Fan Fiction
The Lost City of Atlantis
Honestly, if you'd told Emily a decade ago she’d be hanging over the Atlantic, chasing Atlantis on a ship called Elysium, she’d have laughed in your face. But here she was, staring at the glitter-splattered water, thinking less about the sun and more about the ghosts rattling around somewhere underneath. Legends. Whispers. Everyone’s got a theory, but finding actual proof? That’s the dream…and honestly, probably a little bit of a curse.
By Cotheeka Srijonabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Healer’s Burden: Faith, Legacy, and the Weight of Divine Gifts"
The Healer understood her gift far better than the Apprentice ever could. To be *Blessed* was not about skill or effort—it was simply *being*, carrying a selfless faith so profound that it shaped the world without intent. Though she healed with her hands, sometimes the Divine intervened, mending what mortal ability could not. "It’s not a choice," the Healer murmured. "What happens through me defies understanding. If I tried to dissect it, I might destroy it." The Apprentice bit back her frustration. "Then what *can* you teach me?" "Everything I know," the Healer replied. "The wisdom from my first master, the lessons of High Valley. You could even go there—I’d give you a letter. But don’t chase a Blessing. That path will poison your joy and corrupt your craft. Some things *are*. Some *aren’t*. And some *never will be*." With a tired sigh, the Healer shifted, rubbing her lower back. The Apprentice immediately kneaded the stiff muscles, wondering what toll the Blessing truly took. She’d never know—but while her master remained, she would learn. To be Blessed seemed miraculous. Yet, watching the Healer’s weariness as she guided the Apprentice’s hands, it was clearly a burden too. The magic came unpredictably. Rarely did the Healer *know* it would work—except with the boy, when green light had flared beneath her fingers. Even then, she couldn’t claim it as her own, couldn’t replicate it, couldn’t pass it on. As she worked the knots from her master’s shoulders, the Apprentice wondered how much time they had left. The Blessed were wanderers at heart; this village might not hold her forever. Then she caught herself—*scheming again*. Trying to manipulate, to *force* understanding. The Healer was right. If the rules were as she said, the Apprentice could never be Blessed. But there’d been a hint in her words: *faith alone moves magic*. Perhaps, if she planted the seeds now, generations later, a new Blessed might rise in this village. Another farm boy might cheat death because of her unseen hand. That future healer would eclipse her own legacy. Her name would fade, remembered only as a woman who’d once mended wounds. She was content with that. Healing was enough. Unseen, a wisp of green light seeped through the Healer’s dress, settling into the Apprentice’s fingers. "Never to be Blessed" didn’t mean the gods would refuse her all grace. As her master said, even mortals could heal—*with their own hands*. --- **The Weight of Blessings** The Healer knew her gift in ways the Apprentice could scarcely fathom. To be *Blessed* was not a matter of study or will—it was a state of being, a surrender to a faith so profound it moved through the world like wind through grass, unseen but undeniable. She healed with her hands, yes, but sometimes—only sometimes—something greater stirred within her, mending what should have been beyond repair. "It isn’t something I *do*," the Healer said, her voice quiet but firm. "It passes through me. If I tried to hold it, to dissect it, I fear I would lose it entirely." The Apprentice clenched her fists, frustration simmering beneath her skin. She had so many questions, so many *whys* and *hows*, but the answers slipped like water through her fingers. Swallowing her impatience, she asked instead, "Then what *can* you teach me?" The Healer’s expression softened. "I can teach you all I know—the remedies passed down from my first master, the secrets whispered in High Valley. If you wish, I will send you there with my blessing. But listen well: Do not seek the Blessing itself. That path leads only to disappointment. Some things cannot be claimed. They can only be *received*—or not." With a weary sigh, the Healer set aside her cloth and shifted, wincing as she pressed a hand to the small of her back. The Apprentice moved without thinking, her fingers finding the familiar tension in her master’s muscles. She had seen this weariness before, the way the Healer’s body bore the cost of her gift. *What does it feel like?* the Apprentice wondered. To be a vessel for something so vast, so beyond comprehension? To never know when—or if—the magic would answer? The Healer had spoken of faith, but faith was a slippery thing. The Apprentice had seen miracles—like the boy and the scythe, the way emerald light had knit his flesh back together as if the wound had never been. Yet the Healer refused to take credit, refused to call it her own. *That* was the hardest part to understand. How could she not want to *own* such power? To wield it with certainty? As she worked the stiffness from her master’s shoulders, the Apprentice’s thoughts wandered. The Blessed were said to be wanderers, never staying long in one place. Would her master leave someday? Would she wake to find her gone, with only memories and half-learned lessons left behind? The thought sent a pang through her chest. There was still so much to learn. Then she caught herself—*scheming again*. Always trying to shape the future, to control what could not be controlled. The Healer was right: If the Blessing demanded surrender, then the Apprentice’s very nature worked against her. She was a creature of plans and puzzles, of *making* things happen. But perhaps… perhaps there was another way. The Healer had spoken of faith moving through generations, of seeds planted long before they bloomed. If the Apprentice could not be Blessed herself, maybe she could prepare the ground for someone who *could*. A descendant, a student yet unborn—someone who might one day stand in this very house and mend wounds with hands that glowed like spring leaves. The thought should have saddened her. To be forgotten, her name lost to time while another’s shone bright… and yet, it didn’t. The work would remain. That was enough. Unnoticed by either of them, a single spark of green light drifted through the fabric of the Healer’s sleeve, settling into the Apprentice’s palm. "Never to be Blessed," the Healer had said. But the gods, it seemed, had their own ideas.
By Nasir Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Wolf Roams Through Lush Fields
The Last Meadow The morning mist curled low over the valley, whispering through the tall grass like a secret kept too long. Dew clung to every blade, sparkling in the rising sun’s golden light. In the middle of the meadow, a gray wolf stood still, his breath slow and steady, ears perked to the sound of the waking earth.
By Mukhtiar Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Letter That Waited Ten Years
The letter arrived on a Thursday. It was buried among bills and catalogs, wedged between an energy statement and a gardening magazine. The envelope was yellowed, the ink smudged in places. The postmark read May 16, 2015—exactly ten years ago.
By Muhammad Hamza Safiabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mad Lover
In the quiet, dusty town of Chandipur, life moved at its own slow rhythm. People knew each other by name, and gossip traveled faster than the monsoon winds. Amid the shopkeepers, farmers, and schoolteachers, there was one boy everyone talked about—Arin.
By Naeem Mridhaabout a year ago in Fiction
Duty Over Grief in Tibet
Waris is considered to be the first Igu (priest) of Idu Mishmi community. He was a famous, accomplished and powerful Igu and his fame had spread far and wide. Once an epidemic spread in Tibet. People were dying of dysentery. Almost half the population of Tibet was getting affected by it, so Waris was called to cure the people there. Waris left his old mother, young wife and children and went to Tibet. Before leaving, he made a hawk named Ishru his informer and gave him the responsibility of giving information about the family every moment. The epidemic had spread in such a terrible form in Tibet that Waris had to stay there for years. Then one day his informer hawk Ishru came and told him the sad news. He told that his child is no more. He became very sad on hearing this, but realizing his responsibility was bigger than his sorrow, he said to Ishru, My wife and I can have children again and I can also marry another wife, but it is more important for me to stay here. The people here need me. So you go and bring any new news if you have it. Ishru returned.
By Nikita Angelabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers from the Dark Drift
In the year 2142, Earth was no longer the center of civilization. Humanity had spread across the solar system, building domed cities on Mars, mining colonies on Jupiter’s moons, and floating research stations in the orbit of Saturn. But in all that advancement, something deeply human was lost — the hunger for wonder.
By ABDULLAH AL LOKMANabout a year ago in Fiction
