STOPHERE📍

  giphy.com Ronnie rides his bike He is riding on the free highway Summer sun shines On his golden hair His blue eyes Looking out for a signboard Saying, ‘Welcome Home.’ ☠️ CREAK

  giphy.com My name is Alfred Harold Hill. I am a cartographer for the British Army, Highland Rangers, and XXV Company. And I am dying. I am writing this journal to preserve my identity and to let others know what happened and what we went through. I have no idea how long I can write, as only a few candles are left and the inkwell is half empty. It is November 12th of 1891, the year of our lord. Outside the log cabin, a snowstorm has roared for the past three days. There are four to five feet of snow all around, the passes and routes erased beneath the relentless snowfall. I have tried to escape the log cabin only three times, only to turn back, defeated by the snow. I am 24 years old, my rank is first Lieutenant and it seems like yesterday when we journeyed from the army camp at Dehradun, three months to this day, a Platoon of thirty-five men and with me, and I am the last one remaining, the others dead, or as the Bitak would say, ‘Lo sall Jo kumi haar Jeenu.’ disappeared into...

  giphy.com Iztak Salal knew that he must do his work very quietly, very patiently; he must not draw any attention to himself or to what he was seeking. The book, which he carried in a bag, was slung across his chest, and he could get himself killed if seen by the right eyes. It was a book of medicine, an ancient book, but written for Ayurveda, written for Hinduism, for the knowledge of Hindus only, and he was aware of how Hinduism functioned. The Hindus were a tight-lipped people, hardly sharing anything with those around them or with the world at large; sharing knowledge was the last thing they would ever dream of. For them, Islam was not only a strange religion but an aberration. Somehow, in many ways, in things big and small of daily life, they tolerated Islam; for one thing, Hindus were known for their infinite and world-weary patience. Iztak Salal knew that if not for the book he had found, their paths would never have crossed. But now he must cross that wide chasm betwee...

  travellet Someday I sit  Staring at the bare walls Some nights I silently cry ✨  CREAK

      www.pinterest.com   Dinesh nodded his head silently, then he gazed at her. 'How are you, by the way, we haven't spoken for a couple of days now,' he said. 'I am glad you are noticing things,' Ritu replied tartly. Suddenly, Dinesh stepped forward and held her hand, 'Ritu, you are mistaken about a few things, I have always...' but before he could finish, the blue sirens went off with a loud clanging sound. There was suddenly some kind of eruption. 'Dinesh, what is it?' Ritu cried out in alarm. 'Ritu, I think the patient is haemorrhaging, if I am sure,' Dinesh answered, sounding a bit confused. Before Ritu could answer, the alarms started blaring.  ‘CODE RED CODE RED CODE RED’ 'We must leave here now, find the rest of the team,' Dinesh suggested, his voice panicking. They held hands and rushed out of the cabin into the pathway that led to the ‘EAT’ section. They had taken just a few steps when what they saw seemed...

  GAUTWORLD Milan felt as if someone was being tortured to death. Then there were thrashing noises as the dogs came out of the woods heading for the village. Someone fired a lighted arrow towards the noise. It struck a small bush, setting it on fire, and Milan felt as if someone had just squeezed his heart. As far as he could see, there were dogs and more dogs, hundreds of them! Snarling and howling, heading for the village, as he stared in horror, he saw three huge dogs pounce on a smaller one, biting and tearing it to pieces, turning it to shreds in front of his unbelieving eyes. 🐕 🐕🐕🐕🐕 AAMUR, a strange village with its unusual story. To know more about it. Click on the link to the book 'BIZARRE TALES'  https://notionpress.com/in/read/bizarre-tales-hardcover

  giphy.com Popular magazine editor Anita Suresh died last night in a car accident in Mumbai. She was the founding member and chief editor of the popular women’s magazine, “Patralekh” She survived by… What the hell! What is happening? Niti grabbed her head; suddenly, she felt an intense band of pain. Breathing hard, she collapsed on her bed and closed her eyes, massaging her forehead. Two rejection e-mails and two deaths, this is unbelievable. 💻 Niti Sehgal, a writer who was disappointed when her work was rejected by publishers, never knew she had a hidden talent within her. To know more about Niti's hidden talent, read ''SHOOTING MR SUMMER & 7 STORIES''. SHOOTING MR SUMMER & 7 STORIES