Fantasy

Moonlit Fate. AI-Generated.
The heavy oak doors of the council chamber boomed shut behind Draven, the sound reverberating through the cavernous hall, a stark counterpoint to the nervous thrumming in his own chest. He stood before them, the elders of his coven, their faces carved with the stoic severity of ages, each a monument to a history steeped in blood and suspicion. The air itself felt charged, thick with the unspoken animosity that had festered for generations, a palpable, suffocating blanket.
By Carolyn Pattonabout a year ago in Fiction
Moonlit Fate. AI-Generated.
"Lilith, my dear," a voice, like dry leaves skittering across stone, rasped from the shadows. It was Elara, the ancient crone of the Coven, her eyes, chips of obsidian, reflecting the blood-red moon. "You feel it, don't you? The shift."
By Carolyn Pattonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Human
The coffee maker still worked. That was something. Lorna stood in the kitchen of a house that wasn't hers—hadn't been anyone's for three years now—and watched the dark liquid drip into a chipped mug. Outside, vines crawled up the sides of skyscrapers. A deer grazed in what used to be Times Square. The planet was healing, they would have said, back when there was a "they."
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
The Apparition of Recognition. AI-Generated.
The gilded cage of her existence, though adorned with smiles and nods, had long been transmuted into a prison. Each year refined the artifice, polished the sepulchre, until no trace of her true self was permitted to emerge. The wound—that wound inflicted by that man—bled unseen, festering in silence, its venom consuming marrow, thought, and spirit alike.
By Carolyn Pattonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Devils in Heaven
It is usually thought that when good children die they go to heaven and become angels. But if anyone imagines that they live there with nothing to do but fly around, and play hide-and-seek in the clouds, he is very much mistaken. The angel children have to go to school every day like the boys and girls on earth, three hours in the forenoon and two hours in the afternoon. They write with gold pencils on silver slates, and instead of the A B C books, they have story books with all sorts of gay-colored pictures. They do not study geography, for a knowledge of the earth would be of no use in heaven, nor do they learn the long and terrible multiplication table, because they live in Eternity. The school teacher is Doctor Faust. He was a magistrate on earth, but on account of certain affairs that caused him a good deal of trouble and were very much talked about, he was required to teach school for three thousand years before he could have a vacation. On Wednesday and Saturday afternoon there is no school, and the children are permitted to play by themselves in the Milky Way; but on Sunday, which is the grand holiday, they can go outside of heaven and play in the big meadow. There they enjoy themselves more than all the rest of the week put together. The meadow is not green but blue, and thousands and tens of thousands of silver and golden flowers are all aglow with light and men call them stars. In the afternoon of the great holiday, St. Peter takes care of the children, while Dr Faust rests and recuperates from his labours during school hours. St. Peter, who is always on guard at the gate of heaven, sees that there is no boisterous playing, and no running away or flying off too far; if he discovers any straying or wandering, he at once blows on his golden whistle the call to “come back.” One Wednesday afternoon, it was very warm in heaven, and St. Peter fell asleep, tired out with watching. The children noticed this and took advantage of it to steal from the old man and spread themselves over the entire meadow. The most enterprising ventured out to explore the extent of their playground and discovered that it was abruptly ended by a high board fence. This, they examined carefully for cracks to look through, but finding none, flew to the top of the fence and commenced shouting across the space beyond. Now hell was on the other side of the fence, and a multitude of little devils had just been driven out of the door. They were coal-black, with horns on their heads and long tails behind. Soon they looked up and saw the angels above them fluttering around the top of the fence, and at once they began to beg that they might be allowed to come up into heaven, promising faithfully to behave, if only the angels could let them in for “just a little while.” Moved with pity, the innocent angels decided to get the Jacob’s ladder out of the garret and let the little imps come up. Fortunately, St. Peter was still asleep, and they managed to drag the ladder out without disturbing him. After a good many efforts, they succeeded in raising it up against the fence and then lowering it into hell. It scarcely touched the ground before the long-tailed little varlets were swarming up the rounds like monkeys. When they got near the top the angels took them by the hand and helped them over the fence. This is how the devils got into heaven. At first, they behaved very well, tiptoeing here and there, and carrying their tails under their arms like a lady’s train, as they had often seen the big devil grandmothers do. But this didn’t last long, and in a few minutes they began to let themselves out and give full vent to their feelings. They turned hand-springs and somersaults, and growled and yelled like veritable imps. They mocked the good and happy people who were dreamily looking out of the windows of heaven; they stuck out their tongues and made faces at them. Finally, they began to tear up the flowers and throw them down on the earth. In the meantime, the little angels had become very much frightened, and bitterly they repented their rashness in letting such unmannerly guests into heaven. In vain they pleaded with the rascals to be quiet and go back to hell, but the devils only laughed at them. At last, in despair, they awakened St. Peter and tearfully told him what they had done. He clasped his hands over his head, as he always did when angry, and thundered, “Come in.” And the little angels went sneaking through the gates, very crestfallen, with wings drooping and trailing on the floor. Then St. Peter called for the sleeping angel policemen, and when all the devils were caught, they were handcuffed and taken back where they belonged. But this was not the end of the matter. For two consecutive Sundays, the angels were not allowed to leave heaven, and when they were permitted to play, they had to take off their wings and halo; this was the severest of all punishments, for it is considered a great shame for an angel to be seen without his wings or his nimbus.
By Alphaabout a year ago in Fiction
Liana and Grace
Liana and Grace were as different as dusk and dawn. If one favored deep blue, the other lived in soft gold. Both were resolute women—warm, strong, and unyielding. Liana occupied the upper floor of a quiet brownstone on Willow Street, in the small neighborhood of Oakridge, Chicago. Grace lived on the level below—between the ground and the middle of the house.
By Atiqbuddyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library at the End of the World
The key doesn’t fit but the door opens anyway. It sighs through its hinges like it’s been waiting a long time. Dust hangs in the still air, soft as ash, turning gold where the light finds it. The sun looks wrong here, too tired to be real. The glow feels like an old photograph that’s been fading for years on a windowsill no one looks at anymore.
By Fatal Serendipityabout a year ago in Fiction
Darkmoor's Shadow
She knew she was much too old to be listening in at keyholes. And she knew she was much too old to be trying to peer through them either. It was one thing to be caught eavesdropping, it was quite another to be caught so obviously. However, Alina Darkmoor couldn’t tear herself away.
By M. A. Mehan about a year ago in Fiction
Fate. Top Story - October 2025.
Despite seeing nearly five hundred years on its dusty dais, the meticulously crafted copy of Allgerion’s Catechism—the prophecy within foretelling that the first and only child of the seventh son of Avangarde and the third daughter of Mah’reel would usher forth the salvation of their world—was in a remarkable state of preservation.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction
The Double Echo of the Douglas
The Pivot: 03:07 A.M. The city slept beneath a heavy blanket of November. Alexandru leaned over his desk, surrounded by sketches, old books, and the faint hum of his computer. He was a young man of 28, with tired eyes but a feverish spark of genius. The object of his passion, his five-year obsession, was The Architect’s Hourglass—an urban legend among those passionate about space and time theory, which claimed to hold the key not only to perfect perspective but also to the understanding of all choices, made or unmade.Alexandru’s project, a predictive modeling algorithm for urban density, was ready. In six minutes, he was due to submit the application to a prestigious global competition that could change his life, offering him unlimited funding for research.The phone, resting on the edge of the desk, vibrated. A call from an unknown number, at 03:07.Alexandru looked up. Six minutes. If he answered, he would break his absolute state of flow, risking the loss of concentration on the final details. If he ignored it, he would miss a potential essential contact.
By alin butucabout a year ago in Fiction
The Torenza Passport Mystery: Real Nation, Fake Story, or a Digital Illusion?
In early October 2025, the digital world found itself gripped by a story so strange, so seemingly impossible, that it blurred the line between reality and imagination. A short video surfaced on TikTok, showing what appeared to be an ordinary scene at New York’s John F. Kennedy International Airport. Yet, within seconds, viewers realized there was nothing ordinary about it. The woman at the center of the frame, calmly standing at the immigration counter, handed over her passport to an officer. The cover bore a single word that would ignite a global firestorm of speculation — “Torenza.”
By Wellova about a year ago in Fiction
The unexpected.
The unexpected. Ending of a peaceful evening It had been a pleasantly spent evening, alone at last, no demands for attention, no call to be a servant dispensing an endless supply of cocktails. The two dogs lay in front of the fire, peacefulness dominated every aspect of my spirit and body, even my usually overactive mind was still. The dogs were, as usual, the first indication of disturbance to our tranquillity, they both pricked up ears and eased themselves onto all 4 paws. Neither barked but both were looking towards the door to our garden. I thought it may be an over inquisitive fox getting too close to the glass, but then the silence seemed to thicken. There was no noise, in fact it was a sort of super silence, as if any noise would be swallowed up and killed. A strange atmosphere invaded our evening, and my world was never to be the same ever again.
By Peter Roseabout a year ago in Fiction