Unfinished Tales Novels & Stories

The rain stopped three days ago, yet the ground continued to release steam as if it were smoldering from deep below. Across the valley, wolves murmured about unusual lights shining through in the forest and howls that didn't belong to any known pack. Something ancient was stirring. --- Inside the cabin, Lydia was wide awake. The air around her hummed softly, as if the world was in a normal state of balance, waiting for her to break the silence. The glowing ashes she had noticed hadn't cooled; instead, they beat alive steadily, full of life and warmth.

The final weeks of the semester felt like a fever dream. Quinn had completely lost control of her life in the best and most terrifying way possible. Every night, sometimes even during the day when the building was quiet, she found herself back in Dr. Malcolm Reed’s office. Their encounters had become longer, more intense, and increasingly risky. They barely bothered with pretense anymore. The moment the door locked, clothes came off and they went at it like animals who knew their time was running out.

While packing, I would think of his disfigured body when he died. So, I packed on and off for two full days. At the very end, as I was wiping down a decorative piece on Dad's desk, a click sounded. A hidden compartment appeared on the bookshelf behind me, revealing a locked box. I froze for a second, then pried the box open with a hammer. Inside was a document I had never seen before. I read through it, noting that the contents seemed to relate to the Bianchi family's bankruptcy. I steadied my racing heart and hired a trusted private investigator to look into the matter.

He leaned against the tree. My skin crawled at the vivid images his words painted in my mind. Each new detail made me grateful for skipping breakfast that morning as it felt like my insides were trying to escape. The way Charlie had explained the Arcane Collectors was like a mafia organisation with a thing for ancient relics, but the way Mr Harrison put it, a mafia organisation sounded like kindergarten. What's worse is how it weirdly made sense. The untraceable thefts, thieves that chose death over failure, wrecking houses, and kidnapping teenagers at midnight.

It seemed I would be the only one paying my respects at this mid-autumn festival. I had not even reached the door when a harsh crash echoed through the air. My chest tightened. I ran inside and saw several workers swinging sledgehammers at the walls. “Stop!” I shouted and stormed in. The house was a wreck. Furniture was smashed to splinters. Lance stood amidst the ruins, seizing my mother's ancestral tablet and smashing it to the ground. Crack! The tablet shattered into pieces. He was not satisfied. He stomped on my mother’s black-and-white portrait, grinding it into the floor.

"There's a festival that takes months of preparation when you go to Silvenia, it’s called White Day. Since everyone is invited, designers from Silvenia might come and take your measurements for your suits and gowns. You can choose your own personal designers but I doubt no one knows Silvenian fashion better than Silvenian designers. People can dance over a frozen lake, don't worry about falling because it's been frozen for years that no one even knows what it looks like when the ice is all thawed. There's a legend that if a wolf howls while you're dancing on the frozen lake, it means that good things await you and your dancing partner so most people take the chance to dance with a loved one

Home. And when Patience Userkaf found Dorsal Finn library rifled and ruined, and its owner missing, she instinctively sought solace in her family. She ran down the library steps, lost yet resolute that home held all the answers. The thought of her kind and beautiful mother, her proud and hardworking father, even her gregarious and often irritating uncle, spurred her on as she hurtled through the eerily, desolate streets, silent save for the pounding of feet on pavement and cobblestone.

plastered on since sophomore year. i creak open the ancient door and make sure the stalls are empty. as always, the place was a ghost town. just as i grab my weed from my bag, the bell rings. the wing was silent. if i hadn’t heard the bell, you wouldn’t have even known it was a passing period. right as i finish my joint, i hear the door creak open and slam shut. i try to stay silent, hearing only a stream of piss hitting the ground of the stall next to me. whoever it is isnt even trying to aim.

Not happy endings. **************************************************

He could start crying, but would it help? Thaddeus remembered several other boys who had been caught up in this dark, rat-infested alleyway alone with the older boys. It was a saga he was quite familiar with, you either end up losing your money or you cry home with a scraped knee and a broken nose. If he stayed, similar fate awaites him. If he ran, he might get lucky. "Too dull to pause, or make an end..." A line from a poem whose title seemed fuzzy in his head.