Fan Fiction

The Last Field
In a quiet village cradled between gentle hills and a winding river, there lived an old farmer named Karim. His back was bent from years of tending the earth, his hands rough and cracked like the dry soil after summer. But his eyes—deep and calm—still held a quiet fire.
By meerjananabout a year ago in Fiction
The Unsent Letters
1. The Trunk in the Attic The smell hit first—dried ink, yellowed paper, and gunpowder. After Grandpa Silas’ funeral, I climbed to his attic and found the cedar trunk. Inside: 100 identical envelopes, addressed in his precise handwriting:
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
THE QUANTUM COMPUTER
The night was thick with an almost palpable energy, as if the very air was charged with anticipation. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the city in a deep, inky dark blue, Edwin found himself standing at the edge of a precipice—both literally and metaphorically. The rooftop of his apartment building offered a panoramic view of the chaos below: a city that never slept, the "Big Apple," New York City, where neon lights flickered and shadows danced until morning.
By Fabian Ellisabout a year ago in Fiction
The Photo I Found in My Attic Wasn’t Supposed to Exist
I was cleaning out the attic last weekend, something I’d been putting off for years. The summer heat made the air up there heavy and still, and the dust clung to my skin as I pushed aside old boxes. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just trying to make space.
By ETS_Storyabout a year ago in Fiction
Why I Love You
It’s strange how life’s most important moments don’t always announce themselves. The first time I saw her, it didn’t feel like a “meeting the love of your life” moment. She wasn’t framed in sunlight or stepping out of a movie. She was sitting in the corner of a small café, scribbling into a notebook, a soft scarf wrapped around her neck. The air smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon. She didn’t glance at her phone or tap her fingers impatiently. She was completely absorbed, lost in her own world. But I couldn’t stop looking. Something about her presence made everything else fade, like the world had quietly rearranged itself around her. I didn’t know her name. I didn’t know her story. All I knew was that I wanted to.
By noor ul aminabout a year ago in Fiction
A Stranger in Every Photograph
A Stranger in Every Photograph I found the photo album on a rainy Sunday afternoon, tucked behind boxes in the attic of my late grandmother’s house. Its leather cover was cracked and worn, the pages yellowed, and the smell of old paper and faint perfume clung to it like a ghost.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Day the Colors Fled
The Day the Colors Fled It started quietly, as if the city had taken a deep breath and let all color escape. I woke to gray skies and streets stripped of vibrancy. My walls, my clothes, the garden outside—everything was a shade of ash, steel, and stone. Even the sunlight seemed pallid, like paper left too long in the sun. I rubbed my eyes, convinced it was a trick of sleep. But the world outside my window confirmed my fear.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Café That Served Emotions
The Café That Served Emotions The café wasn’t on any map. Not in guidebooks, not on GPS, not even on the neon-lit streets of downtown. You stumbled upon it when you weren’t looking, through a narrow alley framed by ivy and flickering lanterns. The sign read simply: “Café Émotion”, its letters curling like smoke.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Letters to the Future Me
Letters to the Future Me It started on a Tuesday. I was pouring cereal at my tiny kitchen table when I noticed the envelope lying beside my bowl. Brown paper, neatly folded, with my name written in cursive I didn’t recognize. I opened it with cautious curiosity.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library of Forgotten Memories
The Library of Forgotten Memories I had always loved libraries. The smell of paper, the quiet hum of readers, the way sunlight sliced through high windows onto worn wooden tables—it was a sanctuary.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
I Read My Future in the Library’s “Lost and Found”
I Read My Future in the Library’s “Lost and Found” The first time I opened the “Lost and Found” box at the Maple Street Public Library, I wasn’t looking for anything.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Man Who Knew How You’d Die
The Man Who Knew How You’d Die The bus smelled faintly of wet asphalt and stale coffee. It was late—past midnight—and only a handful of passengers sat scattered in their seats, staring at their phones or watching the city blur past.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction