Fable
Never Give Up Hope: Train More to Be More. Content Warning.
Never Give Up; Train Daily, Religiously. To become a master of any martial arts, you must practiced at least 60 hours a day, everyday, every week, and every year, and even dream of ways to improve your skills. Never ever, ever stop training. I have many black belts, for I was born in Korea and raised in Japan. There is no short cuts and no magic potions to mastering the deadly art of fighting. I have known many masters in Asia and earned black belts in their schools. In a real fight, they will no show mercy. Wearing a straw hat can help.
By SAMURAI SAM AND WILD DRAGONSabout 5 hours ago in Fiction
The Throne Room
The smoke hung heavy in the air, overtaking the sweet and savory smells that permeated the festival. The wooden poles that held the steel grates over the roaring flames were overturned, and the meats were ravaged by the beasts that hunted with the red-eyed shifter.
By KA Stefana about 15 hours ago in Fiction
Pastel Nightmare
The Johnsons were the quintessential suburban family. Laura, her husband Mark, and their two kids, Ellie and Ben, loved going all out for the holidays. Easter was no exception. Pastel-colored eggs, garlands, and bunny decorations adorned their home every year, but this time, Laura wanted to make it extra special.
By V-Ink Storiesabout 23 hours ago in Fiction
The Quilt Maker
The Quilt Maker The woman shifted and shuffled the different cubes of fabric. All of them held different colors, patterns, and shapes. Each one was a different emotion of things. She didn’t know what to put together, but she never really knows. This was part of her process.
By David S. JohnsonWilliams2 days ago in Fiction
The Lantern in the Fog
The fog settled over the village like a blanket soaked in silence. At first it was gentle, wrapping the streets in a quiet hush. But as night deepened, it thickened into something heavier, almost alive, crawling along the cobblestones and slipping into the cracks of every home. It was not the kind of fog that simply blurred the edges of things. This fog carried a chill that touched the marrow, a weight that pressed on the heart, and whispered doubts in voices that sounded eerily familiar.
By Sound and Spirit3 days ago in Fiction
A Love Forboding. Top Story - January 2026.
The chipped stone slope caused unbearable footing. I slid, skirting on my heels. I cast my shield, relinquishing my guard to stay upright. Left with my double-edge and a prayer to the maker, I skated toward my objective. The earthly stubble gave way to solid ground. I found myself restored, a trail of dust in my wake.
By James U. Rizzi3 days ago in Fiction
