Fan Fiction

Heroes Don’t Always Wear Badges
Heroes Don’t Always Wear Badges “Sometimes courage comes on two wheels, and kindness wears leather.” The rain pounded against the neon sign of Rust & Chrome, a biker bar tucked into the edge of town, the kind of place parents warned their children about. Inside, the air was thick with smoke, the clink of beer bottles, and the low growl of motorcycles idling outside. Men with tattoos, leather jackets, and faces hardened by life filled the bar, laughing, arguing, and daring one another to drink shots faster than their stomachs could handle.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Hotel That Never Lets You Leave
The Hotel That Never Lets You Leave “Where one night feels like forever, and forever feels like one night.” The rain was relentless that night. It drummed against the windshield as Ethan gripped the steering wheel, exhaustion tugging at his eyes. He had been driving for hours through winding country roads, searching for a place to rest.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Broadcast
The Last Broadcast “When the world went silent, one voice kept speaking—across time itself.” The world had ended quietly.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library That Erases You
The Library That Erases You The first time I stumbled upon the library, it wasn’t there. I had walked past the crumbling brick building on the corner of Sycamore Street hundreds of times, always noting the “FOR SALE” sign that had been hanging crooked in the window for years. But that night, something was different. A warm light glowed behind the dusty panes, and a polished brass plaque gleamed faintly in the moonlight. It read:
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Echoes of Ashwood Lane
The Echoes of Ashwood Lane A Story of Friendship, Secrets, and the Passage of Time Ashwood Lane was not the kind of street that drew attention. Tucked away on the quieter side of town, it curved gently like a forgotten ribbon, lined with aging maple trees that shed their leaves in golden showers every autumn. The houses there carried history in their bricks and porches, each one whispering stories of the families who had lived within. It was here, on this unassuming lane, that three children—Mara, Daniel, and Leah—wove a tapestry of friendship that would be tested by time, secrets, and the inevitable pull of life.
By LONE WOLFabout a year ago in Fiction
Shape Shifters: The Curse of the Forgotten Bloodline
👹 The first time Arin saw his reflection shift, he thought it was a dream. He had been walking home through the old village road when the moon spilled silver across the puddles, and in that trembling water he did not see his own face. Instead, a pair of amber eyes stared back at him—wild, feral, and not human.
By Essa khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lion of Faith. AI-Generated.
The Lion of Faith The Legacy of King Salahuddin Ayubi The name Salahuddin Ayubi—known in the West as Saladin—echoes through the corridors of history as more than just a conqueror. He was a warrior, yes, but also a man of remarkable compassion, humility, and justice. His story is not simply about battles and empires but about the heart of a leader who embodied the balance between strength and mercy.
By LONE WOLFabout a year ago in Fiction
The Ladder to Nowhere
The Ladder to Nowhere My grandfather, Finnigan, was the town eccentric. And his masterpiece of oddity was the ladder. It stood in the middle of his back field, leaning against the one thing that broke the flat expanse of Iowa corn: a giant, ancient oak tree. The ladder was a beautiful, hand-crafted thing, made of oak to match the tree, with rungs worn smooth by time and weather. But it was utterly, bafflingly pointless. It went up twenty feet, and then it stopped. It didn’t reach the first branch. It just… ended. In mid-air.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The World Forgets Devonne. Content Warning.
Devonne woke to silence. Not the ordinary silence of dawn, but a silence so heavy it pressed against his ribs. He rose from bed and stepped into the hallway of his apartment—only to stop short. The corridor wasn’t his. Instead of the narrow passage with peeling wallpaper and a single dangling bulb, the hallway stretched endlessly in both directions. And the doors—there were far too many. Identical brown doors lined each side, every one stamped with his apartment number: 24. He blinked hard, rubbed his eyes, but the numbers didn’t change. “Yvonne?” he called, his voice too loud in the stillness. His sister had been staying with him for weeks, hiding from something she never named. But the silence only gave his voice back to him in a warped echo: Yvonne? Yvonne? Yvo—nne—nne. The sound crawled along his skin. He tried the nearest door. Inside was his bedroom—perfectly replicated. Even the socks he had dropped last night lay on the floor. But when he opened the next door, the socks had shifted. Another door, and they had moved again. A fraction to the left. A fraction to the right. As if his life were being replayed, frame by frame, slightly altered each time. The hallway bent back on itself, looping into impossible curves. Scuff marks from an old accident appeared again and again, repeating like a scratched record. His phone was useless. The screen glitched, the numbers of the clock sliding downwards like melting wax. Then the humming began. At first faint, like a refrigerator buried in the walls. Then louder. Deeper. It vibrated in his chest, in his bones. It wasn’t mechanical. It was alive. Devonne swallowed. “What do you want?” The humming deepened—content, almost amused. He pressed forward, clinging to the thought of Yvonne: her sharp laugh, the way she drummed her fingers when impatient. He would not—could not—leave her here. But the hallway wasn’t empty anymore. People appeared. A woman in a yellow raincoat passed without looking at him. A man carried grocery bags filled not with food but with screws, feathers, teeth. They muttered to themselves in doubled voices, every word repeated a heartbeat later. Then came familiar faces. His old schoolteacher. A neighbor from childhood. Even his father, who had been dead for years. Devonne’s chest tightened. “Excuse me—have you seen Yvonne?” The neighbor smiled politely, but her words cracked and stuttered: “Yv—onne? No one by that—by that—by that…” The syllables fractured and dissolved. They didn’t see him. Their eyes slid over him, as if he were nothing but a smudge on glass. By the time he reached a town square—its fountain spilling black ink instead of water—he understood why. In the ink’s reflection, his face was fading. Not invisible—blurred. His features were dissolving, outlines smudged into suggestion. He raised a hand to his cheek and felt skin, but in the reflection, there was only a blank patch of air. The world itself was losing him. “Yvonne…” His voice was almost a prayer. The ink rippled. And there she was. Across the square, Yvonne stood with her hair plastered to her face, her dress dripping black liquid that stained the stones beneath her feet. Her eyes locked on him with recognition—and horror. “Devonne?” Her voice fractured into echoes. “You shouldn’t have followed. You’ll unravel.” He stumbled toward her, desperate. But the square stretched as he moved, the distance between them elongating like rubber. “Stay with me!” he shouted. “I’ll bring you back!” Yvonne shook her head slowly. “I’m not me anymore. I’m… scattered. Every time I remember you, I lose another piece of myself.” Her image flickered, twisting—child, woman, stranger, all superimposed at once. The humming swelled into laughter, vast and delighted. Devonne clutched his head. “Why us? Why here?” The presence didn’t answer in words. The buildings buckled. The sky cracked like porcelain. Something immense and unseen erased another piece of him. His memories stuttered. His name slipped from his own mind like water through a sieve. Yvonne stretched out her hand, trembling. But her fingers never reached him. “Go back. Forget me. If you stay, it’ll take all of you.” “No,” Devonne gasped. “I won’t leave you here.” Her broken smile cut him to the bone. “You already are leaving me.” He looked down. His hands were gone. Not invisible, not fading
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Halloween. Content Warning.
Paranoia had gripped Haddonfield. They thought they had killed Michael Myers. They were right. However, The Shape dwelled within Michael. It was the evil that had infected Michael in 1963 and corrupted his soul. The Shape was Michael once again. It had manifested itself as its favorite form. That is 1978’s Michael Myers, the twenty-one-year-old. He crept inside Laurie’s house and grabbed the mask. As soon as he put it on, he felt whole again.
By DJ Robbinsabout a year ago in Fiction
The Farmer Who Grew a Global Organic Brand
The Farmer Who Grew a Global Organic Brand From a small plot of land to supermarket shelves worldwide Business / Agriculture / Sustainability
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Teen Who Built a Tech Startup in His Garage
The Teen Who Built a Tech Startup in His Garage When passion met code, a billion-dollar app was born Business / Technology / Startups
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction