The first part in a suspense filled sci fi short story meant to leave you in the edge of your seat biting your nails!!!!

Exciting and completely honest review of throne of glass by Sarah j Maas! Been wanting to read it but don’t know if it’s worth the time and money? Read this helpful reviews!

Before Komia had shape or name, two divine wills awakened in the Infinite Stillness, Sundrious, the radiant force of creation and order, and Nyxathis, the serpentine embodiment of chaos and change. Their clash created the world itself, but also its greatest horror, the World Eaters, beings that devour reality itself. When Sundrious fell to save existence, Nyxathis shattered his body and forged sixteen Original Dragons from the remains, each bound to fragments of godhood called the Sun Scales. These dragons ruled, warred, and shaped Komia until they vanished.

The history of Komia is defined by three eras. The Primordial Age, The Age of Dragons, and the Era of Mortals

Komia is a vast and diverse world filled with unique races, powerful creatures, and ancient mysteries. Its lands were shaped by the Original Dragons, whose influence still lingers in the world’s foundations. Towering elemental mountains, living forests, and shimmering deserts whisper of lost civilizations and dragon gods long gone. Magic flows through Komia like an unseen river, woven into its fabric and harnessed through divine blessing, arcane mastery, or ancient runes left behind by forgotten ages. Beneath the surface lie labyrinthine ruins and underground kingdoms holding relics from the era when dragons ruled openly. In their absence, mortals, chief among them the Drakari, (dragonkin), have risen to power, forming kingdoms that mirror the virtues and flaws of their ancestors. Some rule with wisdom and order, others with ambition and conquest. Though the age of dragons has passed, their legacy endures, echoing across Komia like an ancient roar that refuses to fade.

The Roots of the Blango Lineage: 1701 Imagine a world where existence is a secret kept by the soil. In the early 18th century, the North Carolina wilderness was no "new world" to the Blangos—it was the only one they had ever known. While the British Crown claimed the colony from afar, the Blangos were already part of the silt and cypress of the Pamlico Sound, keepers of a legacy spanning generations. In 1701, this heritage rested on young Thomas Blango, a child of the marsh and son of Silas, a master mariner, and Elenore. She knew survival required a "Paper Trail" to withstand colonial legalities. For the Blangos, the land was not to be discovered, but defended. Elenore called their documented history "The Flame"—the truth that burned away fictions of rootlessness. The Blango story is a map of endurance, a bloodline that looked the wolves of the frontier in the eye and did not blink. This is the enduring fire of their line, standing firm on their own ground.

I froze in the middle of the undulating floor, staring at my double, the one beckoning from the flickering amber light. Every fiber of my being screamed to retreat, to run back toward the memory of my living room, the faint hum of the TV, the comforting beige walls and sun-faded carpet. But I couldn’t move. The faceless figures had formed a corridor behind me, a silent gauntlet urging me forward, pushing me with invisible hands. Then the train shifted. Not just forward—it bent. The rails, the walls, the floor all swirled together, warping space like molten metal. I stumbled but didn’t fall. My double smiled wider now, something knowing, almost cruel in the way it revealed my fear.

The moment my foot touched the wet platform, the world shifted entirely. Gravity felt thicker, like I was wading through syrup. The faceless figures kept moving with mechanical precision, their boots splashing in puddles that mirrored the amber light from the train windows. I wanted to step back, but the platform stretched behind me into fog, dissolving into nothing. The living room, my tiny TV, the couch—they were still there, ghostly outlines behind me, tethering me to some fragile sense of reality I could barely cling to. The train was closer now. Its hiss was deafening, steam curling around my face, hot and metallic. The smell of pizza clung to it, absurd and impossible in combination with the sharp, oily scent of the engine. My stomach twisted. I realized I could hear it—the faint, rhythmic echo of my own heartbeat, perfectly synced with the thrum of the rails.

The vibration under my feet persisted, subtle yet insistent, like the heartbeat of something enormous moving just beneath the floorboards. I sat frozen, my eyes locked on the tiny TV, watching my double—or whatever that was—reach forward as if it could step through the screen. My hands trembled. I wanted to grab the remote, yank the cord out of the wall, do anything that would stop it, but it felt like the room had grown heavier, every movement slowed by invisible weight.

The next morning, I woke with the faint taste of pizza grease in my mouth, like a dream I couldn’t fully remember. The tiny TV sat quietly on its rickety table, innocuous, almost apologetic, as if nothing had happened. I poured coffee, the steam rising in lazy curls, and kept glancing at the screen, half-expecting the words NEXT STOP to vanish or wink at me, some reassurance that it was just a weird dream. But the TV remained black, silent, patient. Waiting. I didn’t want to turn it on. I knew better. Something about it had changed. The scratches, the name, the smell—it wasn’t just a channel anymore. Something had shifted.

I have a tiny TV. That’s how I always think of it, not the tiny TV, just my tiny TV, like a pet with poor manners. It sits on a tiny table—particleboard, one leg shimmed with a folded receipt—in the middle of my adequately sized living room. The room is big enough that the TV looks embarrassed to be there, like it wandered in by mistake and decided to stay. Couch against the wall. Window that faces nothing important. Carpet that remembers better decades. Everything reasonable. Everything quiet. The TV gets one channel.

I use Wattpad to post fanfictions and actual stories and I was wondering if anyone would want to follow for a follow back? I don't post constantly but I plan to change that soon. I typically write romance stories but I plan to write some other genres as well. My favorite trope is Enemies to Lovers. I hope you find my stories to be able to put a smile on your face. I've always wanted to make people happy with my writing especially since it's been one of my favorite activities growing up

This is an essay on how humans can be arrogant when it comes to world issues as a whole. It also touches on how the Earth's resources are not as infinite as we think.

Jakari’s eyes burned—one vivid pink, the other black with a white line—heart pounding like war drums. Soldiers lunged, bullets screamed, but he moved like a ghost, disarming, dismantling, leaving bodies crumpled in his wake. Mara’s laugh froze as she saw him, fear cutting through her pride. One final strike, her body collapsed, blood spilling, the room silent but for Jakari’s ragged breaths. He turned, walked past the chaos, pulling the necklace from his pocket and dropping it at Asia’s feet. “We’re done,” he said, cold. She stared, tears brimming, as he walked away.

Forbidden love: A knight risks execution to flee with the princess he was sworn only to protect. She took his hand the hand of a soldier, scarred and calloused and pressed it against her cheek. “I would rather spend one month running through the mud with you than fifty years sitting on a throne next to a man I do not love.” ​The logic of the soldier died in his throat. In its place rose a terrifying, beautiful recklessness. Kaelen reached out, his leather-gloved hand tangling in her loose hair, pulling her just close enough that he could feel the frantic, matching rhythm of her heart. ​“Gods help us,” he breathed, his forehead dropping against hers. ​“They already have,” she whispered. “They gave us tonight.”

This is a podcast episode for a show called Bob's Burgers. It is engaging, funny, entertaining, and very enjoable.

Time has a way of settling over things like dust. In the weeks and months after the throw, the world moved forward as it always did, carrying the echo of that singular moment along hidden currents. Newspapers reprinted screenshots. Documentaries aired clips slowed to surreal insistence. The hashtags faded, but the story didn’t. It became one of those inexplicable legends that people cited but never fully understood, like a cautionary tale whispered at family dinners or in the back rooms of small-town diners. The little man returned fully to Woodburn, to streets that remembered him but demanded nothing. No crowds, no cameras, no applause—just the rhythm of his own steps on cracked sidewalks. He walked past empty lots where leaves gathered in corners, past chain-link fences where forgotten potato sacks lay like relics of some absurd ritual. Sometimes, he paused and stared at them, half-expecting the russets to rise and fly again. They never did.

The first imitation attempt happened before the provisional ink dried. It was not sanctioned. It was not measured. It was filmed vertically on a phone with a cracked screen and uploaded with a caption that tried too hard to sound inevitable. The potato was undercooked. The distance was exaggerated. The target—a watermelon duct-taped to a fence—stood in for courage. Still, the clip spread faster than anyone expected, shared not because it was impressive, but because it felt adjacent to something that mattered. That was how it began.

The roar did not end so much as it transformed. What began as disbelief hardened into narrative almost immediately, as if forty-seven thousand people were racing to explain to themselves what they had just seen before someone else did it for them. Chants started and died mid-syllable. Flags waved with no clear allegiance. Strangers hugged, then pulled apart, embarrassed by their own sudden intimacy. On the field, officials moved with the stiff precision of people who understood that every step was now evidence. Clipboards appeared. Radios crackled. A man in a blazer jogged, then slowed himself to a walk, remembering too late that jogging suggested panic.

The potato left his hand with a sound no one expected—not a thud, not a hiss, but a low, wet whump, like something alive being evicted from its body. It spun once, twice, end over end, trailing a faint vapor as heat met air. For a fraction of a second it seemed too heavy, too ordinary, too foolish to be airborne at all. Then it climbed. The crowd did not cheer. Cheering would have implied confidence. This was something else entirely. A collective intake of breath rolled through the stadium like weather. Phones rose. Mouths opened. Somewhere in the upper deck, a man dropped his beer and did not notice.