Excerpt

The Clockmaker’s Gift
In a small cobblestoned town in the middle of two green hills lived an old clockmaker, Elias Thorn. His workshop, tucked at the corner of Willow Street, was a symphony of crushing sounds - hundreds of clocks, ticking with a life of their own.
By Nusuki5 months ago in Fiction
When Time Sleeps. AI-Generated.
The world had forgotten the sound of ticking. It had been three hundred and twenty-one years since the Great Reset — the day the sky burned gold and the rivers began to flow forward again. Humanity called it The Dawn of Stillness.
By shakir hamid5 months ago in Fiction
The Last Letter
The train was then long gone from the station, but Ava was still standing, still holding old, yellowed envelope in her fingers. The paper was soft from being opened and folded too many times. The words inside had faded, but she didn't even need to read them anymore - she knew them by heart.
By Nusuki5 months ago in Fiction
The Price of the Aesthetic
For Elara, Dark Academia wasn’t just a style; it was a religion. She didn’t just design rooms; she curated sanctuaries for the intellectual soul. Her signature was a perfect, brooding blend of mahogany bookshelves, cracked leather armchairs, vintage globes, and the lingering scent of old paper and ambition. Her clients were wealthy professionals who wanted to look like they’d inherited a library from a 19th-century Oxford don.
By Habibullah5 months ago in Fiction
The Last Letter from Nowhere
M Mehran The letter arrived on a Thursday — the kind of day that sits quietly between the noise of the week. No sender name. No return address. Just her name: “Lena Morris.”
By Muhammad Mehran5 months ago in Fiction
Coffee, Leaves, and Wagging Tails
Most mornings, he grabbed his cup of coffee and disappeared into his office for another morning of clacking away while listening to the podcast fitting the moment.
By Matthew J. Fromm5 months ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Gift
In Ravelle, time had a slower pace. The streets between the stone houses were meandering like the ribbon streets and every evening, in the air, the smell of bread from the old bakery and the faint scent of rain. At the very center of the town was to be found a little shop with a faded sign reading:
By Nusuki5 months ago in Fiction
The Last Dream Seller
In a town where night had lost its magic and the streets were silent, a peculiar shop stood between an old bakery and a shuttered bookstore. Its windows were misted with silver dust, and the faded sign read: Dreams for Sale. Most of the townsfolk passed by without a second glance, thinking it abandoned. But inside, under the dim glow of lanterns, a man worked quietly, arranging tiny glass bottles filled with sparkling mist.
By Muhammad Kashif 5 months ago in Fiction
The Last Love Letter
In the attic of a small, creaky house, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the world, lay a trunk filled with old letters. The letters were tied with a faded ribbon, the once-vibrant pink now dulled to a soft blush. The address on the top envelope read: "For My Beloved, Forever and Always".
By Muhammad Kashif 5 months ago in Fiction
Glass Danse Macabre
The stillness. The steely stillness that stole my breath was ever present. For so long, it had claimed my heart and devotion, and felt alive. Now it felt empty.
By Paul Stewart5 months ago in Fiction
“The Photographer Who Could Only Capture Moments That Would Be Regretted Later”
The Photographer Who Could Only Capture Moments That Would Be Regretted Later No one believed Elias Hart when he first explained his problem — mostly because he never explained it fully. He only said the same sentence every time people asked why he rarely shared his photography:
By SHAYAN5 months ago in Fiction
Football Friday Night. Content Warning.
It was one of those magical southern nights in October, and all of the teenagers in town were drunk on autumn and youth. There would be a party after the football game, and youthful concupiscence would be satisfied before the moon set in the morning sky. In anticipation of this, the boys were dousing themselves in Polo and Drakkar Noir while the girls teased their bangs into ski slopes and lacquered them above their heavily mascaraed eyes lined with kohl and painted hot pink stripes on their cheekbones. Def Leppard and Whitesnake blasted from boomboxes perched on dressers and lingerie chests. Pliers were used to zip jeans, and Marlboro Lights were smuggled out of sock drawers and into handbags while condoms pressed their circular imprint into dollar bills in wallets in back pockets.
By Harper Lewis5 months ago in Fiction