Steppe Stories

In this book, time behaves strangely. An old clockmaker in a basement smelling of brass and oil knows a secret: eternity has a hidden side. You can pull out a single minute - and save a child who has almost stopped breathing. True, you will have to pay with yourself. Every evening, a girl lights a street lamp - not with a match, but with the warmth of her own palms. And the city, long since switched to automation, cannot understand why this light warms more deeply than electricity. Here, a blacksmith beneath the moon forges not swords, but shadows and dreams. A baker on the edge of the market kneads bread for the birds - with dew and seeds, not salt. A cartographer draws not maps, but dreams, and his letter, written in rain-ink, sprouts into a tree a year later. An actress walks onto an empty stage to play the shadow of a hero who never arrived - and the hall applauds the darkness. And a man in a banana crate grows silence, because the noise of the city has become unbearable. Steppe ballads here border on a duel of honor, where the shot rings out like a verdict without explanation. The stonemason Myron knows: freedom is not brought - it is forged. A woman waits not for salvation, but for an equal, and her love is not a sigh, but a banner raised above fate. And the glass bridge over the abyss begins to glow only when two walk across it together. A Minute Stolen from Eternity is a collection in which magic is not a miracle, but a way of breathing. Where freedom smells of feather grass, honor stands at the barrel of a pistol, and silence sprouts through concrete, if properly watered. Open any page - and perhaps you, too, will be able to stop a moment.

A collection of tales written for the annual 2024 FFXIV Writing Challenge.

Story from my dreams

"I won him in a game of dice. I never owned him, though. He owned himself and always would, but I did not discover that until much later." Javaneh's people disdain her for her mixed blood, yet covet her magic. On the run from those who would bind her powers, she needs another horse for speed, no matter the cost. So in a caravanserai on the edge of the mountains, she gambles everything she has - including herself - to win one. However, she hadn't anticipated getting a smelly, dim-witted slave, whose only thought seems to be getting his next meal, into the bargain. Such an annoying travelling companion she can do without. Or can she? For with the wolves of the steppe hard on her heels, she may need all the help she can get, even from unexpected quarters. A tale of elemental magic, deception, dangerous escapes and dumplings.

Bilgun hasn't seen his hometown in years, but the steppe still haunts him-especially that lone Mongolian yurt he once watched from the backseat as a child. On his way home, his car dies in the middle of nowhere. Then a strange light appears... and when he chases it, both the light and his car vanish. What follows is a surreal journey through memory, mystery, and legacy-led by a grandfatherly figure on horseback who might not belong to the present. But when Bilgun receives a torn photo and meets a stranger with the missing half, the truth stretches far beyond coincidence. In the stillness of the plains, some things never leave-and some stories never truly end.

Un chantier de fouille archéologique quelque part loin... Trois jeunes gens pris en otage... Leur professeur pourra-t-il les sauver ?...

Welcome to Steppe Graphics! This is my request book and includes my portfolio displaying book covers, jackets, manips, websites etc made for Wattpad users and cover commissions. Please head to the INFORMATION page for further information on how to order your cover. Enjoy! Collection of my works at: http://po3aha.wixsite.com/steppegraphics/portfolio For a cover COMMISSION, check out the Steppe Graphics Website: http://po3aha.wixsite.com/steppegraphics

Các cậu có tin rằng... Có thể Crush một người chỉ qua tin nhắn không ?

Echoes: A Poetic Dialogue with the Classics What if the classics have not finished speaking? What if Shevchenko were writing about today's war - not as history, but as a wound that still bleeds? What if Lesya Ukrainka, who knew something profound about exile and defiance, were whispering to those who have lost their homes? What if Kostenko, Sosiura, Franko, Zhadan - seven voices separated by centuries - were to meet on the pages of a single book, not as marble busts, but as living, breathing, arguing, grieving, hoping human beings? They fell silent. Some a century ago. Some only yesterday. Yet the questions they lived by - freedom, dignity, love, resistance - have not gone anywhere. They hang in the air. They wait. Echoes is a book in which those words find a voice. Not quotations. Not imitation. Living speech - as though the dead poets had borrowed a living voice for one more hour. There is no museum here. Here is a bridge. A conversation across centuries, with room for fury, tenderness, silence, and hope. The dead are not dead - they are waiting for you to listen. Open any page - and perhaps you will hear an echo that has been travelling toward you for a hundred years.

A short story written for college, Stone Mask tells the story of a hunter and their quarry meeting on the steppe.

This is my first ever fanfic that I have ever written so be nice I am going to try to do one part per week but It maybe slow if I have to brush up on my trigedasleng or have to make sure my history is accurate but I hope you enjoy this passion of mine

My take on a steppe