Fantasy
Calamity "Callie" Shortfuse. Content Warning.
So, Miss Shortfuse... Neat name. Very nice to meet you. May I call you Calamity? Callie, if it's all the same to ya. You only call me "Calamity," when you're beggin' for your life. So Callie is just fine.
By Madison "Maddy" Newtonabout a month ago in Fiction
The Lovely Lute
I am the lovely Lute. Silver eyes, pale skin, golden hair—I am the picture of youth, despite my old age. All over my body are trace amounts of feathers. You'll find them living in my hair, across my shoulders and up and down my back.
By Madison "Maddy" Newtonabout a month ago in Fiction
Syndra of the Silver Void
The Flint and Steel My parents were Sinaht and Rubarae, astral elves many looked up to. My mother, Rubarae, was a gifted healer while my father, Sinaht, was a studied philosopher, his gaze always fixated on the stars. Always.
By Madison "Maddy" Newtonabout a month ago in Fiction
The Name is Sable Trevino
Who Am I? Pleasure to meet you. Sable is the name. I am the second oldest of six children. My father is Alistair and my mother is Freya. My parents have retired from their shared life of secrets and spying, as every Trevino eventually does. They have settled down in a small village to the east of Eprieta to keep watch over their children, every triumph and tribulation we face.
By Madison "Maddy" Newtonabout a month ago in Fiction
We Stand in Moonlight
We walked around the castle’s defences again. The moon is full tonight and she is stronger than me. As we walk, the guards stare at us, probably wondering which one of us they watch. No one approaches us; they never do. We stand and watch the moon rise over the tallest tree that was planted generations ago. Soon, the moon will reach its highest point. We wait; she wants to see the castle’s lands by silver light and I have neither energy nor inclination to resist her. I do resist sometimes, usually out of anger but sometimes out of fear. Sometimes, the guards don’t even look at us, unsure of which one of us we are or of interrupting us. Sometimes, people even fear to approach us during the day, not even waiting until moonrise to wonder. I do not understand how they can make such a mistake; we act differently and dress differently – something that used to result in a fight, but I have since learned to pick the battles to expend energy on – and her eyes are silver. Even when we wear my clothing and the sun shines, our eyes give us away.
By Dionearia Redabout a month ago in Fiction
No Signal
The first thing Lorelei noticed was the sound. Not silence — she had expected silence — but a roaring, ceaseless, all-consuming noise. The surf. It came from every direction, a white static that swallowed everything else, and for a long, disoriented moment she thought she had gone deaf and the world had filled the gap with its own voice.
By Parsley Rose about a month ago in Fiction
The Kolobok Who Learned to Listen. AI-Generated.
Once upon a time, in a small cottage at the edge of a great forest, there lived an old man and an old woman. One chilly morning, the old woman decided to bake a round bread roll — a kolobok. She gathered flour from the barn, eggs from the hen, sour cream from the cellar, and butter from the pantry. She mixed everything together, shaped it into a perfect golden ball, and placed it in the oven.
By Julia Lemonabout a month ago in Fiction
In Blue Blood, Part 2
We careened to the left and wove through mazes of gardens, music stages, hammock zones. "And this is the nursery and living quarters." The nursery was an architectural copy of the milk processing center, only much smaller and low-ceilinged--geodescent dome boards painted white and green. The rest of the living quarters were divided into sections of brightly colored yurts. "This area is for the maids. This area for the bucks. And this is where coupled pairs may have a bit of privacy," she gestured to a stand of larger, silver yurts on the periphery. "Surely you don't mean to search through all of them, do you?" She batted her eyes again.
By Kate Kastelberg about a month ago in Fiction
In Blue Blood
The Kobold was dead. Many in the village would espouse the view that his death was hardly a cause for mourning. Funerary cloths retained their rightful place in armoires. As the news spread, second and third rounds of ale were bought, fiddles taken out of their cases to be played. Flowers were plucked and braided into all manner of hair. The din of celebration rustled songbirds in their dewy sleep amongst the tops of tallest trees. Alvy— the Kobold in question—was regarded as a nuisance at best and a terror at worst.
By Kate Kastelberg about a month ago in Fiction
