Fan Fiction

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My Dream Story Perhaps my life isn't like other people's, and my dreams are very strange and sometimes difficult or impossible to interpret. That night, I watched episodes of TV series or movies. I don't remember much, but I always watch a movie or TV series before bed. The important thing is that on that night, which was also different from other nights, I fell asleep at some point during the night. In the dream, I looked up at the sky and saw how clear it was. There were no clouds or rain. The drought was terrifying, and people's faces looked like they were in a war movie due to the scarcity of water. People were only given one amount of water per person per day.
By ABDOabout a year ago in Fiction
The Man Stands on the 13th Floor
The building was old, but not abandoned. Twelve floors, it said on paper. Twelve floors, the elevator showed. Twelve buttons. Yet everyone who lived there knew there was a 13th floor.
By fazalhaqabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Dance Under the Stars
Elara’s breath plumed in the cool night air, a fragile ghost against the vast, inky canvas of the sky. Tonight, a celestial event was unfolding—the Perseid meteor shower, a yearly spectacle that now felt like a cruel cosmic joke. Ten years ago, she and Liam had promised to watch this very meteor shower together, but circumstances and a cruel twist of fate had pulled them apart. Now, with the sky ablaze with fleeting moments of light, she was back in their old spot, a quiet bluff overlooking the sleeping town. She was alone, but with the weight of a decade of unspoken words.
By Express Laneabout a year ago in Fiction
The Bridge of Words
In the town of Twin Oaks, the only thing we had in common was the ravine. It split the town in two—not with water, but with a deep, silent chasm of old grievances. On the East side, the Millers. On the West, the Hargroves. A hundred-year-old argument over water rights had fossilized into a permanent cold war.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
A Satirical Sword: Unpacking the Literary and Cultural Impact of R.F. Kuang's Yellowface
In the dynamic landscape of modern publishing, few novels have ignited as fierce a debate or captured the zeitgeist as effectively as R.F. Kuang’s Yellowface. Released in 2023, the book is a sharp, biting satire of the publishing industry, identity politics, and the relentless churn of social media. More than just a thriller, it’s a literary-cultural bomb, meticulously crafted to provoke and expose the hypocrisies of an industry that often commodifies and exploits the very voices it claims to champion.
By Kim Jonabout a year ago in Fiction
If JG Ballard Were On Facebook
Introduction JG Ballard is my favourite author; he can make the ordinary terrifying and make us question reality. A work colleague once described his novels as more like poetry than prose.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
The Window on Willow Street
Daniel walked by the small blue house on Willow Street every morning at 7:10. He never knew the people who lived there, but he always caught sight of the second-floor window. It was always open, and the curtains blew gently in the wind, a small pot plant resting on the windowsill.
By Shabyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Bus Home
Maya stood at the curb of the bus stop, drumming the cracked sidewalk with her foot. It was almost midnight, and the streets of her little town were deserted—too deserted. The bright "LAST BUS" sign cycled overhead as if taunting her. If she didn't catch this one, she'd be stuck. She wasn't waiting for a ride. She was waiting for an opportunity. Maya had been working two jobs for the last three months—one at the bookstore and one at the diner—scraping together barely enough to pay rent. Each night she vowed she'd quit at least one of them, but she never followed through. Tonight, however, she had something else on her mind. She had a brown envelope in her hand, gripping it fiercely. Within it was her acceptance letter from a design school in the city. A dream she had smothered years ago under bills, obligations, and the burden of being "the responsible one" in her family. But this time, she was not going to bury it. She was going to pursue it. Bus lights appeared on the end of the street, piercing the mist. Her heart thumped. She glanced at her phone: 11:58 p.m. A final chance. A final bus. A final decision. When the doors hissed open, she stopped dead. For one beat of time, her mind whispered: It's safer to stay. Don't take the risk. Tomorrow will be easier. Then she recalled the years she had already lost to fear. She stepped up, her shaking hands, the envelope against her chest. The driver was an older man with a warm glance. He looked at her and asked, "Big night?" Maya smiled, tears in her eyes but sparkling. "Yeah," she whispered. "The beginning of a new one." As the bus drove off, leaving the vacant stop in its wake, Maya felt something she hadn't experienced in a long time—hope. The kind that burned hotter than fear. And for the first time in years, she wasn't simply returning home. She was moving on.
By Shabyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Silent Weight We Carry
The Silent Weight We Carry BY [ WAQAR ALI ] How to Turn Stress Into Strength Instead of Letting It Break You Stress. It’s a word we hear almost every day, but most of us don’t realize just how much it silently shapes our lives. Whether it’s the relentless ping of work emails, a never-ending to-do list at home, or the hidden pressure to “keep it all together,” stress has a way of weaving itself into our routines until it feels normal.
By LONE WOLFabout a year ago in Fiction
The Fathers of "Robotics" meet across time on social media?
Engelberger = Father of modern robotics Al-Jazari = Father of mechanical automata Isaac Asimov = God-father of it all But, if we’re talking philosophical parenthood, Isaac Asimov might be the godfather of robotic ethics - his Three Laws of Robotics shaped how we imagine AI-human relationships.
By Novel Allenabout a year ago in Fiction
The Candle Maker’s Secret
The shop smelled of beeswax, honey, and secrets. When my grandmother passed, she left me two things: her creaky, clapboard house and her beloved candle shop, “The Wick’s End.” The will had one peculiar instruction: “Elara, you must keep making the candles. The recipe is in the red book. Do not deviate.”
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
When Memories Expire
When Memories Expire In my world, memories come with an expiration date. They call it The Fading. On the day you’re born, a thin silver band is embedded in your wrist, glowing faintly with shifting numbers. Those numbers count down the days until each memory vanishes forever. Some memories last years. Others disappear in weeks. No one knows why the timers vary. You just learn to live with the quiet dread of forgetting.
By Aariz ullahabout a year ago in Fiction