Fantasy

The Myth of the Worthy Victim
But heroes were the ones who taught me that the world only cared about the people worth saving. It was the cruelest curriculum I ever absorbed. Not from a textbook, but from the flickering blue light of a television screen in a lonely childhood living room. The heroes always made a choice. They saved the innocent child over the corrupt politician. They saved the brilliant scientist over the anonymous bystander. They saved the beautiful maiden over the plain one. The narrative was clear, consistent, and devastating: rescue is not a universal right. It is a prize awarded to those who possess sufficient value.
By Mark Lim about 4 hours ago in Fiction
Beyond The Persistence of Memory.
In regards to time ~~~~~~ I think I may have contracted a serious case of Dali clock Syndrome. The symptoms consist of fractal fragmentation and a general inconsistency within the loops of time.
By Novel Allenabout 5 hours ago in Fiction
The Rookery Files
THE ROOKERY FILES File 001 — "The Girl Who Poured Decent Drinks" Recovered from the nocturnal tier. Assembled from fragments, per doctrine.
By Taylor Van Zantabout 19 hours ago in Fiction
Season of the Out. Content Warning.
Priscilla always thought adulthood would eventually calm down. Maybe not peaceful, but at least predictable. Instead, her life had turned into a year‑round carnival run by raccoons, children, and whatever cosmic intern was in charge of her fate.
By Syl De'Vila day ago in Fiction
The Indifferent Axis
The world was still turning. It was a simple, scientific fact. A rotation of 15 degrees per hour. A tilt of 23.5 degrees. A gravitational dance with the moon and the sun that had been going on for billions of years and would continue for billions more. It didn’t care about my confession. It didn’t pause for my guilt. It didn’t speed up to catch me or slow down to let me rest.
By Mark Lim a day ago in Fiction
Storage Shed
You go to the shed for a table leaf. That’s it. That’s the entire mission. A simple retrieval operation. A three‑minute task. Something so basic it doesn’t even qualify as a chore. You’ve survived gate guard at 0300, CQ shifts that felt like psychological warfare, and the kind of family chaos that should earn hazard pay. A shed should not be a threat.
By Syl De'Vila day ago in Fiction
The Distant Glow
KL was still out there. It wasn’t gone. It hadn’t vanished because I had walked away from it. The Petronas Towers still pierced the low-hanging clouds, twin needles of light stitching the sky to the earth. The highways still pulsed with the red and white blood of traffic, carrying thousands of people toward jobs they hated, homes they couldn’t afford, and dreams they had forgotten. The humidity still clung to the concrete, heavy and suffocating, holding the city in a warm, wet embrace.
By Mark Lim a day ago in Fiction
The Sound of the Hammer
The woman froze when she heard the click. It was a small sound. Mechanical. Precise. Dry. But in the sudden, heavy silence of the woods, it echoed like a gunshot. It cut through the ambient hum of insects, the rustle of leaves, the distant murmur of the village, slicing the air with a sharpness that made my skin prickle.
By Mark Lim a day ago in Fiction
The Anesthesia of Acceptance
The pain was already fading. It didn’t vanish all at once, like a light switch being flipped. It receded, like a tide pulling back from the shore, leaving behind wet sand and scattered shells, but no longer the crushing weight of the ocean. It retreated into the deep tissue of my memory, no longer screaming for attention, but whispering its lessons in a voice I could finally hear without flinching.
By Mark Lim a day ago in Fiction
The Washing of the World
The rainwater dripped from the leaves above us. The city lights were barely visible through the trees. It was a gentle sound. Rhythmic. Soothing. Drip. Drip. Drip. Like a metronome counting down the seconds of the old world and ticking up the seconds of the new. Each drop hit the mud, the leaves, the pavement, washing away the dust, the pollen, the debris of the day. It washed away the footprints of the Client. It washed away the scent of his fear. It washed away the last remnants of the lie.
By Mark Lim a day ago in Fiction
The Weight of Iron
I reached into my jacket and pulled out my revolver. It was heavy. Cold. Real. The metal bit into my palm, a familiar weight that I had carried for years, not because I intended to use it, but because I needed to know it was there. It was the ultimate symbol of control. The final argument. The period at the end of a sentence I wasn’t ready to finish.
By Mark Lim a day ago in Fiction
The Ascent
I pushed myself up. My hands sank into the mud, fingers curling around roots and wet earth, finding purchase in the chaos. My arms trembled, not from weakness, but from the sheer effort of defying gravity. It felt like lifting the sky. It felt like pushing against the weight of fourteen years of silence, nine years of regret, and a lifetime of shrinking.
By Mark Lim a day ago in Fiction