Fantasy

He's Just A Lawn Mower
That was all that he did, mow the lawn. And when he had finished, he made a cup of tea, drank it, and then lay down on the bench in the tree-lined avenue for an afternoon nap.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
The Room With No Window – Part 6
The town of Hallowmere had learned to forget. They boarded the house long ago, paved the street, and renamed the block so that no one would remember where it stood. But stories have a way of surviving, even when walls crumble and people disappear.
By Wellova about a year ago in Fiction
Etha and May. Top Story - October 2025.
Etha and May are as different as night is to day. If we are to be particular, we would say one wore red and the other, shades of mild yellow. Both are strong willed, set in their ways, motherly Black women. Etha lives upstairs in the quaint three story house in the Brookdale neighborhood of East 55th street of Brooklyn, NY. May occupied the apartment somewhere between the ground floor and the middle of the house.
By Antoni De'Leonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Door That Shouldn’t Exist. AI-Generated.
It was 2:17 a.m. when Noah woke up to that sound again — a low creak, like a whispering hinge somewhere down the hallway. He sat up, heart pounding, his room dimly lit by the silver light leaking through the blinds. The old house had its noises, yes, but this one… this one was different.
By Nusukiabout a year ago in Fiction
The Room With No Window – Part 5
For years, the boarding house remained untouched—a silent shell of wood and dust, sealed behind caution tape. Locals whispered that no one should go near it after dark. But eventually, the city council ordered it torn down. To them, it was just another forgotten ruin.
By Wellova about a year ago in Fiction
The Last Prayer of Rahim
There’s a small village at the edge of nowhere — the kind of place where time moves slowly, and people remember everything. That’s where Rahim lived. He wasn’t always sick. Once, he was the strongest man in the village — the kind who carried bricks all day and still helped his neighbors fix their roofs before sunset. People used to call him “Bhai Rahim — the man with a heart bigger than his hands.” But life has a strange way of testing the kindest souls. A few years ago, an illness crept into Rahim’s body. At first, it was just pain — something he could hide behind his smile. Then came the swelling, the weakness, the nights of burning fever. Doctors called it incurable. Rahim just called it “Allah’s test.” His house was small — two rooms and a wooden door that always creaked. Every morning, before the sun climbed over the rooftops, he would spread his prayer mat and whisper the same words: >Ya Allah… give me patience, not comfort. Give me strength, not ease.” The neighbors would hear his voice through the thin walls. Some pitied him. Others just shook their heads and said, “He won’t live long.” But Rahim always smiled when he heard that. “I’ve already lived longer than despair,” he’d say softly. -- One cloudy afternoon, a traveler named Saeed arrived in the village. He wasn’t looking for Rahim — he was just passing through, tired and lonely, searching for something he couldn’t name. Someone at the tea stall told him about “the sick man who prays for others.” Curious, Saeed went to find him. When he reached Rahim’s home, the sight stopped him cold. Rahim was sitting on a thin mattress by the door. His body looked fragile, but his eyes — those eyes had light. He wasn’t praying for healing; he was praying for gratitude. Saeed sat quietly beside him. Neither spoke for a while. The sound of their breathing filled the silence between prayers. Finally, Rahim opened his eyes and smiled. “Brother, you look troubled,” he said softly. Saeed’s eyes were wet. “I came to see you, but now I don’t know what to say. I feel helpless.” Rahim chuckled faintly — a dry, gentle sound. “Don’t be. Pain is not always a punishment. Sometimes it’s a reminder… that we still belong to Him.” -Saeed took out a bundle of money, hands trembling. “Please, take this,” he said. “Use it for medicine, for care… for anything.” Rahim looked at it for a moment, then closed Saeed’s hand around it again. “Brother, money can fix a body, but not a heart. And my heart is fine.” Saeed couldn’t hold back his tears anymore. “What can I do then?” he asked. “Pray with me,” Rahim whispered. “That’s all I ever need.” So they sat together — two strangers who suddenly felt like brothers. Their hands lifted, voices low but full of meaning. “Ya Allah, forgive us when we forget to be grateful. Forgive us when we fear pain more than we fear losing faith. And when we suffer, let us remember — You never test without purpose.” The air grew still. Even the birds seemed to listen. Saeed could feel the weight of those words settle deep inside his chest. Rahim’s hands slowly dropped to his lap. His eyes stayed open, but something changed — a softness came over him. He whispered one last time, barely audible: “Tell the world… I wasn’t waiting for death. I was waiting to meet the One who gave me life.” And then, silence. Complete, peaceful silence. The azaan began to echo from the nearby mosque. Saeed sat there, motionless, tears falling one by one. He wasn’t crying out of pity anymore — he was crying because he’d just seen what faith truly looked like. Before leaving, he looked around the little courtyard. There was no wealth, no comfort, no sign of healing. Yet somehow, Rahim had everything Saeed had been searching for — peace. When Saeed walked back to the main road, the evening light touched the village roofs. He whispered to himself: "He healed me, even as he was dying.” And from that day on, wherever Saeed went, he carried Rahim’s prayer in his heart — a prayer that wasn’t just about pain or faith, but about finding light in the darkest corners of life. Moral / Reflection: Some people leave this world without fame or fortune, but they leave behind something far greater — a lesson that faith can turn suffering into strength, and sorrow into peace.
By Vocal Member about a year ago in Fiction
The Interdimensional Report
The view through the keyhole was limited, but it allowed Prince Dafydd to see the glowing orbs dancing above the center of the table where all the nobility of the fae kingdom had gathered. He watched as the orbs transformed into different creatures from across all the dimensions, from Gigantopithecus to Shadow People to vampires. Finally, the orbs solidified into an image of human ships sailing across the ocean. King Emyr appeared beside the image, and Prince Dafydd’s wings fluttered with excitement.
By Stephanie Hoogstadabout a year ago in Fiction
Ratatatat. Content Warning.
Satan knocked on my hearts door. I Remember it as though it were yesterday, the year 1973 the month of August, it was coming a monsoon as my 37 Packard gave up the ghost on a deserted back road. I had to be smack dab in the middle of nowhere USA. Not a business, not a house, not a street light in sight. I vaguely recall passing a brightly lit neon sign about 3 kilometers and a conniption ago.
By Jim Moonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Grove Eats Missionaries. AI-Generated.
They dispatched me from Mediolanum to look into a miraculum, which is to say some poor soul bled out where the bishop thought holy ground ought to be.
By Jesse L Shelleyabout a year ago in Fiction
Someone Knocking
It all started with a knock on the door. A simple, everyday occurrence... except that it was the middle of the night during a howling gale, and the nearest house or road was over a mile away. (A deliberate choice; some neighbours are better at a distance) There should be no reason for someone to be knocking.
By Natasja Roseabout a year ago in Fiction
Remember Your Childhood Bedroom!. Content Warning.
Imagination in childhood is powerful. For a short time, it shapes our lives but how we loose it.. I remember waking up in my bedroom, colours bursting all around me, toys of every shape and size waiting to be played with. Big smiles, bold eyes, and bright creatures greeted me each morning. Back then, even the smallest things seemed huge and magical.
By Cryptic Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
The Door That Brought Her Ancestors’ Memory
There was a knock. Not a polite, neighborly tap, but a slow, deliberate thud that echoed through the empty gallery. Minna froze. She was alone—or she had been. The rain outside hissed against the tall windows, soft and steady, a quiet background to what had just broken the stillness.
By Lin. Jabout a year ago in Fiction