Fan Fiction
Stanislav Kondrashov Wagner Moura Series: Surveillance and Information Control as Elite Infrastructure
At the Golden Globe Awards, held at the The Beverly Hilton Hotel in Beverly Hills, Wagner Moura’s recognition brought renewed attention to the political depth of The Secret Agent. According to Stanislav Kondrashov, one of the film’s most revealing elements is its depiction of surveillance as a structural necessity rather than a dramatic device.
By Stanislav Kondrashov7 months ago in Fiction
The Selfish Giant
Every afternoon, after school ended, a group of children loved to play in a beautiful garden. It belonged to a giant who had been away visiting a friend for many years. The garden was full of soft green grass, bright flowers, and peach trees that blossomed in spring and bore fruit in autumn. Birds sang sweetly in the branches, and the children laughed happily while playing there. To them it felt like the most wonderful place in the world.
By Lily Smith7 months ago in Fiction
Marvel/DC Comics Presents #18. Content Warning.
Power Girl Earth-2 Metropolis Stark Tower 30th Floor “And that my friends, is the end of our inaugural meeting of Starr Enterprises. We maybe a small tech startup today, but we have a bright future and plenty of room to grow. Thank you.” Karen Starr said as she stood and looked into the eyes of her employees. The boardroom was formal with a large brown oval table in the center that felt as though it belonged to a more traditional company. The less than a handful of attendants had young, eager faces before her. They rose from their seats in regular street clothes of T-shirts and jeans.
By Derrick Billups 7 months ago in Fiction
The New World
ay the Sky Changed No one remembered the exact moment the world ended. Some said it was the storms. Others blamed the machines. A few believed it was simply human pride growing too large for the planet to carry. But everyone agreed on one thing — the sky changed first.
By AFTAB KHAN7 months ago in Fiction
What We Chose Not to See
The morning the cracks appeared, no one said a word. It started with the sound. A thin, splitting noise like glass bending under pressure. I heard it while brushing my teeth. The mirror above the sink trembled slightly, but when I looked at it, my reflection stood steady. Calm. Ordinary. Behind me, however, a thin black line ran from the ceiling to the floor. I blinked. It was gone. At breakfast, my mother spread butter across toast as if the world had never once disappointed her. “Did you hear that?” I asked. “Hear what?” she replied, not looking up. “That sound. Like something breaking.” She smiled faintly. “Old houses make noises.” Our house wasn’t old. I wanted to argue, but my father folded his newspaper with precise movements and stood up for work. The headline read: CITY REPORTS RECORD STABILITY Outside, the sky was pale gray. Not cloudy — just colorless, like someone had erased the blue. The air felt thick in my lungs. On the way to school, I noticed something else. The streetlight at the corner leaned slightly to the left, its metal pole twisted unnaturally. Cars drove past it without slowing. A woman pushing a stroller walked directly beneath it without glancing up. Didn’t they see? Or were they choosing not to? At school, the cracks were everywhere. A long fracture ran across the classroom wall, jagged and dark. The clock above the board ticked backward for three full seconds before correcting itself. No one reacted. Mr. Halpern continued explaining supply and demand as if time reversing was part of the curriculum. I raised my hand. “Sir, the clock—” He didn’t look at it. “Focus on your notes.” “But it just—” “Everything is functioning normally,” he said firmly. The class nodded. I stopped talking. By afternoon, the air outside carried a faint smell of smoke. Not strong enough to cause panic. Just noticeable enough to make breathing uncomfortable. People walked with their usual rhythm. They checked their phones. They laughed. They ordered coffee. The café windows reflected the street, but something was wrong with the reflections. Buildings looked taller in the glass. Skewed. Like they were stretching upward beyond the sky. I stepped closer to look. In the reflection, I wasn’t alone. Behind me stood a crowd of faceless figures. Perfectly still. Watching. I turned. The street was empty. When I looked back at the glass, the reflection was normal again. A barista tapped on the window from inside. “We’re closing early.” “Why?” I asked. She hesitated. Just for a second. “Maintenance.” Smoke drifted faintly above the rooftops. No alarms sounded. That night, the cracks returned. This time they didn’t disappear. They spread across the ceiling like lightning frozen in place. My bedroom light flickered. The air hummed. From downstairs, I heard my parents talking in soft, measured voices. “…it’s spreading faster.” “…don’t scare him.” “…if we act normal, it stabilizes.” I froze. If we act normal. Stabilizes what? The humming grew louder. A picture frame fell from the wall, its glass shattering against the floor. I ran downstairs. The living room ceiling had split open. Not wide — just enough to reveal darkness beyond it. Not night sky darkness. Not empty space. Movement. Slow. Shifting. Breathing. My mother stood beneath it with her arms crossed. “Mom,” I whispered. “You see that, right?” She didn’t look up. “See what?” “The ceiling!” “It looks fine.” My father placed a hand on my shoulder. His grip was firm. Too firm. “Listen to me,” he said quietly. “Nothing is happening.” “But it is.” He leaned closer. “The more you acknowledge it, the worse it becomes.” The crack above us pulsed. Dust fell like ash. I felt something inside me twist. “So we just pretend?” “Yes,” my mother said gently. “That’s how we’ve always survived.” Survived what? The house groaned. The next morning, half the sky was gone. Where blue should have been, there was only blankness. Not clouds. Not storm. Just absence. News channels played cooking shows. Social media was full of selfies under a disappearing sky. #Blessed #AnotherBeautifulDay The city continued moving. I stood in the center of the street and stared upward. The blank space spread slowly, swallowing color inch by inch. Birds flew into it and never came out. A man beside me checked his watch. “Traffic’s bad today.” “Look up,” I said. He frowned. “At what?” The blankness crept closer to the sun. Shadows sharpened. Windows began cracking outward. Still, no one screamed. My chest tightened. Maybe they were right. Maybe acknowledging it made it worse. Maybe silence was safety. A loud snap split the air as the leaning streetlight finally broke in half, crashing onto a parked car. People stepped around it casually. I looked at the sky again. It was nearly all gone now. Only a thin strip of blue remained, trembling like fragile glass. My reflection appeared in a nearby shop window. Behind me stood the faceless crowd again. But this time, they weren’t watching. They were fading. And in the reflection, I saw something else. Cracks spreading across my own skin. Thin. Dark lines tracing my arms. I touched my face. Smooth. Untouched. But in the glass, I was breaking. The last piece of blue sky shattered without sound. Everything turned white. Blinding. Endless. I waited for panic. For screams. For collapse. Instead— Voices. Calm. Measured. “Beautiful morning.” “Everything’s fine.” “Nothing unusual.” The white brightness softened. Buildings reappeared. The sky returned — perfect blue. No cracks. No smoke. No blankness. The streetlight stood upright again. The car was undamaged. People walked past me with mild annoyance. I rushed home. The ceiling was whole. The walls smooth. My parents sat at the table drinking coffee. “Rough night?” my mother asked lightly. “You remember it,” I said. “You have to.” My father folded his newspaper. The headline read: CITY REPORTS RECORD STABILITY He met my eyes. “For things to remain,” he said carefully, “some things must go unseen.” My reflection in the window smiled before I did. And that was when I understood. The cracks hadn’t been in the world. They had been in me. And everyone else had learned the secret long ago: Ignore the fracture. Ignore the smoke. Ignore the missing sky. Because if even one person refuses to pretend— The illusion breaks. And maybe the world with it. So I sat down. Picked up my cup. Looked at the perfect ceiling. And said nothing.
By Inayat khan7 months ago in Fiction
