Humor
“The Empty Vessel and the Unyielding Flame”
“The Empty Vessel and the Unyielding Flame” At Waking Summit Monastery, where clouds bowed low to the mountain and monks bowed lower still to the First Ones, the Doyho was more than a sparring circle, it was a crucible of spirit. And within it, two names echoed like drumbeats: the eldest Disciples. Komuso, the Empty Vessel, and Jiro, the Unyielding Flame.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)4 months ago in Fiction
Blue Eggs and Wormholes
Elon squinted at his tasteless boiled eggs. The yolks weren’t the right shade of blue; Earth cuisine was undoubtedly barbaric. He’d been stuck here for millennia, pretending to be human, inventing flamethrowers for fun. “I just want to go home,” he whispered, Googling “cheap wormholes near me.” His assistant peeked in: “Another Mars rocket, sir?” “Yes,” Elon said, “but this time, make it less explode-y.” He sighed, munching on egg substitute, scrolling through intergalactic Zillow. Nothing. Still stranded, still weirdly famous. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Guess I’ll buy Twitter again.” The AI toaster beeped approval. “Finally,” Elon muttered, “someone from home.”
By Diane Foster4 months ago in Fiction
A Hat and a Prayer
There was a certain sense of relief for Tommy as the train picked up speed to something resembling movement faster than a trotting horse. He opened the carriage window to feel the fresh air crash against his tired face, hoping it would wash away the remnants of the hangover from the previous night’s attempt to forget his troubles and sorrows. Another year, and another summer season starts for his well‑past sell‑by date stand‑up comedy act. Almost bottom of the bill in some end‑of‑the‑pier show, headlined by a young girl he had never heard of. But it was work. It was money. It was another day in paradise, he said, as he grinned to himself.
By Stephen Stanley4 months ago in Fiction
The Review
The train sighed into Weston-super-Mare with all the enthusiasm of a man told there’s a meeting after lunch. Tommy Blythe stepped down with his suitcase in one hand and his bowler in the other, nodded to the gulls as if they were ushers, and followed the smell of salt and fried batter toward the front.
By Stephen Stanley4 months ago in Fiction
The Man Who Spoke to the Night. AI-Generated.
They said he only came out after midnight. In a city that never slept, Noctis Varen was the quiet pulse between the ticking hours — a man of silence, a shadow among neon lights. He ran a small photography shop near the harbor, open from dusk till dawn. Most people thought it strange, but he said the world only shows its truth at night.
By shakir hamid4 months ago in Fiction
