Children's Fiction
A Knight Against the Sky part(II).
The wind on the Ash-Road carried no birdsong. Only soot, silence, and the distant whisper of wings. Grimold stood at its edge with Ellowyn beside him. Her once-luminous cloak of star-silk hung in tatters, streaked with ash. In her arms, their youngest son, Calen, slept uneasily, whispering Elvish words in his dreams—words that spoke of fire and fleeing and the silver trees that no longer stood.
By Hazrat Bilalabout a year ago in Chapters
Cinderella
A long, long time ago, in a beautiful kingdom with a big, majestic castle, there lived an old widower who had a very beautiful daughter named Ella. He loved her above all else, trying to raise as well as he could being a single dad. She had a very kind heart, just like her mother had, and she was very hardworking and always loved to help.
By Ruwan sampathabout a year ago in Chapters
"The Kingdom Without a Name". AI-Generated.
The Kingdom Without a Name: Lost to Time, Bound by Fate Chapter One: The Marked One The mist came every morning in Brinmere. It rolled over the hills like a living memory, ancient and restless. Villagers swore it was harmless—just weather—but they never strayed into it. Not past the old standing stones. Not east.
By Khazar khayamabout a year ago in Chapters
The Lion and the Gentle Heart
A Tale of Trust Between Predator and Prey In the heart of the Great Green Jungle, where trees touched the sky and rivers sang through the land, there lived a lion named Ruhan. He was the king of the jungle, feared by all creatures. His roar made birds flee and deer tremble. Yet deep inside, Ruhan often felt a strange emptiness—he had everything, but no one he could call a true friend.
By Jack sparrow about a year ago in Chapters
The Secret Drawer
Growing up, there was one rule in our house I never dared to break: Don’t touch the drawer in Dad’s study. It was an ordinary drawer in an old wooden desk — scratched, dusty, the handle barely hanging on. But to me, it might as well have been a vault. Dad’s tone made it clear — that drawer was off-limits. So, I didn’t ask. I didn’t sneak. I obeyed. For years. Until curiosity outweighed fear. It was a Saturday. Dad was fixing the car, Mom was out shopping, and I was cleaning the study as part of my chores. The drawer seemed to hum with quiet temptation. My hands shook as I reached for it, expecting alarms to go off, expecting my dad to burst in, furious. But nothing happened. The drawer wasn’t locked. It slid open with a tired creak — revealing a stack of letters, old photographs, and a small, faded box. At first, it looked harmless. But then I saw the photo on top — a woman smiling, holding a baby. My breath caught. The woman wasn’t my mom. The baby wasn’t me. I sat down, sifting through letters written in Dad’s handwriting, dated years before I was born. Letters full of apologies, promises, regrets — addressed to someone named Evelyn. My heart raced as puzzle pieces fell into place. I dug deeper, finding birth certificates, hospital bills, legal documents. Dad had another family. A son. A woman he loved before my mom. My chest tightened. My head spun with questions. Why didn’t I know? Who were they? What happened? The sound of Dad’s footsteps snapped me back to reality. I shoved the drawer shut, heart pounding, mind reeling. That evening, I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t speak. My world felt… different. Shattered. Days passed before I confronted him. I found him in the study, staring at the same drawer like it held ghosts. “I opened it,” I admitted, voice barely steady. His shoulders sagged. His eyes, usually sharp and controlled, softened with sadness. “I always wondered when you would,” he whispered. He explained everything. How he fell in love young. How they had a son — my half-brother. How tragedy struck — an accident, a bitter separation, a lifetime of buried pain. “I kept it all hidden, thinking I could erase the past,” he confessed. “But I’ve learned… the past doesn’t stay buried.” We talked for hours. About mistakes. Regrets. Secrets that fester in silence. I cried — for the brother I never met, for the father I thought I knew, for the child version of me who lived in a house of hidden truths. It took time, but I forgave him. And I reached out. Months later, I met my half-brother. We shared awkward smiles, cautious words, the weight of years between us. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. That drawer isn’t forbidden anymore. It’s a reminder — that the truth, no matter how heavy, is better than living behind locked doors.
By Straylightabout a year ago in Chapters
How I Failed Miserably at Being a Morning Person
I once believed that becoming a morning person would magically fix my life. Instagram told me so. There were thousands of beautiful people sipping green smoothies at 5:00 a.m., journaling about gratitude, and greeting the sun like they’d just won the lottery of life. I wanted that. I wanted to be that person.
By shittu adeolaabout a year ago in Chapters
My Neighbor’s Cat Thinks I’m Its Owner Now
It started with a meow. A single, innocent meow. At the time, I didn’t realize that meow was a legal contract in cat law, binding me for life to an arrangement I never agreed to. If I had, I might’ve shut my window, moved to another city, or learned how to meow back in a way that screamed, “Wrong house, furry overlord.”
By shittu adeolaabout a year ago in Chapters
The Day My Dog Became My Therapist
It all started on a Tuesday. Now, Tuesdays are usually uneventful. But this particular Tuesday, the universe decided to hit me with a whirlwind of chaos, confusion, and cold leftover lasagna. The morning started with me waking up to the sound of my alarm doing its best to imitate a dying robot. I slapped it into silence, stumbled out of bed, and stepped directly into something cold and squishy.
By shittu adeolaabout a year ago in Chapters
