Tag "Dark" - Works and Original stories

Imagine a future with advanced technology and entirely new laws. Imagine security everywhere, even in front of your own homes. Scarlett and Bennett live in a city where there is no escape. They lived content lives until all hell broke loose. Will they be able to escape the city with their lives?

Hanahaki - the disease of the lovesick. An ordinary girl fell in love with Korra, whose heart is already taken by Mako, and now she is forced to suffer because of it.

She feels. But what? Hatred or... something else? No... she knows she's just going crazy. Unconditionally.

20 years ago the apocalypse started, and a huge corporation named Holo, a science facility looking for a way to live forever is responsible. After an explosion causing a poison rain happened everyone either died, became a zombie, or wished they were gone. The original creator of the life potion Mr. Lane went on to try and fix what he told everyone would happen. After failing his children pick up where he left off on a journey to save the world.

When the narration was nearing the end, Snow said in the forest: "three dead are enough for me." At the same moment, the lines "Where they strung up a man they say murdered three" from the song "The Hanging Tree" popped up in my head. They flashed like a bright epiphany, and no longer left my mind. That's why this story was born.

Dahlia Hawthorne is no stranger to poisoning people. Even if not always successfully. And thanks to Mia Fey, she still gets her death sentence. But who would have thought that it would be enough to stop her? And now that she's dead, Dahlia has the perfect chance to take revenge on Mia. But how can you take revenge on someone who is already dead too? That's right: to send Mia's younger sister to the next world.

Free-style translation of poem 'The Black Man' by Russian poet Sergey Esenin.

Free-style translation of short poem by Russian poet Boris Ryzhy.

Perhaps this song would have saved you now if you had listened to this advice.... You and Fyodor are bound by chains... Chains of death

About a man who got into the backrooms.

In the shadow of the magic dome that, like an invisible hand of fate, embraced the city, life flowed slowly, like tears on glass. The streets of the city were curved like ancient dreams, covered with the dust of time. The houses rose to the sky like guardians of unspoken secrets, their facades glittering with soft light, giving the impression that in every window there is a story hidden that no one dares to tell.

In the shadow of past dreams, where the stars lay on the horizon, there lived a man whose dream eluded him like a light breath of wind in the midnight silence. Every night he went to bed like a sea of rest, but dreamed of fatigue, of the world that opened only in the arms of weightlessness of sleep.

In the dark sky of my soul, like stars whispering their secrets, a bright planet called "Destiny" flashed. Her light was reflected in my eyes, giving life meaning and filling it with unknown possibilities.

It should've never happened like this. It should've never ended like this.

After the “death” of Soulless, things took their turn. And up to a certain point everything was fine, but then one day, when Soulless carefully went about his usual business, news came to him.

There is constant murder in the city, the news is all about this, they also talk about some “Soulless”, who received his nickname because of the cruelty of the murder, someone calls him a murderer, and someone considers him an idol, but who is he? In fact?

A dead fog bloomed in the gray embrace of the night, like the breath of bygone times. He came like a sad messenger, eclipsing the light of the stars with a misty veil, like a ghost of the past, forgotten in the whirlwind of fate.

In the shadow of sad alleys, between the endless walls of gray buildings, lived an artist whose work was shrouded in the darkness of art. His palette knew only one shade - deep, impenetrable black. It seemed that every stroke of his brush contained inexhaustible grief, longing, the source of which lay somewhere in the very soul of the artist.

In the dark realm of the unconscious, where dreams are born, the hero of my story woke up every night. He was a shadow flying through the stars of his dreams. His creator, the master of this magical theater of dreams, put his soul into each image, gave him wings so that he could soar into the abyss of imagination.

It was summer when the flowers in the garden were blooming with bright colors, but in the house number 13 there was a shadow. Where laughter and joy used to sound, now there is only an echo of past happiness.