Magical tales to help you drift off to sleep
Magical tales that make falling asleep easy: talking animals, gentle wonders and cozy worlds. A new short story appears every evening — free, no sign-up.
Fyodor Dostoevsky walks into a modern coffee shop. The barista asks, 'What can I get you?' Dostoevsky replies, 'I'll have an existential crisis with a shot of guilt, topped with suffering, and sprinkle some redemption on top.' The barista nods and says, 'So... a regular black coffee?' Dostoevsky sighs deeply: 'You understand me perfectly.'
Ernest Hemingway once said that the first draft of anything is garbage. His editor noted that Hemingway's bar tabs, however, were always impeccable on the first try. When asked about this contradiction, Hemingway allegedly replied: 'A man who cannot order whiskey correctly the first time has no business calling himself a writer. The words can wait. The bourbon cannot.'
Why did the novelist bring a ladder to the coffee shop? Because he heard the best stories have multiple levels, and he'd been stuck on the ground floor for three years. His editor wasn't amused—she was still waiting for the first draft he promised in 2019.
Here's a dirty little secret the literary world doesn't want to admit: that old saying about not judging books by covers? It's garbage advice, and everyone knows it. Every single reader, from the snootiest literature professor to the teenager grabbing a paperback at the airport, makes snap judgments based on covers. And here's the kicker – we're absolutely right to do it.
Think about it. When you walk into a bookstore or scroll through Amazon, you're faced with thousands of options. You don't have time to read the first chapter of every book. Your brain needs shortcuts, and covers are the most efficient filter ever invented. Publishers know this. They spend anywhere from $2,000 to $30,000 on a single cover design, and for bestseller hopefuls, that number can skyrocket. They're not doing this for charity. They're doing it because covers sell books, period.
Let's talk about one of the most famous cover redesigns in publishing history. When Penguin decided to rebrand the Twilight series in 2009, they slapped a simple black cover with a red ribbon on it. Sales jumped. The original covers with the apple and chess pieces were fine, but this minimalist approach signaled sophistication to readers who were embarrassed to be caught reading vampire romance. The content inside? Exactly the same. The perception? Completely transformed. That's the power of design.
Here's where it gets really interesting. Chip Kidd, the legendary book cover designer who created the iconic Jurassic Park cover with the T-Rex skeleton, once said that a cover is a "visual distillation" of thousands of pages. He's right. A good cover tells you what kind of reading experience awaits. Pastel colors with whimsical fonts? You're getting light contemporary fiction. Dark, moody photography with sans-serif text? Thriller territory. Gold embossed lettering on a navy background? Historical fiction or literary pretension. These aren't accidents. They're visual contracts between publisher and reader.
Now, some people will argue that judging by covers makes you miss hidden gems. Sure, that happens occasionally. But let's be practical here. If a publisher doesn't care enough to give their book a decent cover, what does that tell you about their investment in the whole package? A bad cover often signals rushed production, minimal marketing budget, or a fundamental misunderstanding of the target audience. None of these are good signs for the content inside.
Consider the curious case of E.L. James's Fifty Shades of Grey. The original cover was a simple gray tie on a gray background. Nothing fancy. But it communicated something crucial: this isn't romance as usual. The understated design allowed readers to carry it in public without screaming "I'm reading erotica!" Meanwhile, the content was about as subtle as a sledgehammer. That cover made the phenomenon possible. Would millions of women have bought it if it featured a shirtless man in leather pants? Probably not as openly.
Here's your practical takeaway, and this is actionable advice you can use today: train yourself to read covers like a language. Look at the fonts. Serif fonts (the ones with little feet on the letters) typically signal traditional, literary, or historical content. Sans-serif fonts suggest modern, commercial, or genre fiction. Notice the colors. Romance uses warm tones. Thrillers favor dark palettes with splashes of red. Young adult fiction loves gradients and bold typography. The images matter too – illustrated covers often indicate lighter fare, while photography suggests realism or intensity.
The placement of the author's name tells you everything about their market position. Is the author's name bigger than the title? You're looking at a brand-name author where the name itself sells books – think Stephen King, James Patterson, or Nora Roberts. Is the name tucked away in modest lettering at the bottom? Debut author or midlist writer, though the book might be brilliant. Award seals and blurbs on the front cover indicate the publisher is leaning on external validation, which can mean they're not confident the cover alone does the job.
Let me give you another example that proves covers matter more than content sometimes. In 2011, publisher Bloomsbury released two versions of Justine Larbalestier's novel Liar – one with a white girl on the cover, one with a black girl. The protagonist in the book is explicitly black. The version with the white girl was released first and became controversial precisely because readers understood that covers communicate promises. The publisher eventually fixed it, but the damage was done. This wasn't just about representation; it was about the fundamental trust between cover and reader.
So what should you actually do with this information? First, stop feeling guilty about judging covers. You're not being shallow; you're being efficient. Second, use covers as your first filter, not your only one. A great cover gets a book into your hands; the first page determines if it stays there. Third, when you find yourself drawn to a cover, ask yourself why. Understanding your own visual preferences helps you find more books you'll love.
And for any aspiring writers reading this: invest in your cover. Seriously. That DIY design you made in Canva isn't fooling anyone. Professional cover design is the difference between being taken seriously and being scrolled past. Your words might be poetry, but if your cover screams "self-published in 2008," nobody will ever read them.
The truth is, covers are the most honest form of marketing in publishing. Unlike blurbs written by authors' friends or reviews that might be compromised, a cover is a direct visual argument for what the book is. When that argument is made well, readers respond. When it's made poorly, they move on. We judge books by covers because covers are designed to be judged. The entire industry depends on it. So next time someone tries to shame you for picking up a book because it was pretty, tell them you're just a sophisticated consumer responding to intentional design choices. Then buy the book, and don't feel bad about it for a second.
Creative continuation of a classic
This is an artistic fantasy inspired by «Pride and Prejudice» by Jane Austen. How might the story have continued if the author had decided to extend it?
Original excerpt
Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride she afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley, and talked of Mrs. Darcy, may be guessed. I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the accomplishment of her earnest desire in the establishment of so many of her children produced so happy an effect as to make her a sensible, amiable, well-informed woman for the rest of her life; though perhaps it was lucky for her husband, who might not have relished domestic felicity in so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous and invariably silly.
Continuation
The first winter at Pemberley brought with it such a transformation of domestic felicity as Elizabeth had scarcely dared to imagine during those tumultuous months of misunderstanding and prejudice. She found herself, on a particularly crisp December morning, seated in the library—that magnificent room which had first begun to soften her heart toward its master—composing letters to her beloved sister Jane, whilst Mr. Darcy attended to correspondence of his own at the adjacent escritoire.
Their companionable silence was of that variety which speaks more eloquently of true affection than any profusion of words might accomplish. Elizabeth glanced up from her paper to observe her husband's profile, still marvelling at the extraordinary circumstances which had brought so proud a gentleman and so spirited a lady to such perfect understanding.
"You are staring, Mrs. Darcy," said he, without raising his eyes from his letter, though the corner of his mouth betrayed the slightest inclination toward a smile.
"I am merely contemplating whether your present expression indicates vexation with your correspondent or concentration upon some matter of great import," Elizabeth replied with characteristic archness. "The furrow of your brow suggests the former, yet I know you to be too well-bred to permit such feelings to manifest themselves so openly."
Darcy set down his pen and turned to face her fully. "You have found me out, I confess. I have received intelligence from Town which I fear may not be entirely agreeable to you."
"Pray, do not keep me in suspense. My imagination, left to its own devices, will conjure misfortunes far exceeding any reality."
"Your mother writes to inform us that she and your father intend to visit Pemberley for the Christmas season, accompanied by your younger sisters."
Elizabeth's countenance underwent several rapid alterations—surprise, followed by something approaching dismay, before settling into an expression of determined cheerfulness. "Well! We knew such a visitation must occur eventually. I had merely hoped... that is to say, I had imagined we might enjoy somewhat more tranquility before..."
"Before your mother could catalogue the precise value of every furnishing in Pemberley and communicate her findings to the whole of Hertfordshire?" Darcy's tone was dry, but his eyes held genuine warmth.
"Fitzwilliam! You must not—" Elizabeth began, but found herself unable to suppress a laugh. "Oh, it is very bad of you to say what I was thinking. Though I confess the prospect of Mary's moral observations upon the grandeur of our situation, combined with Kitty's raptures over the officers stationed in Lambton, does present certain challenges to my equanimity."
"Shall I compose a civil refusal? The roads are treacherous this time of year, and concern for their safety would provide adequate excuse."
Elizabeth considered this offer with more seriousness than perhaps it deserved, before shaking her head with resolution. "No, indeed. We must receive them. Papa, at least, will provide rational conversation, and I have not seen Jane since her confinement began. She writes that she is perfectly well, but I should like to judge for myself whether she merely wishes to spare me worry."
"Then Bingley and Jane shall be invited as well. I had already written to Charles proposing as much, suspecting you would wish for your sister's company."
The look Elizabeth bestowed upon her husband in that moment contained such a mixture of gratitude and affection as to occasion a softening of even his habitually reserved countenance. "You are too good," she said quietly.
"On the contrary, I am entirely selfish. Your happiness is essential to my own comfort, and your happiness requires your sister. The arithmetic is quite simple."
"Such romantic sentiment! I hardly know what to make of such effusions from Mr. Darcy of Pemberley."
"Mock me if you will, but you shall not provoke me into coldness. I have learnt, through considerable difficulty, to value warmth above dignity."
Elizabeth rose from her seat and crossed to where he sat, placing her hand upon his shoulder with easy familiarity. "The student has exceeded the teacher, I think. I intended only to teach you to be laughed at, yet you have somehow learnt to laugh at yourself—a far more valuable accomplishment."
Their tender exchange was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Reynolds, whose respectful knock preceded her announcement that Miss Georgiana requested an audience with her brother on a matter of some urgency.
Georgiana appeared moments later, her usually serene countenance displaying signs of considerable agitation. At nineteen, she had blossomed under Elizabeth's sisterly influence into a young woman of quiet confidence, though her natural reserve still manifested in moments of uncertainty.
"Brother, Elizabeth," she began, twisting her hands in a manner reminiscent of her former shyness, "I must speak with you both on a subject of great delicacy."
"Pray, sit down, dearest," Elizabeth said with gentle encouragement. "Whatever the matter, we shall face it together."
Georgiana settled herself upon the settee, gathering her courage visibly before speaking. "I have received a letter. From Colonel Fitzwilliam."
Darcy's expression sharpened. "Richard? What does he write?"
"He writes... that is to say, he expresses..." Georgiana paused, colour rising to her cheeks. "He has written to declare his attachment to me and to request permission to pay his addresses."
The silence which followed this announcement was profound. Elizabeth observed her husband's face with keen attention, watching as surprise gave way to consideration, and consideration to something she could not quite decipher.
"Richard," Darcy repeated slowly. "Our cousin Richard."
"I know it must seem strange," Georgiana rushed to say. "He is our cousin, and considerably older than myself, and as a younger son, his prospects are not—"
"Georgiana." Darcy's voice was firm but not unkind. "You need not catalogue Richard's deficiencies. I am well acquainted with them. What I wish to know is this: what are your feelings on the matter?"
The question appeared to surprise Georgiana, as though she had not expected it to be posed. "My feelings?"
"Yes. Do you return his attachment?"
Georgiana looked from her brother to Elizabeth, finding in her sister's countenance only encouragement. "I... I believe I do. He has been so kind to me, always. Even when—" She broke off, unable to speak of that painful episode which still shadowed her memories. "He never treated me differently afterward. He never looked at me with pity or censure. He simply remained Richard—steady and true and good."
Elizabeth reached for her husband's hand, knowing this moment required her silent support. Darcy's relationship with his cousin had always been marked by genuine affection, yet the prospect of entrusting Georgiana to any man must occasion the most careful consideration.
"Richard's circumstances are not what I had imagined for you," Darcy said at length. "As a younger son, he has only his commission and his portion. You would not live as you have been accustomed."
"I care nothing for that," Georgiana said with surprising firmness. "My fortune is sufficient for both of us, and Richard has proved his worth in ways that transcend material considerations. He is honourable, brother. Truly honourable."
Darcy was silent for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was gruff with emotion he could not entirely conceal. "You are much changed from the girl who could not speak her own mind. I find I am glad of it, though it means I must relinquish my role as your protector sooner than I had anticipated."
"Then... you consent?"
"I consent to his paying his addresses. The rest shall depend upon what passes between you. But Georgiana—" He rose and crossed to where she sat, taking her hands in his own. "You have my blessing, if Richard can secure your happiness. God knows he has been a better friend to me than I have often deserved."
Georgiana's eyes filled with tears as she embraced her brother, and Elizabeth found herself obliged to dab at her own eyes with her handkerchief. The scene before her—proud Mr. Darcy displaying such tender affection for his sister—confirmed what she had long suspected: that beneath his austere exterior beat a heart capable of the deepest feeling.
The weeks which followed brought the promised invasion of Bennets to Pemberley's stately halls. Mrs. Bennet's raptures upon viewing the house exceeded even Elizabeth's worst imaginings, whilst Mr. Bennet retreated to the library with a frequency which suggested he found its comforts preferable to his wife's society—a preference Elizabeth could not find it in her heart to condemn.
Jane's arrival brought with it the peculiar radiance of expectant motherhood, and the sisters found much to discuss during long afternoons before the fire. Bingley, ever amiable, proved an invaluable ally in managing the more trying elements of the family gathering, his good humour providing a buffer against Mrs. Bennet's excesses.
Colonel Fitzwilliam arrived on Christmas Eve, his usual ease somewhat diminished by the gravity of his purpose. Elizabeth watched with secret amusement as the brave soldier who had faced Napoleon's forces with unwavering courage appeared nearly undone by the prospect of a private interview with young Miss Darcy.
The interview, conducted in the music room whilst the family gathered in the drawing room, lasted above an hour. When Georgiana emerged, her face bore an expression of such luminous happiness as to render words unnecessary. Colonel Fitzwilliam followed, his own countenance displaying relief and joy in equal measure.
"I believe congratulations are in order," Elizabeth said warmly, as Darcy rose to shake his cousin's hand.
"You have secured the greatest treasure in England," Darcy told him, his voice betraying the depth of his feeling. "See that you prove worthy of her."
"I shall endeavour to do so every day of my life," Richard replied with unwonted solemnity. "She has made me the happiest of men."
Mrs. Bennet, upon learning of the engagement, declared it to be the most fortunate match of the season—a pronouncement which required considerable forbearance from all present, given that she had made identical declarations regarding the unions of both Jane and Elizabeth. Mr. Bennet merely observed that if his daughters continued to marry at such a rate, he should soon find himself related to half the nobility of England, and retreated once more to his sanctuary among the books.
As the family gathered for Christmas dinner, Elizabeth surveyed the assembly with a heart full of gratitude. Jane, blooming with health and happiness beside her devoted Bingley; Georgiana, her hand clasped in Richard's beneath the table; even Mary, Kitty, and her mother, for all their follies, represented the ties of family which she had once feared to lose in her elevation to mistress of Pemberley.
And Darcy—her Darcy—watching her from across the table with an expression which spoke of shared understanding and deep contentment.
"What are you thinking, Mrs. Darcy?" he asked later that evening, when the guests had retired and they stood alone before the great windows, watching snow fall softly upon Pemberley's grounds.
"I am thinking," Elizabeth replied, "that I was a fool to ever believe I could judge a man's character upon brief acquaintance. I am thinking that pride and prejudice are equally to be guarded against, and that happiness, when it comes, often arrives in forms we never expected."
"And are you happy?"
She turned to face him, her expression softening into something approaching reverence. "I am more happy than I have words to express. Though I shall endeavour to express it nonetheless, for I find I am become quite fond of the sound of my own voice."
Darcy laughed—that rare, genuine laugh which she had worked so diligently to earn. "Then I am content. For your voice, Elizabeth, is the sweetest music I know."
Outside, the snow continued to fall, blanketing Pemberley in winter white, whilst within, the fire crackled cheerfully and two hearts, once divided by misunderstanding, beat now in perfect harmony—a testament to the transformative power of love, honestly acknowledged and mutually bestowed.
A writer died and went to heaven. Saint Peter greeted him at the gates and said, 'We've been waiting for you! God loved your first draft so much, He wanted to meet the author.' The writer was flattered but confused: 'I never submitted a first draft in my life.' Saint Peter checked his notes and sighed, 'Ah yes, that's exactly why we've been waiting... for 47 years.'
A young writer asked Hemingway for the secret to good writing. Hemingway replied: "Write drunk, edit sober." The young writer followed this advice religiously. Twenty years later, he had written nothing—but had become an excellent literary critic.
A student asks the professor: "How do I write like Tolstoy?" The professor replies: "First, describe a leaf falling from a tree. Then explain how this leaf represents the decline of the Russian aristocracy, the futility of war, the nature of love, the meaning of death, and the peasant's connection to the land. That should take about 200 pages. Then you may begin chapter one."
A semicolon walks into a bar; it orders a drink. The bartender asks, "Why do you look so stressed?" The semicolon sighs: "Nobody understands me. They either confuse me with a colon or just use a period instead. I'm having an existential crisis between two independent clauses."
A novelist told his editor, "I write best under pressure." The editor replied, "Great, your deadline is tomorrow." The novelist stared at his blank page for 23 hours, then wrote: "It was a dark and stormy night..." and called it a philosophical breakthrough in minimalism.
Why did Hemingway's accountant quit? Because every expense report read: 'Went to bar. Drank. Wrote. The whiskey was good. The words were true. The tab was enormous.'
A writer submitted a 300-page manuscript to his editor. A week later, it came back with a single Post-it note attached: 'I've made a few small cuts.' Inside, he found only the title page and the words 'The End.'
Fyodor Dostoevsky walks into a modern coffee shop. The barista asks, 'What can I get you?' Dostoevsky replies, 'I'll have an existential crisis with a shot of guilt, topped with suffering, and sprinkle some redemption on top.' The barista nods and says, 'So... a regular black coffee?' Dostoevsky sighs deeply: 'You understand me perfectly.'
Ernest Hemingway once said that the first draft of anything is garbage. His editor noted that Hemingway's bar tabs, however, were always impeccable on the first try. When asked about this contradiction, Hemingway allegedly replied: 'A man who cannot order whiskey correctly the first time has no business calling himself a writer. The words can wait. The bourbon cannot.'
Why did the novelist bring a ladder to the coffee shop? Because he heard the best stories have multiple levels, and he'd been stuck on the ground floor for three years. His editor wasn't amused—she was still waiting for the first draft he promised in 2019.
Here's a dirty little secret the literary world doesn't want to admit: that old saying about not judging books by covers? It's garbage advice, and everyone knows it. Every single reader, from the snootiest literature professor to the teenager grabbing a paperback at the airport, makes snap judgments based on covers. And here's the kicker – we're absolutely right to do it. Think about it. When you walk into a bookstore or scroll through Amazon, you're faced with thousands of options. You don't have time to read the first chapter of every book. Your brain needs shortcuts, and covers are the most efficient filter ever invented.
The first winter at Pemberley brought with it such a transformation of domestic felicity as Elizabeth had scarcely dared to imagine. She found herself, on a crisp December morning, seated in the library composing letters to Jane, whilst Mr. Darcy attended to correspondence at the adjacent escritoire. Their companionable silence spoke more eloquently of true affection than any profusion of words might accomplish.
A writer died and went to heaven. Saint Peter greeted him at the gates and said, 'We've been waiting for you! God loved your first draft so much, He wanted to meet the author.' The writer was flattered but confused: 'I never submitted a first draft in my life.' Saint Peter checked his notes and sighed, 'Ah yes, that's exactly why we've been waiting... for 47 years.'
A young writer asked Hemingway for the secret to good writing. Hemingway replied: "Write drunk, edit sober." The young writer followed this advice religiously. Twenty years later, he had written nothing—but had become an excellent literary critic.
A student asks the professor: "How do I write like Tolstoy?" The professor replies: "First, describe a leaf falling from a tree. Then explain how this leaf represents the decline of the Russian aristocracy, the futility of war, the nature of love, the meaning of death, and the peasant's connection to the land. That should take about 200 pages. Then you may begin chapter one."
A semicolon walks into a bar; it orders a drink. The bartender asks, "Why do you look so stressed?" The semicolon sighs: "Nobody understands me. They either confuse me with a colon or just use a period instead. I'm having an existential crisis between two independent clauses."
A novelist told his editor, "I write best under pressure." The editor replied, "Great, your deadline is tomorrow." The novelist stared at his blank page for 23 hours, then wrote: "It was a dark and stormy night..." and called it a philosophical breakthrough in minimalism.
Why did Hemingway's accountant quit? Because every expense report read: 'Went to bar. Drank. Wrote. The whiskey was good. The words were true. The tab was enormous.'
A writer submitted a 300-page manuscript to his editor. A week later, it came back with a single Post-it note attached: 'I've made a few small cuts.' Inside, he found only the title page and the words 'The End.'
Nothing to read? Create your own book and read it! Like I do.
Create a book"You write in order to change the world." — James Baldwin
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