Fan Fiction

The last message . AI-Generated.
I woke up to the familiar buzz of my phone. At first, I thought it was just another notification from a friend or one of those annoying app alerts. But when I unlocked it, my heart skipped a beat.
By Evxian Zx11 months ago in Fiction
The Long Way Back 🕊️
Jonah Reed learned the weight of his past the day his hands started shaking for no clear reason. He was forty-seven, standing in line at a quiet grocery store, staring at a display of apples arranged with unnecessary precision. Nothing was wrong. Nothing was happening. And yet his chest felt tight, his palms slick, his breath shallow. He left his basket where it was and walked out into the cold air, heart hammering like he’d been caught doing something terrible.
By Karl Jackson11 months ago in Fiction
Last Bus
The bus came through my neighborhood every night at 11:47. I knew because I heard it before I saw it. The low engine hum. The soft rattle of windows. The sigh of brakes somewhere down the road. Even when I wasn’t looking for it, my body recognized the sound. It never stopped. There was no bus stop on my street. No sign, no bench, no schedule posted anywhere. It just passed by, carrying strangers who were going somewhere else. Until the night it slowed down. I was standing on my porch, keys in hand, locked out of my own house. My phone was dead, and the air had that quiet heaviness that only comes late at night. No dogs barking. No cars passing. Just the streetlight flickering like it might give up any second. Then I heard the bus. But this time, the engine softened. The headlights washed over my lawn and lingered there, like the driver was considering something. The bus stopped in front of my house. The doors opened with a tired hiss. For a moment, I didn’t move. My first thought was that this had to be a mistake. The second was that maybe it had always been meant to stop, and I’d just never noticed. The driver didn’t look at me. He stared straight ahead, hands resting loosely on the wheel. His uniform looked older than it should have been, the fabric faded like it had been washed too many times. “You getting on?” he asked, voice flat but not unkind. I hesitated. “Where does it go?” He shrugged. “Depends.” That should have been my answer right there. A normal person would have stepped back, waited for the bus to move on, found another solution to a locked door. Instead, I stepped forward. The inside of the bus smelled like rain and dust. There were only a few passengers scattered throughout, sitting alone. None of them spoke. None of them looked at me. I chose a seat near the middle. The doors closed. The bus pulled away. We drove through streets I recognized at first—corner stores, dark parks, familiar intersections—but slowly, things began to change. The buildings grew farther apart. The streetlights became fewer. The road stretched longer than it should have. No one pulled the stop cord. I watched the passengers carefully. A woman with her hands folded in her lap stared at the floor like she was counting something invisible. A man near the back held a briefcase that looked far too clean for this time of night. Finally, I stood and walked toward the driver. “Excuse me,” I said. “I think you passed my street.” He nodded. “I know.” “Then can you turn around?” He shook his head. “Not until someone gets off.” I glanced behind me. “But no one’s getting off.” The driver’s eyes met mine in the mirror for the first time. They were tired, but not surprised. “People get comfortable,” he said. “They forget they’re allowed to leave.” I returned to my seat, my heart beating faster now. I tried the stop cord. It didn’t make a sound. The road outside faded into something darker. No buildings. No signs. Just endless pavement and a sky without stars. A voice spoke beside me. “I got on thinking it would fix something,” the woman said softly. “It didn’t.” The man with the briefcase looked up. “I was late,” he added. “I thought maybe this bus could take me somewhere better.” The realization settled slowly, like fog. This bus wasn’t about destination. It was about delay. I stood up again, this time without asking permission. I walked to the doors and pressed my hand against the glass. “I want to get off,” I said. The driver smiled, just a little. “Then knock.” I did. Once. Twice. The bus jolted to a stop. The doors opened, revealing a quiet stretch of road under a pale streetlight. Nothing else. No buildings. No path forward. “That’s it?” I asked. “That’s enough,” the driver said. I stepped off. The doors closed behind me. The bus pulled away, its lights shrinking into the dark. I stood there until the street around me shifted. Suddenly, I was back in front of my house. The porch light was on. My keys were still in my hand. The next night, at 11:47, I listened. The bus passed my street like it always had. It didn’t stop.
By Jhon smith11 months ago in Fiction
Winter Series 2025 - The Longest Night We Shared (Part I)
Winter does not arrive loudly. It enters quietly, slipping between conversations, dimming the edges of the world, asking us to slow down even when we resist. The longest night of the year - Solstice - is not only an astronomical event - it is an emotional threshold. A moment when darkness lingers long enough to make us listen.
By José Juan Gutierrez 11 months ago in Fiction
New Moon - New Hope
The New Moon arrived without ceremony. No flares. No warnings. No headlines announcing catastrophe. It simply happened - the Moon aligned perfectly between Earth and the Sun, and for the first time in recorded history, the darkness felt intentional.
By José Juan Gutierrez 11 months ago in Fiction
The Voice That Comes Only at Night
Every night at 12:47 a.m., Arman woke up. Not from a nightmare. Not from a sound. From a voice. It was faint at first, like a breath trapped inside the walls.
By Anas Khan11 months ago in Fiction
The Bench at the End of Pine Street 🪑
The Bench at the End of Pine Street At the very end of Pine Street, where the houses thinned and the road stopped pretending it had somewhere important to go, there was a bench.
By Zidane11 months ago in Fiction
Akatsuki Members as War Justifications
The beauty of anime is really in the details, to some it might just seem as cartoons but for the open minds, there is so much hidden in the details. Here is an interesting twist in the popular anime Naruto you might have missed, for those who might not know the Akatsuki were the main villain group the heroes were fighting against and throughout the series they had to take them down one after the other. The writer of this show didn’t just create a villain group made up of thugs out for violence, he put much more thought into their character than you might have realized.
By real Jema11 months ago in Fiction
The Upside Down of Snacking: Chocolate Treats That Belong in Every Stranger Things Fan’s Basket
Maybe it’s the 80s nostalgia. Maybe it’s the late-night binge-watching energy. Or maybe it’s because every episode feels like a roller coaster and your taste buds need emotional support.
By Emily Maren11 months ago in Fiction
The Gospel of Gumption
The assignment from her editor was a footnote, a punishment for having annoyed a major advertiser. “Go to Gumption, Vermont,” the email read. “Cover their ‘Fall Furnival.’ Yes, with a ‘U.’ File 500 words on the quirky local color. Try not to poison the well.”
By Habibullah11 months ago in Fiction
Roots and branches
My roots formed in uncelebrated places — In kitchens heavy with silence, In prayers said without witnesses, In hands that learned endurance Before they ever learned rest. They grew quietly, gripping soil That knew both hunger and hope, Teaching me early that survival Is a kind of wisdom. My roots remember names I never met, Lives that bent so mine could stand. They carry stories braided with sacrifice, With laughter softened by struggle, With courage disguised as routine. These roots do not shout. They hold. They steady me when the world Mistakes noise for progress And speed for purpose. When I forget myself, My roots pull me back — To values shaped by necessity, To faith learned through waiting, To the understanding that growth Must honor what sustains it. They remind me that I come from depth, Not convenience. Yet roots alone cannot fulfill a life. From that depth, my branches rise. They reach beyond familiarity, Stretching toward questions My beginnings never had the luxury to ask. They test the air for possibility, Learning the courage of exposure, The risk of being seen, The art of bending without breaking. Each branch is an act of trust — That light exists beyond the known. My branches carry ambition, Not as rebellion, but as continuation. They seek expansion, not escape. They grow toward a future Where survival evolves into choice, Where endurance gives way to intention. I stand in the space between — Anchored by roots that refuse to let me forget, Lifted by branches that refuse to let me stay. Grounded in legacy, Guided by vision, I grow not in opposition to where
By Awa Nyassi11 months ago in Fiction
SHADOWS IN THE LANTERN FOG
The City That Smelled Like Regret Ravenbridge never smelled like rain. Not really. The city smelled like wet concrete, burnt oil, and the kind of smoke that curls out of closed bars at three in the morning when no one remembers what burned. Neon signs flickered in puddles of black water, distorted into eyes that watched you as you walked. The fog settled in the alleys like a warning, thick enough to make even the bravest think twice before stepping too far. I had lived here my entire life—or at least, enough of it to know that nothing in Ravenbridge existed for the good of its citizens. Everything existed for its own amusement. You could call the city alive, if you didn’t mind that it was the sort of life that gnawed at your insides and whispered when you were alone. It was the city that chewed dreams and spat out regrets, and I was one of the few who had made peace with it—or at least tried.
By Alisher Jumayev11 months ago in Fiction