Fan Fiction

Vocal.Media Need New Glasses
Maybe They Need New Glasses I have spent the last two days pulling my hair out, wondering what on earth I was doing wrong. Every poem I tried to put on Vocal got the same message back. Not in English. Not in English. Not in English. As if I had suddenly decided to start writing in ten different languages overnight.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 12 months ago in Fiction
The Last Lightkeeper
The Forgotten Lighthouse High above the restless sea, where the waves roared like ancient beasts and storms carved their rage into the cliffs, stood the Asterfall Lighthouse. For centuries, its white tower had guided ships away from the jagged rocks below. But what people didn’t know—what no sailor, scholar, or history book mentioned—was that the lighthouse guarded something far older and far more dangerous than the sea. Aiden Marlowe was the last of his family line, the final Lightkeeper. At only twenty-five, he had inherited the tower, its secrets, and its strange responsibilities. Most thought lighthouse keepers were lonely men watching the ocean. But Aiden knew better. His job was not to watch the sea. His job was to watch the skyvery night at precisely 11:11 p.m., the lighthouse lamp flickered, pulsing a soft silver glow. Most believed it was faulty wiring or old machinery, but Aiden knew the truth. It was a signal. One his ancestors had been sending for hundreds of years. One meant for something beyond the clouds. He had seen it for the first time on his third night. The lamp dimmed, the gears stopped—and then the light burst to life, brighter than any star. Moments later, streaks of shimmering blue cut across the sky. Something enormous moved behind the clouds. His grandmother’s words echoed in his head: “Asterfall’s light doesn’t guide ships. It keeps the heavens at bay.” But Aiden never understood until the night everything changed. The Night the Light Went Out It was early winter, and storms were fiercer than ever. Winds howled like angry spirits, and waves slammed the rocks hard enough to rattle the lighthouse. Aiden checked the machinery, tightened bolts, replaced old fuses—everything humanly possible. But each night the lamp grew brighter, as if straining against some invisible force. At 11:11 p.m., the lamp pulsed again. Once. Twice. Three times. Then it shut off.Completely. Aiden froze. Never, in any recorded journal of his ancestors, had the light shut down. He sprinted up the spiral staircase, heart pounding. When he reached the lantern room, he felt the air vibrating with a strange pressure, like the air before lightning strikes. He flipped switches, cranked gears, slammed the emergency levers—but the lamp remained dead. Then the sky split open. A glowing tear—like a wound in the universe—spread across the clouds. Colors swirled inside it: sapphire, violet, burning white. From within, a gigantic shadow moved, wings unfurling like molten glass. Aiden staggered backward. The stories were real. The Celestials were returning. The Celestial Messenger A beam of blinding light shot from the Rift toward the lighthouse. Aiden shielded his face—but instead of fire, a soft weight settled on the floor. When the glow faded, a small figure stood before him. A girl—no older than thirteen—glowing in silver light, her eyes filled with swirling galaxies. “I am Lyra,” she said, her voice echoing like distant chimes. “And you have failed, Lightkeeper.” Aiden clenched his jaw. “The light stopped. I tried—” “The light is not machinery. It is a promise,” Lyra said sharply. She walked to the window, staring at the massive Celestial Behemoth pushing through the Rift. “Long ago, my people sealed the Rift with your bloodline’s help. Your ancestors kept the beacon lit so it would never reopen. But the seal weakens.” Aiden stepped beside her. “Tell me what I must do.” Lyra turned, sorrow in her bright eyes. “Your family carries the last spark of Asterfall’s power. You can restart the light—but doing so will cost you something precious.” Aiden swallowed. “What cost?” Lyra whispered: “Your life… or your memories.” The Sacrifice The tower shook violently. The Behemoth pushed harder, its glowing wings unfolding through the Rift. Aiden looked at the dark lamp. His memories were all he had left—his childhood, his parents, the laughter of his grandmother, the life he once dreamed of beyond this lonely cliff. But if he didn’t act, the world would fall. He took a breath. “My memories,” he said. Lyra placed her glowing fingers onto his forehead. A burst of white light swallowed everything. The New Lightkeeper Aiden awoke on the balcony. The lighthouse shone with a brilliant silver beam stretching into the heavens. The Rift was sealedhe storm was gone. But his mind was empty—no past, no name, no memories. Lyra stood beside him, dimmer now but smiling gently. “You saved your world, Lightkeeper,” she whispered. “You don’t remember your story… but your heart still carries its courage.” Aiden looked out at the glowing horizon. He felt no fear. Only purpose. A new beginning. A new Lightkeeper. And Asterfall Lighthouse—eternal guardian of the sky—shone brighter than ever.
By Iazaz hussain12 months ago in Fiction
The Doorway You Walk Past Every Day 🚪✨
Every town has one. Every neighborhood has one. Every person has walked past one and never realized what they were missing. A portal. A doorway. A thin slice of the world where reality feels just a little too quiet… a little too heavy… a little too charged, like the air itself is holding its breath.
By Karl Jackson12 months ago in Fiction
The Last Catalog
The Lennox Mansion Library was a mausoleum for books, and Elara was its reluctant caretaker. She was the last archivist before the wrecking ball turned two centuries of knowledge into dust. The city council had sold the land, deeming the building a rotting hazard. To Elara, each crumbling leather spine was a tragedy.
By Habibullah12 months ago in Fiction
Countdown. AI-Generated.
Part One: The Plan The city streets were quiet as the four men gathered in a cramped apartment above a laundromat. Outside, the hum of streetlights and distant traffic was the only sound. Inside, the table in the center was covered with maps, printed schedules, and diagrams of a large suburban house.
By William Ebden.12 months ago in Fiction
The Heist that Never Happened. AI-Generated.
They said he was the best. Not in newspapers and not in small bars where criminals traded stories, but in the quiet circles that mattered. People whispered his name, and the whispers always followed him into every room. He liked that feeling. It gave him confidence when he sat alone with his map, pencil tapping, tracing possible routes the way someone might trace the outline of a lover.
By William Ebden.12 months ago in Fiction
Bella Ciao.. AI-Generated.
The village of Monteverde slept at the foot of the mountains, wrapped in soft mist that drifted between the trees. It was early morning, a pale and gentle hour when the world had not yet decided to wake. Only one window glowed with light. Inside, a girl named Rosa stood at a small wooden table, tying her worn boots with slow and steady hands.
By William Ebden.12 months ago in Fiction
Shadows of the City. AI-Generated.
The streets were wet from a light evening rain, the kind that made the neon lights shine brighter but also made the whole city feel colder and more empty. Ren walked slowly with his hands in his pockets, his coat collar pulled up against the mist hanging around the streetlamps. He didn’t know why he was wandering like this, only that something was pulling him forward. Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was guilt. Either way, his feet kept taking him deeper into alleys he didn’t remember ever walking through.
By William Ebden.12 months ago in Fiction
The Silence on Hawthorne Street.. AI-Generated.
It was the kind of evening that made people lock their doors a little tighter. Rain had been falling steadily since morning, slicking the streets and coating the sidewalks in a reflective sheen. James Whitaker pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders and walked slowly down Hawthorne Street, the collar brushing the back of his neck. His footsteps echoed in the otherwise empty street, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the rhythm of raindrops hitting the pavement.
By William Ebden.12 months ago in Fiction
The Crimson Horizon.. AI-Generated.
The wind tore at the sails, snapping them sharply, and the salt stung James Calder’s face as he leaned over the railing of the Sea Serpent. The waves rose and fell like restless giants, each one threatening to toss the ship into chaos. He tightened his grip and squinted at the horizon. Somewhere out there, hidden among the fog and endless water, lay the treasure that had driven men mad for centuries.
By William Ebden.12 months ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Promise
M Mehran Everyone in the quiet town of Eldenbrook knew Elias Thorn, the old clockmaker whose shop stood at the corner of Willow Street. The windows were always fogged with dust and time, and the shelves were filled with clocks—grandfather clocks, pocket watches, delicate sand timers, and curious contraptions no one had names for. But the most mysterious thing about Elias was not his clocks. It was his secret: He could fix time. Some said he once repaired a moment of regret for a grieving widow. Others whispered he restored a lost memory for a child who had forgotten her mother’s face. No one knew how he did it. They only knew the price was never money. And so people came, quietly, secretly, leaving with lighter hearts—or heavier ones, depending on the moment they chose to change. But none of that mattered the night fifteen-year-old Rowan Carter walked into the shop with a shaking hand and a broken watch. It had belonged to his father. The man who never came home. --- The door chimed softly as Rowan stepped inside. The hum of ticking clocks filled the air like thousands of tiny heartbeats. Elias Thorn, with silver-thread hair and warm, unreadable eyes, looked up from a clock he was polishing. “You’ve been outside my door for three days,” Elias said. “Come in, child.” Rowan swallowed. “I… I wasn’t sure.” “You are sure now.” Elias nodded. “What do you want fixed?” Rowan opened his hand. The pocket watch lay cracked, its glass shattered, its hands frozen at 7:12 PM—the exact minute his father’s car went off the old Briarwood Bridge. “I want to go back,” Rowan whispered. “Before it happened. I want to stop him.” Elias didn’t take the watch. Not at first. “Time is not a toy,” he warned. “It doesn’t like being moved. It resists. It demands sacrifice.” Rowan’s voice broke. “I’d give anything.” Elias’s expression softened with a grief that seemed older than the town itself. “Many have said that,” he murmured. “Few understood what it meant.” Still, he held out his hand. “Let me see it.” Rowan placed the broken watch in Elias’s palm. The moment the clockmaker touched it, the shop grew cold. The ticking of the other clocks slowed until the whole room held its breath. Elias closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they glowed faintly with a golden light. “This watch is tied to a moment you wish to rewrite,” he said quietly. “I can open the door. But remember—every changed moment steals something from another.” “What do you mean?” “If you return to the past,” Elias said, “you must leave something behind.” “Like what?” Rowan whispered. “A memory,” the clockmaker said. “A piece of your life. Something time will take as payment.” Rowan hesitated only a moment. “My father is worth more than any memory.” Elias nodded. “Then hold the watch. And do not let go.” --- The shop dissolved. Rowan felt himself falling through light, through ticking, through moments stretching and snapping like threads. Then his feet hit solid ground. He stood on Briarwood Bridge. Wind brushed against his face, cold and familiar. The wooden planks creaked beneath him. And there—just ahead—stood his father, leaning over the railing, staring down at the rushing river below. Rowan’s breath caught in his throat. “Dad!” His father turned, surprised. “Rowan? What are you—” “Don’t drive tonight,” Rowan gasped. “Please. The bridge… your brakes—” Before he could finish, headlights glowed on the road behind them. A car swerved, tires screeching on wet wood. Rowan lunged. He shoved his father out of the way. The car hit Rowan instead. Everything went black. --- When Rowan opened his eyes, he was lying on the ground, rain hitting his face. His father hovered over him, frantic. “Rowan! Rowan, stay with me!” “I’m… okay,” Rowan murmured. But he wasn’t. Something inside his mind felt hollow, missing. Elias Thorn stepped out of the shadows of the bridge as if he had always been there. “It is done,” the clockmaker said quietly. Rowan’s father looked up, confused. “Who—?” “You don’t remember me,” Elias said gently. “That is how it should be.” He held the restored pocket watch in his hand. The glass was whole, the hands moving again. Rowan sat up slowly. “Did I save him?” “Yes,” Elias said. “Your father will live. The accident will never happen.” Rowan exhaled in relief. “Then… what did I lose?” Elias hesitated. Then he handed Rowan the watch. Rowan looked at it, waiting for memory to rise. But nothing came. “What… what is this?” Rowan asked. “It belonged to your father,” Elias said softly. “It was your favorite birthday gift. He saved for months to buy it for you.” Rowan blinked. “I don’t remember any of that.” “That was the price,” Elias said. “To save your father, time took the memories you had of him.” Rowan’s chest tightened. All the laughter. All the stories. All the moments they shared—gone. His father knelt beside him, tears in his eyes. “Rowan? Do you know who I am?” Rowan looked into his father’s face. It felt warm… familiar… but distant, like a name he once read long ago. “I don’t remember,” Rowan whispered. “But… I want to learn.” His father pulled him close, holding him like something precious returned from the brink. Elias watched them silently. Sometimes saving someone meant losing the part of yourself that loved them. Sometimes love meant choosing the loss anyway. When Rowan looked up, the clockmaker was gone. Only the steady ticking of the pocket watch remained.
By Muhammad Mehran12 months ago in Fiction
Ink-Stained Souls
The cabin didn’t look like much at first. Just a weathered A-frame tucked against a line of whispering pines, its roof heavy with old leaves that clung on the way memories cling to people who haven’t figured out how to heal yet. But everyone at the Cedar Ridge Writing Retreat swore it had magic in its bones. Or at least that’s what the brochure said, right under a photo of a smiling woman holding a pen like it was a wand.
By Karl Jackson12 months ago in Fiction