Fan Fiction

The Wisp's Change of Heart
The fog in the Whispering Woods was not ordinary. It was a creature—an ancient, drifting consciousness born of damp soil and forgotten paths. It called itself the Wisp, and its greatest joy was mild, artistic mischief.
By Habibullah10 months ago in Fiction
The four walls changing of time
The marred door is heavily made of wood. A handle smooth made of opal and cold to the touch. I look at this door full of grace in wonderment and without ease. I slowly grab the handle, feeling the smoothness, looking at the changing colors with astonishment. I turn the colors while I look at the flaws of the door. The door has cracks and pictures marred in the dark oak wooden frame. Opening the door wide I feel anxious in the pit of my belly at what I will find. I see four walls full of moving scenes. On the floor are beautifully done ceramic tiles. I walk in to investigate loving the clicking of my heels on the tile, a beat to my destination of the room.
By Tabitha Hinkley10 months ago in Fiction
SEASON 8 - Whispers from the Lantern: The Keeper's Lament
Chapter 15 The silence was a palpable thing, a heavy blanket that settled over the entire coast. Aris and his team stood in the now-calm lantern room, a profound sense of exhaustion washing over them. The Keeper was gone. The drowned were gone. The mournful lament was gone.
By Tales That Breathe at Night10 months ago in Fiction
THE BUTTON THAT REMEMBERS
But Lena loved it because it was his. Felix, who saw the world in pastels and spoke in poems, had worn it every day until he didn't. When he was gone, Lena kept it folded perfectly in the cedar chest. Six months later, folding laundry, she noticed a tiny detail she’d missed: one of the silver buttons on the left sleeve was loose. She picked up a needle and thread, threading it carefully. As the needle passed through the final stitch, a warmth bloomed beneath her thumb. The silver button pulsed with a faint, deep-blue light. When the glow faded, a memory rushed into her mind, sudden and vivid: Felix, laughing in the rain, pulling her close under a single umbrella. Lena gasped. She touched another button, the one on the collar. The blue light returned, brighter this time. A second memory: The morning they moved in together, painting the kitchen wall a disastrous shade of yellow. She realized these weren't just buttons. They were anchors, tiny repositories of their shared joy, somehow holding the residue of his love. Every button held a different, perfect moment—a first kiss, a silly fight, a quiet night on the porch swing. Lena didn't need the whole jacket, or the chest, or the memories from the future they wouldn't have. She just needed these small, silver keepsakes. Every night, she would touch one button before bed, watching the blue light flicker, experiencing one perfect minute of him all over again. Grief was still heavy, but now, it was lit by tiny, electric stars.
By Awa Nyassi10 months ago in Fiction
The Forgotten Room
[By mazkaz] 1. The Old House on Willow Street Ayaan had not returned to Willow Street for almost twelve years. Life had carried him far away—toward college, work, and the noise of a busy city—but the silence of his childhood home continued to echo inside him. When his mother passed away, the house became a shadow he didn’t want to face. And now that his father was gone too, the house waited for him like an unanswered letter.
By Muzzakir Khan10 months ago in Fiction
The Room at the End of the Hall
(A son returns home after five years to open the room his father left behind. The door was closed out of grief, but what he discovers inside changes the way he sees love, loss, and family. This emotional story explores how memories can stay frozen in time, waiting for the courage to be unlocked again.)
By Salman Writes10 months ago in Fiction
The Argument of Elements
The Almanac of Greenhaven Farm didn’t just predict the weather; it held court with it. For generations, the Rowan family had followed its cryptic, poetic advice. Its pages, penned by long-gone hands, said things like, “Sow the south field when the willow weeps gold,” or “A quarrel is coming when the crows fly backwards.” The weather it described was less a system and more a living, temperamental entity.
By Habibullah10 months ago in Fiction
The Commuter’s Sketchbook
I used to think my mornings belonged to no one, not even to me. They were just a series of motions: wake, walk, train, office, screens. A blur I moved through without leaving a mark. It wasn’t a sad life, just a quiet one, the kind that hums softly without ever asking if you’re listening. Then, on a cold Tuesday in February, I bought a sketchbook. Not because I considered myself an artist. I wasn’t. My drawings were crooked, impatient things. But something in me had grown tired of passing the same streets without really seeing them, so I decided I would sketch one thing each morning—anything that made me pause. The first few days, the sketches were harmless. A man adjusting his tie in a shop window. A cyclist rushing past. A mother tugging her child’s mitten back on. Nothing spectacular. Just the little pieces of life that filled the edges of my commute. I didn’t expect anything strange. I didn’t expect anything at all. Until the morning the girl on the bench moved. I had sketched her the day before: hunched over a book, hair falling across her face, a bag of groceries at her feet. When I opened the sketchbook the next morning on the train, her pencil-drawn head lifted. Only a fraction, but enough. She blinked at me—one charcoal eyelash brushing the paper’s grain. I shut the book so fast the man beside me flinched. I told myself it was stress, lack of sleep, imagination. But when I opened the sketchbook again, she was standing now, peering into her grocery bag. Her drawn world stretched, lines widening, shadows shifting. A single can of soup rolled out, sketched in wobbling graphite circles. Then the scene shifted entirely. The girl was older now—five, maybe seven years older—and she was carrying the same bag, but this time she walked with purpose. Her clothes were neater. Her expression steadier. The bench behind her was gone. Instead, she was stepping into a school. A teacher’s badge dangled from her neck. The sketchbook showed me her future. Or a possible one. I didn’t know how to process that. But I couldn’t stop looking. Every morning after that, a new drawing changed. The man I sketched at the bakery, who always looked exhausted—his sketch yawned once, then straightened his posture, then transformed into a version of him smiling behind the counter of his own shop. The old woman who fed pigeons at the tram stop—her penciled birds began flying above her, guiding her toward a park filled with people she would one day teach to paint. It wasn’t prophecy. I could feel that. It was possibility. Some soft, unseen hand was nudging me to notice the quiet futures tied to the quiet people around me. For weeks, I watched strangers become versions of themselves they didn’t know were waiting. But the strangest morning came when I sketched myself. It was an accident. I had forgotten to charge my phone, and the train stalled outside the station for twelve long minutes. With nothing else to do, I turned the sketchbook toward the foggy window and sketched my reflection. Tired eyes. Coffee stain on my collar. A posture that said I’d become too used to being unnoticed. When the lines settled, I closed the book and didn’t look until I reached the office plaza. My drawn self was sitting at the edge of a fountain. Same wrinkled shirt, same weary shoulders. But then the pencil figure lifted its head and stared directly at me. I felt the jolt of recognition you feel when someone sees more of you than you’re ready to show. Then the sketches began to change. My drawn self stood. Turned. Walked away from the fountain, past an office building that looked far too much like mine. He didn’t go inside. He kept walking, sketch lines elongating the farther he moved, until the page showed a small art studio tucked between two cafés. Inside, the penciled version of me taught a handful of people how to sketch everyday life. My hands—his hands—were alive in ways mine hadn’t been in years. I closed the book slowly, like someone afraid of breaking something fragile. The idea of changing my life felt impossible. I had bills. Responsibilities. A dependable job. People don’t just walk out of one life and into another because a sketchbook whispers at them. But the sketchbook didn’t whisper anything. It only showed possibilities—and left the rest to me. The next morning, I walked my usual route. But this time, when I reached the tiny studio I had never noticed before, I stopped. The lights were off, but a small sign on the window read: Community Art Classes. Beginners Welcome. My heart did something I hadn’t felt in years—it leaned forward. I didn’t quit my job that day. Or the next. Change, I realized, doesn’t always need to be loud. Sometimes it starts with the quiet decision to stay after work one evening and step inside a place that frightens you in the best way. I took a class. Then another. Then one day, after months of learning to see again, I walked out of the building where I’d given most of my adult years and didn’t look back. My sketchbook doesn’t animate anymore. Or maybe it never did. Maybe it was just showing me what I refused to see—that everyone is carrying a future they haven’t reached yet, and some of us need a little help believing in it. I still sketch the street each morning. But now, I stay for a while. I look up. I live in the place where the lines begin.
By Luna Vani10 months ago in Fiction
True Peace for Soldiers
Old white men, they were, their bodies a rolling landscape of skin pulled tight and fallen loose. Pockmarked with moles and freckles, splotches of red, white, blue, and green, colors and shapes that hide behind the skin and fat of younger men. When they smiled, their eyes would become lost in the wrinkles and cracks of their brow.
By Devang Vashistha10 months ago in Fiction
The Friend I Tried (and Failed) to Hide 🌑🕊️
I’ve always lived my life like it came with instruction manuals. I follow rules, I read labels, I sort my socks by color. If you’d asked my family to describe me, they would’ve said words like dependable and organized and maybe just a little too predictable.
By Karl Jackson10 months ago in Fiction
ECHOES OF MISUNDERSTANDING. AI-Generated.
The late afternoon sun spilled warm orange light across Hoshizora High School, painting the courtyard in long shadows. Students laughed, chattered, and slowly filtered out of the gate, eager to escape another day of classes.
By forhad hossain10 months ago in Fiction
🔄 The Habit My Old Self Would Never Believe
If someone had told the old me — the version who lived on autopilot, who avoided change like it was a contagious illness, who clung to comfort zones like they were lifelines — that one day I’d be the kind of person who woke up before sunrise on purpose, I would’ve laughed so hard I’d choke on my own disbelief.
By Karl Jackson10 months ago in Fiction