Fiction
Every Brushstroke Was a Wish
In the small, quiet town of Avelar, there was a woman named Lena who painted with the kind of passion that only the truly lost could understand. Her cottage was perched at the edge of a vast forest, the kind of place where the whispers of the trees seemed to reach through the windowpanes, mingling with the rhythm of her brush against canvas. People in the town would pass by and sometimes glance at the paintings displayed in her window. But few, if any, understood the soul of her work.
By Jhon smith19 days ago in Art
The River and the Drops
High in the mountains, where no one watched and no one applauded, tiny drops of water slipped from melting snow. Each drop was small, almost invisible, and carried a quiet fear within itself. They began their journey without knowing where they were going, only knowing that they were moving away from where they began.
By Sudais Zakwan25 days ago in Art
The Crossroads of Becoming
I found it by accident. Tucked between a laundromat and a shuttered bookstore, half-hidden by ivy and time, stood a rusted phone booth. Not the sleek glass kind from movies, but an old metal one—peeling paint, cracked receiver, a dial so stiff it groaned when turned. No one had used it in years. Probably decades.
By KAMRAN AHMADabout a month ago in Art
The Girl Who Turned Her Face Into an Aquarium . AI-Generated.
When people first saw the photo, most of them thought it was edited. A young woman stared into the camera, her face transformed into a living aquarium. Tiny painted fish swam across her cheeks. Blue water-like shadows curved around her eyes. Light reflections gave the illusion of glass, depth, and movement. It looked surreal, impossible, and strangely emotional.
By shakir hamidabout a month ago in Art
Dunn & Sandwichgate
"Sandwichgate" -in this topic- refers to an incident: The 2025 acquittal of Sean C. Dunn (i.e., "Sandwich Guy") for throwing a Subway sandwich at a federal agent during Trump-era protests, while viewed as a symbol of resistance, was also scammed into existence as a misdemeanor assault.
By Reneegede7about a month ago in Art
The Bench by the River
Every evening, I walked past the same old bench by the river. Its wood was weathered, gray with age, the paint long gone, and yet it had a quiet dignity that made me pause, if only for a second. I had always been in a rush—rushing home from school, rushing to finish homework, rushing to keep up with life. But that evening, something about the rain, or maybe just my exhaustion, made me stop.
By Yasir khanabout a month ago in Art
The Night I Decided to Build My Own Universe
The Quiet Birth of a World There is a specific kind of silence that only exists at 3:00 AM. For me, that’s when the Lyonheart Universe actually started to take shape. It wasn't a sudden "lightbulb" moment or a calculated business plan; it was just a single, persistent image of a character that I couldn't stop thinking about. For months, these fragments of dialogue and half-formed scenes felt like haunting questions that I was being forced to answer through a camera lens. It didn’t arrive ready for a global audience; it arrived as a raw, messy need to tell a story that felt different from everything else I was seeing on my feed.
By Lyon Gaberabout a month ago in Art
