A brief writing record website

 Jack was sitting in his old house, reading an ancient sci-fi called the Dragon Egg (A novel about how aliens help humankind to explore in the universe) in the somber light of a dying candle. The sun sank beside the horizon of the world, and the city outside the window was nearly dark, without lights and shadows. Jack stood up from his rusty old chair, which made a creaking sound, like an old man running out of strength. He picked up a new candle, and put it on the table.  The room was full of orange, peaceful light now and we could finally get a full view of the room. It was an old and rusty place, with cracks on the walls and ceilings, and rotten wooden floor with smells of dead animals. On the northern side of the room, there was a paper calendar, writing “Sep 2nd, 2133”. Jack was sitting next to the table, relaxing his arms and shoulders, reading a paper-made books, putting his hands on a huge red button sticking on the chair. Outside the window, it was completely dark now and you

 The British Museum was magnificent—as magnificent as I expected—oh, it may be even more sublime, more gorgeous than I expected. It was just the grandest, literally, museum in the world. The furniture was luxurious, with gold insets and velvet intersperse, lying on every single side of each giant room. Tons of ancient relics were lying in the glass showcase, reflecting the soft golden light generated by chandeliers, signaling the profound history of cultures and civilizations. The first week was relaxing and enjoyable, but as I was retreating to the Warfield of Treasure and History on a dim Friday, I noticed something uncommon.  It was a Friday afternoon, with millions of millions of liquids cluttered on the top of the British city, I was wandering across the complicated corridors when suddenly I noticed a dark shadow behind a giant piece of glass. I walked through those endless shelves, trying to discover a way toward the door, but the shadow just faded in the dim, soft golden light w

 The sun went down at the peak of the mountain, leaving the world a hazy, orange scene, with a peaceful and harmony beam shooting on the side of the table. I sat on the rusty old chair, leaning the small chair backward, with a squeak, cacophony sound, disturbed the peaceful world. Pens and all kinds of pigments made most of the space inside the room, occupying the only void in the small room, covered with dust, losing its original color.  Inside the small room, there were two beds, my brother’s and mine, with tidy and simple quilts and sheets. The sheets were white and clean at first, but years after years, it was polluted by the soot and gas, with a grey and white appearance. We were all miners, working in a colliery for over five years.  Knock, knock. The door opened and a tall, stout man with dark skin and high cheekbones came in, carrying with him a pickaxe and a huge bag covered with dirty mud. My brother was back. He was strong, mature, with big eyes full of determination. He wor

 I could never forget the day we were standing in front of the slider of Mount Chogori. “That is where the mountain is,” said Jack, motioning toward the impressive summit stretching far into the sky, and uttering the deadly words that would lead me to hell. I stood beside Jack, craning my neck uncomfortably upward and shielding my eyes from the day’s bright sun. We’d been traveling around the world, following our young hearts, but nothing had prepared us for this stunning sight. I felt like we were standing in front of a sleeping giant covered by tons of snow and ice. The calm June weather provided us with excellent conditions for the ascent to the summit. The roads were still paved with snow, but the summer warmth mitigated the severe cold, and there was little risk of snowstorms. A few hours later, the ropes were already tied around our bodies, and with pickaxes in our hands, we were already braving one of the mountains unforgiving ice walls. I leaned my body toward the perpendicular