe.
By Aldivan Teixeira Torresabout a year ago in Fiction
My Therapist Said to Write a Letter to My Ex. I Didn’t Expect a Reply
My Therapist Said to Write a Letter to My Ex. I Didn’t Expect a Reply." Chapter 1: The Assignment Dr. Langford’s office smelled like lavender and regret. “Write a letter to Aiden,” she said, sliding a sheet of cream stationery toward me. “Say everything you never got to. Then burn it.”
By Wiki Rjmabout a year ago in Fiction
Eddie. Content Warning.
I'm not quite seventeen on the verge of panic no girlfriend no awards nothing to show for except that god-awful chicken pox scar
By Slgtlyscatt3redabout a year ago in Fiction
📖 The 12-Year-Old Diary and an Unsent Letter
It was a rainy afternoon when Aaliya ducked into an old secondhand bookstore in the quiet lanes of Daryaganj. The rain had started without warning, and she wasn’t carrying an umbrella. The bookstore, tucked between a steaming tea stall and a faded tailor shop, looked like the perfect place to wait it out.
By Silent Tearsabout a year ago in Fiction
Millennials and Fashion Style with a Purpose
As offspring of the 1981 to 1996 generation millennials revolutionized the fashion domain beyond recognition for all prior generations. Identity and values alongside creative expression take priority over rules-based approach as their style philosophy.
By Zulie Ranesabout a year ago in Fiction
Who is behind?
While checking the filter messages, I saw that some nudes of my wife were sent from an ID named Tanvir Ahnaf. Ritu's face was clear in the pictures. I zoomed in on the pictures to be more sure. No, it's Ritu. The mole on the left side of the chest is also clear. If it had been edited, the mole would definitely not have been there. The ID has deactivated me with the text.
By Md Ariful Islamabout a year ago in Fiction
....Then they took him away from me
The road is devoid of sympathy, or at least that’s how it feels. I find myself standing in front of a cafe with tears descending my cheeks. The air carries a strange feeling that something unfortunate is going to happen. My thoughts search for some clue of why I’m here only to be left with no answers. There are other shops across and on the other side of the road. Music stores, Antique stores, A salon, and whatnot, a small town has. The place has two cars, one in front of me– parked in front of the cafe, and the other a meter away at the music store. I look around to find any other reason why I’m standing in the dark, completely deserted by people. Street lamps cast a shady yellow light and the ground beneath my feet is wet, like it had just rained. As I scan my surroundings, I hear a chime behind me, from the cafe. Someone is walking out of there.
By Azalea JVabout a year ago in Fiction
The First Time I Loved Without Saying "I Love You"
The First Time I Loved Without Saying "I Love You" I never told you. Not because I didn’t want to... but because I didn’t know how to.
By Silent Tearsabout a year ago in Fiction
Before the Sky Went Quiet: Part I - The Girl Who Faded
Chapter One If You’re Reading This The attic still smelled like her shampoo. Lavender and citrus. Too bright. Too alive. The kind that clung to blankets and door frames and memories that refused to leave quietly.
By Tai Songabout a year ago in Fiction
Isaiah Rising
8 year old Isaiah has arrived at his church with his mother Miriam and his father Jonah for Easter Sunday. Their church, The First Calvary is hosting an Easter egg hunter for children in the community. “So how many eggs are you gonna get at the hunt today Isaiah?” Miriam asked while stepping out of the passenger’s seat. “I’m gonna get em’ all” Isaiah said with excitement.
By Joe Pattersonabout a year ago in Fiction
Mary had a little lamb
The chapel was gone. In its place, a field of ash stretched into the gray horizon—windless, breathless, still. Mary stood at the center, her palms glowing faintly, threads of golden light weaving from her fingers into the sky. Ash knelt beside her, quiet, reverent. Sebastian… lay collapsed. His body was no longer shifting. He was no longer transforming. The wool had peeled away entirely now. His hooves were hands. His face—delicate, human, eerily angelic—stared up at her with wide, black eyes filled not with hatred… but fear. Not for her. For himself. Mary stepped toward him, her voice hoarse. “Who were you… before?” Sebastian shook his head. Ash, watching silently, finally spoke: “He wasn’t always this. You deserve to know what they did.” And then the world began to remember. The Real Origin of Sebastian It began in the village of Vehl, nestled in a valley choked with superstition. Sebastian had been a boy no older than six when the rains stopped falling. The crops died. The livestock were born deformed. The sky turned a sickly yellow. The elders, drunk on fear and desperation, demanded a reason. A scapegoat. And they found one in him. A child too kind. Too quiet. With hair like bleached snow and eyes that unsettled the priests. A child who had been there—present—when the mayor’s daughter went missing. What no one cared to remember was that Sebastian had tried to save her. He’d followed the scream into the woods. He’d found her doll in a bush. He’d run to the village, gasping, sobbing, begging someone to help. But by the time they arrived, the girl was gone. And the doll—soaked in blood—was still clutched in his hands. The real killer stood behind the crowd that night, expression calm, face smeared with holy ash. Elias, the herbalist’s son. Seventeen. Jealous. Clever. He had found the Tome of the Devourer by accident—buried beneath his grandfather’s floorboards. He never meant to use it. Until he saw the boy with the snow-hair smiling too brightly, too innocently. He planted the evidence. He told the priests. He showed them the cursed book. He whispered, “The child is a vessel. The demon has entered through his birth.” The ritual began on the night of a blood moon. Sebastian’s mother did not stop them. His father looked away. He was dragged from his home barefoot, crying, trying to hold his brother’s hand. But no one reached back. They stripped him naked in the village square. They painted his chest with runes that burned on contact. They broke his toys and scattered them around the circle, muttering that no soul could remain attached to “worldly tethers.” And then they cut off his tongue. To prevent the demon from “whispering.” He didn’t scream. He couldn’t. But his eyes—those impossible, dark eyes—watched them all. When they chanted the incantation, the air twisted. Time buckled. Something answered. But not the way they hoped. Instead of banishing darkness—they poured it into him. Sebastian had never been a demon. But the ritual made him one. It cored out his heart. It poured in sorrow, confusion, rage. It stitched the wool into his skin. It closed his voice forever. It made him immortal. And very, very alone. The ritual ended. The child slumped forward. And the villagers cheered, blind to what they had truly done. For centuries, Sebastian wandered. At first, silent. Confused. A lamb with hollow eyes and blood on his hooves. He did not remember being a boy. But he felt the betrayal. The pain became his compass. The hunger, his company. Until he met Mary. She had picked him up from the field, just as the villagers once dragged him away. She held him. Fed him. Named him. She did not know what he was. And for the first time in centuries, Sebastian felt warmth. But warmth, twisted through torment, becomes obsession. Back in the Present
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Ride of John. Content Warning.
I learned this morning that John had died in a car accident while returning home form work the previous day. I had not spoken to John much, but I remembered him because of his innocent appearance. This bad news shook my heart.
By Rohitha Lankaabout a year ago in Fiction