Fan Fiction
The Man Who Collected Lost Time
The Man Who Collected Lost Time By Muhammad Ali In a quiet village tucked between two misty mountains, where clocks ticked just a little slower and the wind carried stories in its breath, lived an old man named Eliot. No one really knew how old he was—some said he was there before the roads were paved, others believed he had simply appeared one morning, just as the dew did, with no beginning and no end.
By Muhammad aliabout a year ago in Fiction
The lighthouse keeper's secret
Part One: The Island Nobody Wanted Few people knew about Norwyn Island. A lonely rock sitting off the jagged coast of Maine, it was perpetually surrounded by thick fog, icy winds, and waves that crashed like angry fists against its cliffs. The lighthouse stood like a weary sentinel, watching the ocean, stubbornly enduring the elements.
By noor ul aminabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Bus to Terminal 9
The sky was never blue anymore. It hung low over the crumbling city like a rusted lid, filtering every ray of sunlight into a dull, sickly hue. People walked the streets with bowed heads and regulation-gray masks, their eyes hollow with routine. Screens blinked from the walls, reminding everyone: "Compliance Ensures Survival." Terminal 9 was the only airport left functional in the Republic. But flights were not for leisure or business — they were for escape. If you had the right documents, the right reason, and the right connections, you could board a plane and leave Sector Delta for the rumored “Free Zones.” If not, you stayed. Forever. And so, the bus to the airport had become more than transportation — it was a symbol of possibility. But no one smiled on it. Mira clutched her gray travel permit tightly in her coat pocket, her heart racing with a mix of dread and defiance. She had forged the document with the help of an underground printer known only as “The Carver.” If caught, she would vanish — like her brother did two years ago. Her number was called that morning. A voice on the public announcement system had echoed across her block: "Passenger 45B, report to Bus Line Omega-7. Destination: Terminal 9." That was her. Mira Reynolds. 45B. The Omega-7 bus growled to a halt on the cracked pavement. Painted in government black with no windows, it looked more like a transport for prisoners than passengers. The door hissed open. Inside, dim lights flickered. Silent figures sat in pairs, some clutching bags, some holding nothing at all. No one spoke. The only sound was the whirring surveillance drone that hovered quietly near the driver’s booth, watching. Mira sat beside an elderly man with clouded eyes and trembling hands. He looked up at her and whispered, “Do you think they’ll really let us go?” She hesitated. “I don’t know,” she said, “but I have to believe it.” The bus jolted forward, and the cityscape slid past — towering walls, surveillance towers, long lines of gray-uniformed workers entering factories. A child stared at the bus from behind a wire fence, eyes wide with something like hope… or fear. Every ten minutes, the bus stopped. Officers in obsidian armor would board and scan IDs. Mira’s palms were sweaty. Each time the scanner beeped green and the officer moved on, she felt a wave of cautious relief. But on the fourth stop, something went wrong. An officer’s scanner beeped red. The passenger — a young man — was dragged from his seat without a word. No one screamed. No one moved. That was how it worked in Sector Delta. The man’s backpack remained behind. Mira stared at it. She didn’t know his name, but his absence pressed on her like a stone. She glanced around. No one else dared to look up. As the bus moved again, her neighbor leaned in. “You’re not from the Registry, are you?” he asked softly. Mira froze. “What do you mean?” “I used to be a teacher,” he whispered. “I taught kids how to spot truth in fiction… until fiction became illegal.” His eyes, though old, burned with awareness. “I can see it in your eyes. You don’t believe in this world either.” She didn’t respond, but her silence was enough. He smiled faintly. “There are more of us, you know. Rebels, thinkers. We hide in plain sight.” The bus neared Terminal 9 — a massive concrete dome surrounded by fences and automated turrets. The closer they got, the heavier the silence became. At the final checkpoint, passengers were ordered to disembark. Drones hovered lower. Armed guards lined the path. Each traveler was funneled into an inspection tunnel. Mira’s forged pass trembled in her hands. The old man stepped ahead of her, moving slowly. As he entered the tunnel, he turned back and said, “You have something worth more than a permit, child. You have the truth. Protect it.” He vanished into the scanner’s light. Mira stepped forward. A mechanical voice spoke: “ID scan commencing. Please remain still.” She held her breath. The scanner beeped. Green. Relief flooded her. But just as she moved to take her next step, a hand grabbed her shoulder. “Secondary inspection,” a guard said, expressionless. Her heart thundered. She was led to a side room. The air was colder here. A single screen flickered to life. “We detected anomaly in your record,” the screen said. “State your purpose for travel.” She swallowed. “Reunification. My brother is in Free Zone 3.” “Name?” “Caleb Reynolds.” The system paused. Then: “Subject deceased.” Her stomach dropped. “No… that can’t be.” “Records confirm termination. Application invalid.” Tears welled in her eyes, but then she remembered the old man’s words. You have the truth. She looked into the scanner and spoke clearly: “Your system is built on lies. But we remember the truth. And we will rebuild what you destroyed.” There was silence. Then, the screen blinked. “CLEARANCE GRANTED.” Mira gasped. She was escorted to the terminal gates. Around her, a few others looked just as surprised, just as scarred. They were the ones who dared to question. The plane stood ready — white, sleek, glowing in the haze. Mira stepped onto the last bus that would take her to the boarding stairs. As the door closed, she looked back at the wall behind her, where a phrase had been spray-painted in red: “Truth flies. Lies rot.” She held her breath, and the bus rolled forward — into the unknown. --- Moral of the Story: In a world where truth is punished and obedience is rewarded, even a single voice that dares to speak can break the silence — and begin a journey toward freedom.
By Muhammad Bilalabout a year ago in Fiction
THE MEMORY THIEF
Chapter 1: The Blank Spaces Dr. Sarah Mitchell stared at the photograph in her trembling hands—a wedding picture she didn't remember taking, featuring a man whose face felt familiar yet completely foreign. According to the date stamp, it was taken just six months ago, but in her mind, there was nothing. No ceremony, no kiss, no joy. Just an empty space where love should have lived.
By noor ul aminabout a year ago in Fiction
I Boarded a Train That Shouldn’t Exist — and Woke Up in a City Without Direction
It started with the sound of wheels — not in my head, but out there. Somewhere. Somehow. I was sitting on a bench in a train station I didn’t remember entering. No ticket in hand. No bags. Just me, shivering slightly in a coat that still smelled faintly of rain and old cologne.
By Vocal Member about a year ago in Fiction
When Love Waited by the Sea
Elena stood barefoot at the edge of the Pacific Ocean, the California coast stretching endlessly in either direction. The golden sky melted into the sea, and the waves whispered softly at her toes. The ocean breeze tugged gently at her oversized cardigan as she closed her eyes — not to enjoy the view, but to calm the ache deep in her chest.
By Saleem awaisabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers Under the Almond Tree
In the heart of Afghanistan, between the shadows of dry hills and forgotten graves, lay a village called The name meant "White Stone," though no one remembered why. The soil was tired, and so were the people. Water had become memory, laughter a rare sound, and the young had learned silence too early.
By Doctor kausarabout a year ago in Fiction
When the Lion Fell
When the Lion Fell — A Tale of Two Foxes and the Rise of a New Reign The forest does not forget. Its soil drinks stories, its trees bear scars, and its wind carries whispers too old for time to erase. Deep in this wilderness—where shadows are longer than memory—ruled a lion named Azhdar. His mane was thick with dried blood, his claws dulled from too many kills. He did not roar to speak, he roared to silence. He was not a king. He was a tyrant.
By Saeed Ullah about a year ago in Fiction
When True North Fails
They always say, “Just follow your compass.” Like it’s that easy. Like life always offers a clear path — a direction to walk in. For most of my life, I believed that. Maybe I wanted to believe it. Until the day I ended up somewhere that compasses don’t work — a place called Entropia.
By Vocal Member about a year ago in Fiction
