Humor
The Silent Wood
Silas was not a woodsman, nor a hermit. He was a Fletcher, a title he’d given himself. Where others saw a wild forest, he saw a room in desperate need of tidying. His domain was the stretch of woods behind his cottage, and his purpose was to bring order to the chaos.
By Habibullah3 months ago in Fiction
Symbiotic: Chapter 2
Chapter 2 Sara pressed her back against the tree, heart still pounding from the encounter, but her mind refused to sit idle. Frustration burned through her fear. If the System was treating her fungi as party members, then there had to be a logic to it. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to think, and the sterile memory of her lab rose unbidden to her mind.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)3 months ago in Fiction
Symbiotic
Microbiologist Sara Bloom sat happily in her favorite place in the world. Recorder on. Notes Ready. Hands sifting through rich loam. She brushed her bare fingers through the soil, feeling the damp grit cling to her skin. The strands of mycorrhizal fungi tangled like threads of silk, delicate and alive, weaving unseen connections beneath the surface. She leaned closer, fascinated, murmuring notes to herself as she teased apart the networks that bound root to root, life to life.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)3 months ago in Fiction
The Man Who Sold Tomorrow. AI-Generated.
Gregor Vale had always believed time was not a river, but a marketplace. In the back corner of an old European alley, behind fogged glass and a tarnished brass sign, stood his tiny workshop — Vale & Sons: Custom Clocks Since 1882.
By shakir hamid3 months ago in Fiction
🌙 “Grandma’s Last Petal”
---Story Begins I was eleven years old when my grandmother first showed me the flower. It lived in an old glass jar, the kind that used to hold honey years before I was born. The jar sat on the smallest shelf in her room — the one I wasn’t allowed to touch unless she was with me.
By Muhammad Kashif 3 months ago in Fiction
The Strange Company & the Plague that Never Was
Knock-knock. “Who’s there?” growled an annoyed, sleepy voice behind the town gate. The evening was not young anymore, and the air was yet crisp. The nights following yearbreak were always the longest and darkest.
By Lucia's Imaginaries3 months ago in Fiction
DAY ELEVEN: Eleven Pipers Piping
It began at dawn, which was unfair. Nothing good had ever arrived at dawn. Stephen was dreaming of silence—clean, merciful silence—when the first blast of bagpipes tore through the bungalow like an alarm clock that had taken a personal interest in his suffering. His heart jolted; he sat upright, certain the world had ended.
By Stephen Stanley3 months ago in Fiction
