Classical
The Sirens Didn’t Kill Them
People still tell it like it was simple. “They stopped their ears with wax,” the storytellers say, as if wax is a thing you find lying around on the shore like driftwood. As if it does not come from mouths and bodies and seasons. As if it does not have a smell that clings to your hands for days. As if it does not remember the warmth that made it soft.
By Flower InBloom5 days ago in Fiction
The Cairn Beside the Lake. Top Story - February 2026.
And so it came to pass that King Ertharion, Tenth King of Lombaia, stood beside the still lake below unrelenting and unassailable cliffs with the remainder of his harried host. In what was the tenth year of his reign and his forty-fourth upon this great green earth, Menigo the Betrayer, cousin of King Ertharion, pressed home his false claim.
By Matthew J. Fromm5 days ago in Fiction
Anna Akhmatova, Leading Soviet Poet, Is Dead. AI-Generated.
Anna Akhmatova, one of the most powerful and enduring voices of Russian literature, died yesterday at the age of 76 after a long illness. Revered by readers across generations and feared by Soviet authorities for her uncompromising moral vision, Akhmatova leaves behind a body of work that chronicles both private sorrow and the collective suffering of her people. Born Anna Andreyevna Gorenko in 1889 near Odessa, she adopted the pen name Akhmatova in her early twenties and quickly rose to prominence before the Russian Revolution. Her first poetry collections, Evening (1912) and Rosary (1914), established her as a central figure of the Acmeist movement, known for clarity of language and emotional restraint. Her early poems explored love, betrayal, and spiritual yearning with a sharp, economical style that distinguished her from the mystical excesses of her contemporaries. The Bolshevik Revolution transformed both her life and her art. While many writers fled Russia, Akhmatova chose to remain. That decision would cost her dearly. Her former husband, poet Nikolai Gumilyov, was executed in 1921 by the new regime, accused of counterrevolutionary activities. Her only son, Lev Gumilyov, spent many years in Soviet labor camps. These personal tragedies became inseparable from her poetic mission. During the Stalinist purges of the 1930s, Akhmatova was officially silenced. Her works were banned from publication, and she survived largely through translations and the support of loyal friends. It was in this period that she composed Requiem, her most famous cycle of poems, memorializing the suffering of women who waited outside prisons for news of their imprisoned sons and husbands. The verses were too dangerous to write down; friends memorized them, and the manuscripts were burned to avoid detection. For nearly two decades, Akhmatova lived in what she called her “years of silence.” Yet her reputation did not fade. Her poems circulated secretly in handwritten copies, and she became a symbol of moral endurance for younger writers who looked to her as a living link to pre-revolutionary Russian culture. After the death of Stalin, her standing gradually improved. In the late 1950s and early 1960s, selected works were again permitted to appear in print. International recognition followed. She was awarded an honorary doctorate from the University of Oxford in 1965 and traveled abroad for the first time in decades, greeted as one of the great poets of the 20th century. Akhmatova’s later masterpiece, Poem Without a Hero, reflects on the lost world of St. Petersburg society before the Revolution, weaving memory, guilt, and historical reckoning into a complex meditation on time and survival. Critics have compared her role in Soviet culture to that of a witness, recording events not through political slogans but through human voices. Though frail in her final years, she continued to revise and organize her poetry, determined that her work would reach future generations intact. Friends describe her as austere yet warm, fiercely independent, and deeply conscious of her responsibility as a poet in a society that had sought to erase her. Anna Akhmatova’s death closes a chapter in Russian literary history that began before the Revolution and endured through terror, war, and repression. Her poems stand as testimony to suffering without surrender and to the power of language in the face of silence. In the words she once wrote, “I was then with my people, there where my people, unfortunately, were.” That line now serves as her epitaph and her legacy.
By Fiaz Ahmed 7 days ago in Fiction
Daedalus's Sacrifice
The terrible news came in the morning after the banquet. King Minos spent the previous evening celebrating the death of Theseus, and his daughter's safeguarded purity. Minos drank and sang, elated by his victory. His precious, Ariadne, was tucked into bed, alone in his palace, as her would-be lover turned to acid in the Minotaur's stomach by now.
By Kera Hollow7 days ago in Fiction
The Next Morning
Sunlight spilled across my face, waking me. I rose slowly, a bit slower than usual, probably one or two martinis too many. I’m glad I pulled my robe around my body: I heard voices coming from my bath as I tread through the arbor joining it to my chamber. Sure enough, there my brother was, having a hot tub party in my bath. He took one look at my face and quickly escorted everyone somewhere else.
By Harper Lewis9 days ago in Fiction
