Fantasy

The Portrait That Grew Older
The portrait was the first thing Eleanor noticed when she entered the house. It hung above the fireplace in the drawing room, surrounded by an elaborate golden frame. The painting depicted a young woman with pale skin, dark hair, and eyes so lifelike that Eleanor felt an uncomfortable sensation of being watched.
By Silvia Felacoabout 9 hours ago in Fiction
Me And The Peacock
Introduction This is for Paul's The Writer Bio and Peacock Short Story Unofficial Challenge which you can check out here: 245 Words On Me
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred a day ago in Fiction
The Knight, the Princess, and the Dragon
Princess Marlan was angry. She was angry at so many things lately. Her guards for never letting her do anything on her own. Her mother for berating her, trying to make her a "proper princess that the public would love" whatever the hell that meant. The scores of suitors that took one look at her and decided they wanted her either for her body or her family's money only, and she was furious at her father. Her father, King Killios was a good king on paper and in practise, she had to admit. He was charismatic, loved his people, and strove to better the kingdom as a whole, and spent many years of his life doing so. The downside to this was he tended to either neglect Marlan, or treat her as solely a tool to be used to further his own agendas. She sat on her bed as her father droned on and on about her duties- about how she had to try and give at least one of these suitors a chance. "Marlan, this is getting to be absolutely ridiculous! Fifteen suitors and you couldn't even try continuing a courtship with one of them! What am I, some stinking beggar on the street who won't be given the time of day?" Marlan rolled her eyes as she looked out the castle window. She loved her family, but there were days where she simply wanted to be elsewhere. A place she could be respected for herself first and foremost. It seemed like that was just a fairy tale that could never be though, she thought sadly, as she listened to the courtship arrangements her mother and father came up with.
By Noah Feannya day ago in Fiction
I am Me; I am the Peacock
I Am Me I can be a chameleon. My unwed mother was raised by a strict Methodist preacher. To her credit, she chose me over her parents. Sadly, she was too young and couldn’t handle solo parenting (my father was never in the picture), so I was bounced around from one family member to another.
By Liz Montano3 days ago in Fiction
Fear
Introduction "Psyche and Cerberus" by Edmund Dulac is another amazing image shared by The Enchanted Booklet on Facebook: This is my story inspired by the pictures rather than the subject of the picture.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 3 days ago in Fiction
Aurelius Ascends (part 4)
The digital oscillations continued without any clear sign of letting up; instead, the sounds began resonating deeper inside the triple-hulled spacecraft like an eerie prehistoric subterranean drumbeat. The sound no longer came from the harsh coldness of space. It seemed to emanate from far below the Martian substrate itself, a signal buried so deep beneath the planet's surface that it remained safely hidden from the impenetrably wide dust storms, beneath the fractured plains, and beneath the violent meteorological chaos that had made the planet feasibly uninhabitable for centuries.
By Jonathan Townend5 days ago in Fiction
The Library of Forgotten Lives
The library did not appear on any map. Eleanor discovered it on a November evening while seeking shelter from the rain on a street she was certain she had never walked before.
By Silvia Felaco5 days ago in Fiction
Crow
It was just a Fall decoration: a styrofoam body, black feathers, a plastic beak, wire legs, and black beads for eyes. A crow, the size of her palm. Kinda cute. Kinda creepy. Kinda strange. But she liked it. Kinda.
By Laura DePace6 days ago in Fiction
Always
I hear the howls of the damned outside my window every night, as they claw to get in my shamble of a cabin. ----- The beanjuice drips eloquently from the metallic, mesh filter, through a conical wonderland into my chipped, green mug with blue interior. A respite of warmth within the frigid space: my cabin atop the mountain. They call this mount the Peak of Sorrow. There once was a string of villages along the summit, but they were decimated several decades ago by marauders from the south, who pillaged until the very breath of the villagers were stolen in the night, the walls of their homes burning their devastating stories into the clouds above. Some say you can still see the blood and tears frozen on the pathways, which is why they sparkle like the night sky, a crimson and azure glow. I’ve lived here for twenty, long years. Alone. The way I like it. I’ve had enough adventuring for one lifetime. I’ve seen the horrors of the world along the way. I came here to heal.
By Scott A. Vancil7 days ago in Fiction
7 Years for this moment
For seven years, I imagined this moment. I pictured it in the quiet before dawn, when the house was still, and the world had not yet made its demands. I pictured it late at night, when the work was done, and my bones ached, and I sat in the dim light and let myself dream of what it might feel like when finally, it was here. I pictured it on the hardest days, the days when doubt crept in like a cold tide, when progress seemed invisible, when every step felt heavy and slow. On those days, this moment was not just a vision; it was an anchor. It was the thing I held onto when nothing else felt certain, the quiet promise that kept me putting one foot in front of the other even when I could not see what lay ahead.
By Mark Lim 14 days ago in Fiction
The Luminarch and the Sovereign
"Yesterday left me with a moment I couldn’t shake, so I wrote it down the only way I know how — straight from my heart and soul. This piece is a simple reflection on what I saw, what I felt, and what stayed with me afterward. It’s not about visuals or effects; it’s just the story itself and the truth that rose up while I was writing it. THIS STORY IS FROM MY BRAIN. MYTHICAL, DREAMY, AND WRITTEN IN METAPHORS AND CHARACTERS OF LIGHT."
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 14 days ago in Fiction
The Meadow and Garden
Do not plant the seeds of violence in your home, for they will never grow into the blossoms you desire. I walked with the Lord, and as I looked about me, I found myself in a meadow. He was no longer beside me. I had forgotten Him for a moment, and no more than a moment. I looked up.
By Chase McQuade15 days ago in Fiction