Fan Fiction

WAR OF THE WORLDS (2025) – A Terrifying Mirror of Our Own Destructio
You’re not ready for this invasion. Aliens may be the enemy, but humanity is the real story. Director Jordan Vance’s 2025 take on War of the Worlds isn’t just a remake—it’s a reinvention. It rips the skin off the classic H.G. Wells novel and exposes something far more terrifying: us.
By Kevin Hudsonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Shape of Love in the Dark
The world went dark for Lila one winter morning when her vision vanished without warning. It had begun with blurred shapes, flashes of light, and migraines. Doctors called it a rare degenerative condition—fast, irreversible, incurable. By the time the snow had melted, Lila lived in permanent night.
By Haris Raheemabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Voice on Earth
The airwaves were mostly silent now. Static hissed softly like a distant sea, its white noise a familiar ghost. At exactly 7:00 p.m., just like every evening for the past three years, a man’s voice crackled through the empty frequencies. “Good evening, survivors. Or... just me again,” said RJ, his voice warm but tired. “Broadcasting live from Station Echo-9, still here in what’s left of Brooklyn. The sky was yellow again today. The birds haven’t returned, but the rats are doing just fine.” He chuckled quietly at his own joke. No one else was laughing, but that was okay. RJ was used to the silence now. He leaned back in his chair and looked around the dusty studio. The posters on the walls had faded. Cobwebs hugged the corners. The coffee mug beside him hadn’t held coffee in over a year, but he still kept it there, like a ritual. He reached out, tapped a button on the control panel, and played an old jazz record. The scratches in the vinyl were now part of the music. -Before the world went quiet, RJ had been a part-time radio host. He’d loved the sound of his own voice, loved the thought of people listening to him as they drove home from work, or made dinner in tiny apartments. But when the Collapse came—when the power grids failed, the governments crumbled, and cities turned to graveyards—he held on to the mic like it was an anchor. And so, every night, RJ talked. To no one. Or so he believed. --- In a forgotten bunker buried under a mountain in Vermont, 17-year-old Mira sat wrapped in a blanket, headphones clamped tightly over her ears. Her cheeks were pale. Her fingers were thin. But her eyes were wide with life every time that voice came through. RJ. She had found his signal by accident during a bleak winter night, when her hands were shaking and the silence in the bunker felt like it would swallow her. The voice cut through the static like a miracle. She’d screamed in surprise, then cried in relief. Since then, she never missed a broadcast. RJ didn’t know she existed. But Mira knew everything about him. His love for jazz, his hopeless attempts at rooftop gardening, the dog he used to have named Saturn, the way he missed “weird things” like streetlights flickering on at night. She filled pages in a notebook with his words. Copied them like prayers. --- For a long time, she didn’t dare speak. What if he couldn’t hear her? What if reaching out broke something sacred? But silence was starting to scare her again. One night, when the wind howled above ground and the bunker’s generator sputtered weakly, she climbed to the surface. The cold was sharp, but she powered up the solar transmitter she’d repaired over months of trial and error. She stared at the microphone like it might bite her. "...Hello?" Her voice cracked. It sounded foreign, even to herself. She hadn’t spoken aloud in nearly a week. "...Can you hear me?" J froze. He was midway through another story—something about pigeons he once saw dive-bombing a politician—when the radio made a sound that didn’t belong to static. A voice. Faint. Nervous. "Hello? Can you hear me?" He blinked hard and checked the equipment. Had he fallen asleep? Was it a dream? Then the voice came again. Real. “I hear you!” he shouted, nearly knocking over the mic. “Yes, I hear you! Who is this?!” There was a long pause before the girl answered. “My name is Mira... I’ve been listening. For a long time.” RJ leaned into the mic. His heart was racing. “You’re real.” She laughed softly. “You sound surprised.” “I thought I was mad. That I’d been talking to ghosts.” “Well,” Mira said, “then we’re both mad. I’m talking to a voice in the dark, and it’s the best part of my day.” -They talked for hours. About books. About how she’d found the bunker. About the sky—how in Vermont, it turned a pale violet at night now. About her parents, who hadn’t made it. About RJ’s rooftop garden that never grew anything but weeds. He made her laugh. She made him pause, reflect, remember how it felt to be connected. They made a pact before signing off. “Same time tomorrow?” RJ asked. “I’ll be here,” she promised.
By Nomix about a year ago in Fiction
The Man Who Was There in Silence
Part 1: The Silence at the End They called him "a man of few words" at the funeral. A kind lie. My father, Thomas Evans, spoke less than few. He spoke in absence:
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Mirage in the Mind
In 2049, the sky was no longer just blue or filled with clouds. It was a canvas owned by corporations—streaming dreams, desires, and illusions 24/7.
By Solene Hartabout a year ago in Fiction
How Google Maps Saved My Life in the Middle of Nowhere
1. The Crash That Wasn’t an Accident The tire blew at 80 mph. Not worn tread—a bullet. Maya’s rental Jeep fishtailed off Route 66, tumbling down a ravine. When the world stopped spinning, she tasted blood and gasoline. The dashboard clock blinked 3:33 AM. Outside: endless Mojave blackness.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
I Paid a Witch to Erase My Memories But They’re Coming Back
I Paid a Witch to Erase My Memories But They’re Coming Back You don’t find witches in neon-lit cities or suburban cul-de-sacs. You find them in the cracks of reality between the forgotten and the forbidden. I didn’t seek her out because I believed in magic. I sought her because I was desperate to forget.
By Farooq Hashmiabout a year ago in Fiction
The Sound That Shouldn’t Exist. AI-Generated.
The Sound That Shouldn’t Exist By [ WAQAR ALI ] I moved into the cottage to escape noise. After ten years in New York City — sirens, subways, neighbors fighting through the walls — my mind felt like a box of shattered glass. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t hear myself without the sound of the world crashing in.
By LONE WOLFabout a year ago in Fiction
Overflowing with Feelings and Questions. AI-Generated.
Overflowing with Feelings and Questions BY [ WAQAR ALI ] A journal entry… or something like it. Who is my mother? Or maybe the real question is—what has she become?
By LONE WOLFabout a year ago in Fiction
The Stranger Who Knew My Name
The Stranger Who Knew My Name By [HAFSA] The first time I saw him was outside the bookstore on 6th Street. He stood leaning against the lamppost like he belonged to the rust and the rain, an unshaven man in a brown coat a size too large. He watched people with tired, knowing eyes, but it was me he smiled at.
By HAFSAabout a year ago in Fiction
The Bookshop Where Love Feels Illegal
The Bookshop Where Love Feels Illegal It never had a name on the door. Just a creaking wooden sign with no letters, swinging gently in the wind like it was keeping secrets. People called it “the quiet shop.” Some said it was haunted. Others never noticed it at all.
By Kevinabout a year ago in Fiction
The Chocolate Soldier . Content Warning. AI-Generated.
Pennsylvania, 1943 They called it Operation Sugar Rush and Private Joe Kowalski carried its secret in his duffel bag: 12 pounds of dark chocolate bars stamped For Military Use Only. Joe wasn’t supposed to open them. But as his troop train rattled toward New York Harbor, a sobbing girl in a patched dress changed everything. She’d lost her doll. Joe slipped her a chocolate squar. Shh, kid. This is magic rations.Her smile cracked his resolve.
By Tariq Pathan about a year ago in Fiction