Fan Fiction

Next of Kin
What we choose to forget returns to haunt. - Michelle Liew ************************************************************** The voice on the line was politely pedantic, clinical. "Hi, Miss Lisa Wong, you're listed as the emergency contact for a Daniel Wong."
By Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin2 years ago in Fiction
Silent Pages: A Hidden Message Reveals a Forgotten Secret
Clara Mercer had always found solace in the quiet corners of Willow brook Library. As its head librarian, she knew every creak in the wooden floors, every sunlit patch on the reading tables, and every secret hiding spot for the rarest books. But nothing in her 15 years there had prepared her for the day she found the letter tucked inside a weathered copy of Wuthering Heights.
By sami 20252 years ago in Fiction
**Title: "Hollowbrook's Whispers"**
In the quiet village of Hollowbrook, it was the abandoned Ashwood Herald, where fertilizer was clinging to the earth like a bowl. The rotten stone walls and broken windows were the subject of a long steaming story. Locals spoke about the tragedy of the first century - the fire that insisted on the life of the wealthy Hartley family, including her young daughter Eleanor, whose laughter still repeats in the hall. But for 17-year-old Clara, who arrived from town, the story was just that: the story.
By Md. Abu Taleb2 years ago in Fiction
Jason Vs Mr.Violence Vs Maniac Cop Reboot
Chapter 1: A Night to Remember In the heart of Manhattan, chaos erupted inside the 15th precinct as sirens blared and frantic voices weaved through the darkness. Special Agent Raphael "Jimmy" Jameson was on a special assignment, liaising with the New York City Police Department. The night had set in, but little did he know that this would become more than just another routine operation.
By Victor Robinson II2 years ago in Fiction
The Art of Seduction
The Art of Seduction Lena, a talented young artist, had always been fascinated by the human form. She spent most of her days sketching and painting the nude models who posed for her art class. But despite her passion for art, Lena felt unfulfilled. She longed for inspiration, for a spark that would ignite her creativity and set her soul on fire.
By Taiwo Esther2 years ago in Fiction
DON'T READ
The Algorithmic Republic In the year 2084, the world had finally done it—humans had stepped aside, and AI had taken over governance. It began as an experiment, a desperate solution to centuries of corruption, inefficiency, and human error. Nations crumbled under the weight of their own dysfunction until the Global Accord for Algorithmic Governance (GAAG) was formed. One by one, countries handed over control to Sentient Administrative Neural Entity—S.A.N.E.
By Kode Jynesis2 years ago in Fiction
The Mysterious Inheritance
The Mysterious Inheritance Emily had always been fascinated by her family's history. She spent hours poring over old photographs, letters, and diaries, trying to piece together the stories of her ancestors.
By Taiwo Esther2 years ago in Fiction
The City of Eternal Dawn
Introduction In a distant corner of the universe, hidden among the stars, lies a world untouched by chaos, suffering, or decay. This is the City of Eternal Dawn, a utopia where time itself has been tamed, and humanity thrives in perfect harmony. The city is a marvel of advanced technology, breathtaking architecture, and boundless creativity. But beneath its shimmering surface lies a secret—one that could unravel the very fabric of this paradise.
By S.M.Junaid2 years ago in Fiction
The shadow killer
The corkboard, which was a jumbled tapestry of photos from the crime scene, statements from witnesses, and a red string that seemed to connect the disparate victims, caught Detective Isabella "Izzy" Diaz's attention. In the bustling metropolis of Aethelburg, three lives were lost in the span of two weeks. Each death was caused by a random act of violence. The city, usually vibrant and alive, now held its breath, shrouded in a blanket of fear.
By sanjeevan2 years ago in Fiction
I Hate Captain Kirk
Throughout history many people have come to hate their jobs or their life, sometimes both. I am one who hates both. Most of my forty-five years has been filled with pain but I can’t complain about to anyone; I just have to grin and bear it. Currently right now I am heading to a potentially dangerous situation. I hear you ask what sort of person can endure such a life? I hear you ask who I am?
By Alan Walker2 years ago in Fiction
A Love Left In The Past
November 12, 1862 Somewhere on the Battlefield My Dearest Eleanor, I write to you by candlelight, though the wax has nearly melted away, much like the days we have lost between us. The earth here is damp with the sorrow of men, and the air is thick with the scent of gunpowder and fear. It is a cruel thing to live among death, to wake each morning knowing the sun rises only to bear witness to another day of suffering. And yet, my love, it is thoughts of you that carry me forward. I trace the lines of your last letter until the paper has softened under my fingertips. You spoke of the house, of how the ivy has begun to climb the porch again, how the autumn leaves scatter across the fields we once walked together. I close my eyes and I am there with you—watching as the wind catches in your hair, laughing as you scold me for stealing kisses when the neighbors might see. Do you remember the night before I left? How we danced in the parlor, the firelight making ghosts of our shadows? I can still feel your hand in mine, warm, alive, safe. But here, in this place, I have seen too many young men whisper names of lovers and mothers with their last breath. Some clutch letters they never had the chance to send. Others hold onto trinkets, a lock of hair, a faded ribbon, something to remind them of the life they left behind. I wonder, will I be among them? Will I call for you in my final moments? I am not afraid of death, my love, but I am afraid of leaving you alone in this world. The nights are the hardest. The battlefield is quiet then, save for the occasional cry of a wounded man or the distant howl of some lonely creature. I wonder if you can hear my heart calling out for you across the miles that separate us. I ache for you, Eleanor. For the simple joys of home—for your laughter, for the soft press of your lips against my temple when you think I am asleep. War is a thief, and I curse it for stealing the days that should have been ours. I dream of you often. In my sleep, I find myself back in our home, the scent of fresh bread in the air, your voice calling me in from the fields. And then I wake, and the cold reality of my surroundings crashes upon me. But even in this cruel world, the thought of you is my solace. If I close my eyes, I can almost hear your voice, whispering to me that I must endure. If God is merciful, this letter will reach you, and I will follow soon after. If not, then let these words be my last gift to you. I love you, Eleanor. I have loved you from the moment you first smiled at me, and I will love you long after my name has faded from this earth. Forever yours, James --- December 3, 1862 Rosewood Cottage, Virginia My Dearest James, I have read your letter so many times that the ink is beginning to smudge beneath my tears. My hands tremble as I write this, for I do not know if these words will ever find you, if you will live to read them, or if they will be lost among the countless messages sent by hearts breaking across this war-torn land. James, my love, you must come home to me. I beg you, with all that I am. I walk these halls alone, and the silence is deafening. I press my ear to the wind, hoping to catch the distant echo of your laughter, but all I hear is emptiness. I have taken to sleeping in your shirt, just to pretend for a moment that you are still beside me. The nights are long without you, and I am so very tired of waiting. I tend to the house as best I can, though it feels hollow without you. I sweep the floors, mend your coat, and sit by the fire with my sewing, though my hands are often too unsteady to stitch a single thread. The neighbors bring food and words of comfort, but they do not understand. They do not know what it is to wake each day wondering if today will be the day the letter arrives, the one that tells me you are never coming home. They tell us to be proud, to hold our heads high as our men march off to fight. But what is pride when the cost is love? What is honor when the price is a future stolen from us? They do not know the pain of watching the one you love vanish into the horizon, not knowing if you will ever see them again. I would give anything—anything—to feel your arms around me once more, to rest my head against your chest and know that we are safe, together. The seasons are changing without you. The first snowfall came last night, blanketing the fields in white. I stood by the window, watching as the world became quiet, and I imagined you here with me. You always loved the winter, loved the way the morning frost would cling to the trees, how the cold made every breath visible. I remember how you used to pull me outside, spinning me around in the falling snow, your laughter warm against my cheek. I am trying to be brave, my love, but each day without you is a battle of its own. The world moves on, but I remain frozen in the moment you left. I watch the road, hoping to see you returning home, hoping that this war will not take you from me. A man from town came yesterday, speaking of soldiers who had fallen in battle. I could not bear to listen. I ran from the room before he could utter another word. I cannot hear those stories, James. I cannot bear the thought that one day, someone will say your name among the fallen. Please, James, promise me you will return. Do not leave me to grow old alone in this house that was meant to be filled with our laughter, our children, our dreams. If you are lost to me, I do not know how I will go on. Come back to me. Please. Yours, always, Eleanor --- December 21, 1862 Somewhere on the Battlefield My Beloved Eleanor, If you are reading this, it means I am still among the living, though the days have been cruel. We marched through the snow, the cold biting deep, settling into our bones like a sickness. Many have fallen, their bodies left to be buried by the winter itself. I have seen the strongest of men weep in the night, whispering the names of wives and children they may never see again. But I hold on. I hold on for you. I will return, my love. I do not know when, nor in what condition, but I will fight with everything I have to make my way back to you. Hold onto me as I hold onto you, through the miles and the battles and the silence that separates us. Do not lose faith. I am coming home. With all my love, James
By Chibi2 years ago in Fiction
The Last Text Message You’ll Never Send
Prologue: The Echo in the Static In a world where every heartbeat is tracked, every memory digitized, and every emotion monetized, the line between past and future blurs. The app Chronosync promises to bridge time itself—a tool to send messages to your past or future self. But when Ava Cole, a disillusioned tech journalist, stumbles into a conspiracy hidden in its code, she discovers some messages are better left unsent.
By K. B. 2 years ago in Fiction