Series
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
Tesla's Treasure Chest
Tesla's Treasure Chest By: Liam Einhorn There are few immortal treasures to a journalist like myself: an unfiltered look at the JFK files; an unaccompanied tour of Area 52; a glimpse into the true origins of the pyramids. Any of those would stir the investigative mind, but perhaps not as much as the offer of a lifetime I present to you now.
By Tales from a Madman3 months ago in Fiction
For All The Ages. Top Story - November 2025.
Thalia, acknowledged bastard of the Royal House of Dorion, was not the simpleton that so many assumed her to be. It seemed to come with being the daughter of the goddess of beauty and love: everyone supposed that you could have no interest beyond fashion and relationships. Thalia was good at relationships, seeing them in others, or at least the potential for them. Other than that perception, and some minor shapeshifting abilities that allowed her to subtly change her features, her powers were extremely limited.
By Natasja Rose3 months ago in Fiction
The Lost Season
Arthur’s Law was simple: a great photograph is not found, it is forged in the crucible of preparation. For Elara, a self-proclaimed "Leaf Peeper," this meant a military-grade itinerary. Her autumn pilgrimage to the Crimson Peaks was scheduled down to the minute: 5:47 AM sunrise at Eagle’s Point, 10:15 AM the golden glow on the Aspen Grove, 3:30 PM the fiery maples of Hemlock Ravine. She moved through the world with a tripod over her shoulder and a ticking clock in her head.
By Habibullah3 months ago in Fiction
The Weaver's Truth
In a quiet corner of the city, tucked between a bakery and a bookshop, was Elara’s tailor shop, “The Mended Seam.” Its true treasure wasn't on display. It was a threadbare tailcoat of no particular color, hanging on a brass hook in the back, known only to those who were truly lost. Elara called it the Weaver’s Coat.
By Habibullah3 months ago in Fiction
Stanislav Kondrashov Explores Wagner Moura’s Transformative Performance in Sergio
In recent years, political dramas have become a regular presence across streaming platforms. Yet few productions manage to balance narrative tension, emotional depth, and historical complexity with the same clarity as Sergio (2020), directed by Greg Barker. In this biographical film, Brazilian actor Wagner Moura brings to life the story of Sérgio Vieira de Mello, one of the United Nations’ most respected diplomats.
By Stanislav Kondrashov 3 months ago in Fiction
The Ceasefire That Didn’t Hold
The Ceasefire That Didn’t Hold For three days, the border had been filled with fire, smoke, and fear. Then the ceasefire came — a thin thread of hope, fragile like glass. For the first time in seventy-two hours, the guns went quiet. Families returned from camps. Soldiers stepped back from their positions. Reporters lowered their cameras.
By Wings of Time 3 months ago in Fiction
Journal entries of the Wolf-man . Content Warning.
Ded Moone’s Peregrination Introduce yourself, I guess, Night 1: A frenzied, radical move of lunacy during a moment of lucidity, but friends and family miss the dark for their best interest. With a track record of putrid half-measures focused on the financial debacles I can’t be blamed for despite the epic effort, I must say to that and all this, fuck’em. They are long aware of the cost/savings benefits of avoiding the lifetime hardship of holding firm against the disruptive acts they’ve given up trying to explain to first responders, friends, in-laws. This is respecting my cousin’s shrug and smile when I was last wheeled to the psych ward from the main lobby during some one-man natural disaster while trying to keep me away from your lives. I appreciate her silent candor, nestled in a refusal to respond to the question vocally once I pleaded my case, not a one-for-one; is it worth the gas money anymore? Nurse Jackie genuinely means well with ‘come back soon,’ layered with overbearing subtext for her devotion to patients, avoiding the sobering alternative, like, for instance, that my legs are delightfully, currently dangling over, so we had a good last run. No more power-ups after Black-Hawk-Downs at terminal velocity if I miss the other freeways. It’s, in a fashion, an attempt to fight the very notion of wind in favor of landing in the shadowiest section of an unlit road leading under Pocahontas Parkway. I saw it one trip heading to the Tar Heel State for a lecture. Can't say it wasn't gaudy, reaching out over that Potomac, I think, but I took note of it all the same on the drive back north. What a beautiful view, last or otherwise. A powerful end, one splat to resend all wasted energies to a greedy Earth with fallen angelic wings of flaming middle fingers—wait, wait, what am I doing—why the hell am I doing it this way?! I’m a god damn stamp on this putrid State rationality of what widens our perspectives naturally in regard to death and its role in the human psyche. I’m a fucking explorer of the damned, the feared unknown--I’m a god damn MAN! I gotta go, that's certain. This is the experiment of a lifetime, and I’m wasting it on a bridge jump in the dark alone? Symbolism over the race to see the unknowable—Geez, Fuck these nightmares! I might’ve missed the synchronized opportunity of my…
By Willem Indigo3 months ago in Fiction
Endurance
The frigid December air bites through the windows of the nearly empty Blue Line train, where Michael sits, clutching an almost-empty bottle of cheap whiskey. His rumpled coat hangs loosely around him, a sad remnant of the man he used to be, as the rhythmic clatter of the train echoes the turmoil within. Flickering fluorescent lights bathe his unshaven face in harsh shadows, each bounce of the train reminding him of the impact of his failures—of a wedding that never was, a family that feels more like strangers, and the job that slipped through his fingers.
By Endurance Stories3 months ago in Fiction
