The Writers Inn

Sahar always noticed the man in the library’s corner; booth wire-rim glasses, faded blue sweater, always scribbling into a worn leather journal.He never spoke, never looked up.Until, one rainy afternoon, he was gone.

My name’s Ethan Cross. I’ve been the voice in the dark for WXDN 108.3 FM for just over six years now; host of the late-night segment we call Midnight Hour. It’s not a flashy show, never made the top charts or got syndicated. We don’t get sponsors knocking on our door, and we sure as hell don’t trend online.But that’s never really been the point.Midnight Hour was built for the ones who live between days; you know the insomniacs, the long-haul truckers cruising through empty highways, the janitors...

Deep space has always seemed beautiful to me. The endless void that stretches beyond the horizon into unfathomable depths, the existence of stars, planets, and cosmic phenomena offer a gateway to the unknown. It’s a place where the boundaries of science blur, paving the way for discoveries in regions untouched by human knowledge.  When you’re floating aimlessly through the cosmos, the silence can often weigh heavily upon you and the solitude and boredom of space can be…. haunting, and I would a...

The rain hit the pavement like it wanted to wash the world clean. I stood there, soaked to the bone, my heart pounding against my chest like it was trying to break free. I found her where I knew she’d be, the alley behind the café, the one place that still remembered us when we were whole.

It is often said that it is safer for a ruler to be feared than loved but for King Virgil IV, the notion was a delicate burden.

To be a writer is to wear the cloak of an outsider — always watching, never fully belonging, cursed to find solace only in the words that no one else sees.