Fan Fiction

I’m a Manhattan Matchmaker. 300 Women Formed a Discord Server to Curse My Death.
My name is Mark Carter. I've run a dating agency in Midtown Manhattan for almost ten years. The business started in a single cubicle. Now I've got a proper office—the kind with a window that looks out onto the Starbucks on the corner of Fifth Avenue. In this line of work, most agencies eventually set rules: no women over thirty-five, that sort of thing. I don't have that rule. My rule is simple: if there's even one thing about a person that makes my stomach tighten, I politely decline. Age has nothing to do with it.
By Jin4 months ago in Fiction
MHOS Part 10: Enter Lust. Content Warning.
The woman in my backseat directs me to a tavern just before the township of Lust on the intersection of Chaos Crescent & Predator Alley. Despite the unfortunate intersection it is located on, it's beautiful, the architecture is exquisite, and I can hear jazz music softly playing inside. We get out of the car she goes to head inside and she hugs me, just once and says "I recommend the burgers" stands back and looks at me with one last thankful look, before disappearing into the tavern herself, leaving me alone on the street.
By Her Ellaness♿️4 months ago in Fiction
He Loved Me Like a Warning Part 1. AI-Generated.
CHAPTER 1 The Summer They Looked Happy Before any of it went wrong, there were four of them, and the city belonged to them every night the sun went down.
By Anushka Sehgal4 months ago in Fiction
The Librarian Who Guarded Forbidden Magic
The Library That Never Appeared on Any Map No traveler ever found the library by accident. It stood hidden beyond a winding stone path deep within an ancient forest, a place so old that even the oldest maps refused to acknowledge its existence. Those who searched for it with greed or ambition always lost their way, wandering in circles until the trees returned them to the ordinary world. Only those carrying unanswered questions found the path waiting for them. Amelia had spent her childhood hearing whispers about the forgotten library from her grandfather, who claimed it contained books that were never meant to be read by ordinary people. After his death, she discovered a weathered compass among his belongings. Instead of pointing north, its needle turned toward the forest. Three days later, after following it through thick woods and abandoned trails, Amelia stood before a towering stone building whose shelves were said to hold the most dangerous knowledge ever written.
By Robert Redford4 months ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker's Last Gift. AI-Generated.
In the quiet town of Everbrook stood a tiny clock shop squeezed between a bakery and a bookstore. The shop belonged to an elderly clockmaker named Mr. Alden.
By MotivatedStories14 months ago in Fiction
MHOS Part 9: Returning to the hunt. Content Warning.
With a head full of new information and a stomach aching for some food, I take Gary for a ride to make my way to Lust. On my drive to Lust I enter a wooded area and hear a woman screaming. I stop the car to get a better idea of what is happening when I see a woman running with panic across her face and she spots me. I get out and open the back seat door for her to run in to and I begin running into the woods to investigate armed with the jack from the car and my handy dandy talons.
By Her Ellaness♿️4 months ago in Fiction
When Wealth Met Wisdom. AI-Generated.
Every morning before the first rays of sunlight touched the city, an old vegetable vendor named Kareem would push his wooden cart through the narrow streets. His cart was modest, carrying fresh tomatoes, potatoes, onions, spinach, and carrots arranged with great care. Though his clothes were simple and worn from years of hard work, his face carried a peace that many wealthy people envied without even realizing it.
By MotivatedStories14 months ago in Fiction
The Coin That Changed a Kingdom. AI-Generated.
Long ago, beyond towering mountains and silver rivers, there stood the prosperous Kingdom of Eldoria. Its markets overflowed with silk and spices, its fields produced abundant harvests, and its magnificent palace shone beneath the sun like polished gold.
By MotivatedStories14 months ago in Fiction
The Owl Who Remembered Tomorrow. AI-Generated.
The Forgotten Forest was unlike any other place in the world. Towering ancient trees stretched toward the sky, crystal-clear rivers flowed through moss-covered rocks, and every sunrise painted the leaves with golden light. Hidden at the heart of this magical forest stood the Great Elder Tree, older than anyone could remember. High among its branches lived an old snowy owl named Orin.
By Arif Qavi4 months ago in Fiction
The Boy Who Forgot His Mission
Children’s Day in Indonesia always felt like sunlight woven into celebration. This year, the clear and safe woods of Central Java had been transformed into a colourful outdoor studio. Four adults—Janah, Nadirah, Rizal, and Ahmad—were busy decorating and styling the young children for the festivities. Ribbons hung from branches, makeup palettes lay open on tree stumps, and the air buzzed with cheerful chatter.
By Iqraa Toqeer4 months ago in Fiction
The Amphitheatre of Forgotten Voices
Inspired by the excerpt from "The Amphitheatre" by Hannah Moore, here is an original story of more than 600 words that expands upon the imagery and atmosphere of the poem. Writing The Amphitheatre I had tumbled down off the flood bank without meaning to. One moment I was following the narrow path that skirted the river, listening to the rustle of reeds and the distant call of water birds, and the next my foot slipped on wet grass. I slid several feet down the steep embankment until I came to rest among a tangle of roots protruding from the soil. For a while I simply sat there, breathing hard. My soles pressed against the thick roots of plants that anchored the mounded earth. They twisted around one another like ancient fingers gripping the hillside, refusing to let the river claim another piece of land. Above me, the sky was pale blue, streaked with clouds moving lazily eastward. The flood bank blocked the view of the road and the nearby village. Down here, hidden by willow branches and tall grasses, I felt as though I had slipped into another world. Then I heard voices. At first I thought they belonged to hikers passing along the path above. But the voices seemed to come from somewhere deeper within the bank itself. They were soft and overlapping, speaking words I couldn't quite understand. Curiosity outweighed caution. I followed the sound, pushing through brambles and ducking beneath hanging vines. After a few yards, the vegetation opened unexpectedly. Before me lay a natural amphitheatre. Its walls were formed by curved ridges of earth covered in moss and wildflowers. Stone slabs protruded from the slopes in semicircular rows, creating the appearance of seats carved by invisible hands centuries ago. At the center was a circular patch of smooth ground where sunlight pooled like liquid gold. No map had ever mentioned this place. No one in the village had spoken of it. Yet it felt impossibly old. I stepped cautiously into the center. The voices ceased. Silence settled around me, thick and expectant. Then a breeze drifted through the amphitheatre, carrying the scent of damp leaves and river water. The grass swayed. Shadows shifted. And suddenly, people appeared. Not people of flesh and blood, but translucent figures shimmering in the sunlight. An old woman wrapped in a shawl. A young soldier with mud-stained boots. A child clutching a wooden toy horse. A fisherman holding a net over his shoulder. They sat quietly upon the stone seats, watching me. Fear should have sent me running. Instead, I felt an overwhelming sadness. These figures did not seem threatening. They seemed forgotten. The old woman rose first. She moved toward me with slow, deliberate steps. "Do you hear us?" she asked. Her voice sounded like leaves brushing together in autumn. "I do," I whispered. She smiled. "Then our stories may yet survive." Before I could reply, another figure stood. The soldier. "I left home at seventeen," he said. "Promised my mother I would return before the harvest. I never did." His image flickered. "I want someone to remember that I loved music more than war." Next came the fisherman. "I spent forty years on the river," he said. "I knew every bend, every hidden current. When I died, my sons sold my boat within a week. No one remembers my songs." One by one they stepped forward. A baker who dreamed of becoming a painter. A widow who secretly wrote poetry every night. A boy who saved a drowning dog and never told anyone. Ordinary people. Lives overlooked by history. Dreams unfinished. Acts of kindness unseen. Regrets unspoken. They had gathered in this strange amphitheatre because stories needed listeners. Without listeners, memories faded. Without memories, people disappeared entirely. Hours seemed to pass. Perhaps days. I listened until my legs grew stiff and my throat dry. When the last spirit finished speaking, a young girl approached me. She could not have been older than ten. She carried a bouquet of wild daisies. "My name was Clara," she said. "I wanted to be a teacher." She looked down. "But I became ill before I could grow up." She handed me the flowers. "Will you remember us?" Tears stung my eyes. "Yes," I said. "I will." The girl's smile brightened the entire amphitheatre. Then the figures slowly returned to their seats. The sunlight dimmed. A gust of wind swept across the clearing. And they were gone. Only silence remained. I climbed back toward the flood bank, clutching Clara's daisies. When I reached the top, the afternoon sun hung low in the sky. The village church bell rang four times. Had I truly spent only a few hours there? I looked back. There was no opening among the trees. No stone seats. No amphitheatre. Only tangled undergrowth. For weeks I wondered if exhaustion or imagination had deceived me. Yet the daisies never wilted. They remained fresh in a glass vase beside my window. And so I began to write. Every evening after work, I recorded the stories I had heard. The soldier who loved music. The fisherman who sang to the river. The widow who hid poems beneath loose floorboards. Little Clara, who dreamed of teaching children to read. Page after page filled my notebooks. Eventually, I understood why the amphitheatre existed. It was not built for performances. It was built for remembrance. For every person whose life seemed too small for history books. For every voice nearly swallowed by time. Somewhere beyond the river, hidden beneath roots and moss, the amphitheatre still waits. And perhaps, on a quiet afternoon, someone else will stumble down the flood bank, place their feet against the roots that hold the earth together, and hear the whispering voices asking only one thing. Remember us.
By Amir Khan4 months ago in Fiction
The Last Customer
During the day, the corner where it stood was nothing more than an empty lot with cracked pavement and wild grass. No one noticed it. But every night, as the church clock struck twelve, warm lights flickered on behind tall windows, and a wooden sign appeared above the door.
By Naqib Bakhtiari4 months ago in Fiction