Fantasy

Rain control
My Dream Story Perhaps my life isn't like other people's, and my dreams are very strange and sometimes difficult or impossible to interpret. That night, I watched episodes of TV series or movies. I don't remember much, but I always watch a movie or TV series before bed. The important thing is that on that night, which was also different from other nights, I fell asleep at some point during the night. In the dream, I looked up at the sky and saw how clear it was. There were no clouds or rain. The drought was terrifying, and people's faces looked like they were in a war movie due to the scarcity of water. People were only given one amount of water per person per day.
By ABDOabout a year ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Waited by the Sea
The sea was a thief. It stole things from the land and held them hostage in its fathomless depths. But for Elara, it had stolen a future. Every day for twenty years, she walked down the winding path to the jagged cliffs overlooking the ocean. The townspeople of Port Caelum called her "the girl who waited," a title that had long since replaced her name. Her ritual was as predictable as the tides: she would arrive just before sunset, a solitary figure etched against the dramatic sky, and watch the waves for a sail that would never come.
By Express Laneabout a year ago in Fiction
When What Is, Isn't, Or Is It?
I rolled over to find it (this shadow on my wall) It looked a bit bent and stood about six foot tall I rearranged my pillow
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsdenabout a year ago in Fiction
Cast No Shadow
The road takes all. She laid atop him, thigh against thigh, breath heavy on his neck. The first light of morning registered through the window slats, painting the rough and worn floorboards a dazzlingly soft orange. The movements, the breaths, all performative at best: hers for the coin in the offing, his because his thoughts were far from the dingy rented bedroom. Liquor, women, God–all failed to draw his mind away from the horizon.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction
City?
‘Who ever heard of sloe berries with eyes riding a sheep to the city?’ Said David with a posh accent. His upper lip barely leaving the lower, a closeted power under his tongue as it projected into Thorn's ear.
By Caitlin Charltonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Grandfather's Legacy: When the Box Opens the Gates of the Underworld
I thought my life was perfect: a 24-year-old young man, an athlete, working as an event photographer, living with my parents in our modest home. My father was a Quranic healer, and my grandfather was a scholar of jinn and supernatural beings. But I always refused to get involved in this world. I used to tell him, "I don't believe in these things, Grandpa." He would wisely reply, "This isn't your choice, Majid. It's your destiny."
By Ahmed Abdeenabout a year ago in Fiction
If you knew the exact date of your death, how would you live differently?
Imagine waking up one morning and discovering the precise date, month, and year of your death. No guesses, no uncertainty—just the truth stamped into your future like an unchangeable prophecy. This knowledge could feel like a curse, but it could also be a gift. Life would suddenly have an exact finish line, and every step taken until then would carry new meaning. The Shift in Priorities For many, knowing the end date would immediately transform priorities. Things that once felt urgent—emails, deadlines, arguments, social media posts—would shrink into irrelevance. What rises instead are the deeper questions: Who do I want to spend my remaining time with? What kind of legacy do I want to leave behind? What experiences are worth living before time runs out? We might spend less time chasing money or status and more time building connections, forgiving others, and seeking peace. The Pursuit of Purpose A ticking clock forces clarity. If death was only five years away, you might finally pursue the dream you’ve delayed: writing that book, traveling across continents, starting a charity, or learning something entirely new. Suddenly, procrastination would feel like self-betrayal. Knowing the limit of time can give purpose a sharp edge. The Fear of the Countdown But not all responses would be liberating. For some, the knowledge could bring paralyzing fear. Life might feel like a prison sentence, every day another mark on the wall toward an unavoidable end. Anxiety would creep in with each sunrise, knowing it brings you closer to the final night. The freedom of living could turn into the burden of waiting. Relationships Reimagined If you knew the exact moment your time was up, love would gain new weight. You might forgive family more easily, cherish friendships more deeply, and say “I love you” more often. Goodbyes would no longer be casual but sacred, each carrying the awareness that one day, it will be the last. At the same time, toxic connections would be cut faster. Why waste months or years in bitterness when the clock is already running down? Knowing the end can make us ruthless in protecting our emotional energy. The Balance Between Urgency and Peace The danger of knowing your death date is the temptation to cram every second with activity—an endless rush to “live fully.” But perhaps true wisdom lies in balance: not in frantic chasing, but in deep presence. Sitting quietly with a loved one, walking in nature, or savoring a single meal might become more valuable than any grand achievement. The Legacy Question When the final day approaches, the question of legacy grows loud. Would people remember you for kindness, for courage, for creativity? Or would you be forgotten in the noise of the world? Knowing your end could push you to create, to build, to teach, to inspire—because every action echoes beyond your years. Conclusion: Living as if the Clock Is Visible In truth, none of us knows the date of our death. And maybe that ignorance is mercy. Yet the question still lingers: if the clock were visible, would you live differently? And if the answer is yes, then perhaps the challenge is to live that way now—without needing the certainty of an end date. Life is fragile, but that fragility is what makes it beautiful. The clock is always ticking, whether we see it or not. The real question is not when the end will come, but how we will fill the time between now and then.
By Hazrat Usman Usmanabout a year ago in Fiction
CASPER CARAMEL
My first pet Casper Caramel was playing at the park. There were many people playing at the park. But that’s when I noticed that most games require two people to play with. I was all alone. But that’s when an Idea popped on my head! WHY CANT I JUST BUY A PET? I ran to my home, took my phone to buy a pet online.
By zyxabout a year ago in Fiction
I am Bexley “Rumors” chapter 26
“So, I was out of it for what seemed like a whole day. I was going in and out of consciousness. I couldn’t even see ahead with my vision being so clouded. Then India caught up with me with a whole new crew,” Serena explained.
By Melissa Ingoldsbyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library of Forgotten Sounds
Thomas had always loved the quiet corners of the library. As the town’s archivist, he spent most of his days surrounded by brittle newspapers, parish records, and maps that no one had touched in decades. The work was steady and unremarkable, which suited him fine.
By arsalan ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Enchanted Threads of Time
Hook / Intro No one knew that a simple stitch could alter the fate of an entire city—until Sofia discovered the enchanted fabric. In Nueva Estrella, a city famous for its vibrant streets and ancient legends, her little fabric shop seemed ordinary—but hidden within it were enchanted threads and destinies waiting to be unraveled. Every customer, every fabric, every stitch held the potential to reveal a story that could change lives. This was more than a fantasy story—it was a living magical realism tale interwoven with history, hope, and personal growth. --- A Needle in Time On a rainy afternoon, Sofia stumbled upon an old chest in her grandmother’s attic. Wrapped in delicate velvet lay a piece of fabric that shimmered like the northern lights and a needle that seemed alive, pulsing with her heartbeat. As Sofia touched the fabric, visions flooded her mind: warriors in forgotten battles, kingdoms rising from ashes, dragons soaring through clouds, and distant lands she had never seen. Each stitch she imagined began to etch itself into her consciousness, whispering stories of lives connected across time. This magical realism experience made her realize she had found enchanted threads capable of weaving multiple destinies. The more she touched the fabric, the more she discovered: it was not just magic—it was history, memory, and storytelling woven together. A single stitch could carry the laughter of a child, the sorrow of a lost love, or the courage of a hero yet to be born. --- Weavings of Fate Curious, Sofia began creating patterns from these visions. Her first creation was a scarf whose wavy colors seemed to tug at time itself. Soon, visitors to her shop recounted stories mirroring every stitch she had unknowingly woven. Next came a tapestry: a young sailor battling turbulent seas, scholars deciphering ancient runes, lovers embracing under a moonlit sky. Each piece revealed untold stories, intertwining the destinies of everyone who encountered them. Her shop became a sanctuary of fiction, adventure, and hope. People came from distant towns, drawn by whispers of magical threads. Some came seeking answers, others in search of inspiration. Each time someone touched her creations, they discovered fragments of their own story—an inspirational tale of courage, love, or redemption. --- The Challenge of Power Yet the fabric’s magic was not without consequence. The line between creation and reality blurred. Sofia began to see visions of danger: shadows lurking in the corners of her mind, threads twisting into shapes of fear and sorrow. Every stitch carried weight—one wrong pattern could ripple into someone else’s destiny unpredictably. She sought guidance from Aria, a wise artisan familiar with legends of enchanted threads. Together, they studied the patterns, learned to listen to the fabric, and asked permission before stitching a story. Their collaboration sparked tales of courage, hope, and rediscovered dreams, slowly turning her shop into a hub for those eager to explore magical realism, storytelling, and personal growth responsibly. --- Threads That Connect Us All As the enchanted threads revealed more stories, Sofia realized something extraordinary: the fabric did not just tell individual tales—it connected the people of Nueva Estrella. Families separated by time or circumstance found echoes of each other’s lives within her creations. Strangers met in the shop and discovered shared dreams. Even the city itself seemed alive, humming with a newfound rhythm of interconnected destinies. Sofia began teaching a small group of apprentices, showing them how to respect the threads, to weave without controlling, and to listen to the whispers of magic. Each apprentice added their own touch, creating fictional adventures and inspirational tales filled with hidden wonders. --- Embracing the New Dawn Through challenges and revelations, Sofia discovered the essence of life woven into each stitch. Her creations whispered stories of love, hardships, and triumphs—uniting the city in shared journeys. Nueva Estrella awoke to a new era. Sofia’s shop became the heart of the city, where magical realism and dreams existed in every thread. And as the enchanted threads of time continued to weave destinies, they bound together stories that would endure forever. Every stitch was a heartbeat, every pattern a memory, and every creation a bridge between the past, present, and future—an unforgettable fantasy story of hope, courage, and personal growth. --- Final Thought Have you ever wondered if your smallest action could ripple through someone else’s destiny? In a world alive with possibilities, the enchanted threads remind us that every choice, every stitch, every story matters. This is the magic of storytelling, the power of fantasy fiction, and the beauty of inspirational tales waiting to be discovered.
By ✦•············• Freelancer •············✦about a year ago in Fiction
The Last Song Beneath the Stars. Content Warning.
Seren had always known she was the last. The Observatory’s glass dome groaned beneath the winds that scoured the dead Earth, but she barely noticed anymore. The hum of the machines was her lullaby, the stars her only companions. When the world fell silent decades ago, the radio towers had gone dark. She had been a child then, too young to grasp the word extinction, but old enough to remember what silence felt like after the voices vanished. Now, she lived inside that silence. Every night she climbed the spiral stair to the Observatory’s roof, wrapped herself in her father’s coat, and whispered the stars’ names as if they were prayers: Sirius, Vega, Altair, Deneb… Reciting them felt like calling ghosts back into existence. It was on one such night, with her breath crystallizing in the air, that she heard it. Not the wind. Not the groan of steel. Music. Faint, broken, buried in the static of her battered receiver. A voice—no, not a voice, but something like one—singing. Notes stretched like threads of light across the void. Her hands shook as she turned the dials, clinging to the sound. For the first time in years, she wasn’t alone. --- The song returned the next night. And the night after that. Seren began to live for it. She would wait in trembling silence until the melody slid once more through the static. It was in no language she knew, yet emotion poured from every note. Longing. Sorrow. Beauty persisting beyond ruin. She answered. Her father had taught her the piano before the world ended. The Observatory’s instrument was cracked and stiff, but her fingers remembered. She played back through the transmitter—fragments of Chopin, Debussy, lullabies her mother once sang. She poured herself into the keys, praying something, someone, was listening. And always, the song returned. --- Weeks blurred into months. Seren pieced together fragments, learning patterns as though she were being taught a language built from music. She dreamed of the voice, of the being who sang back to her. One night, the melody changed. It pulsed, insistent, repeating a sequence of rising and falling notes. A message. She mapped the pattern against the stars and froze. It pointed toward Orion’s belt, where clouds of gas shimmered like spilled ink. It’s telling me where to go. --- The Observatory had never been meant for travel, but the old escape shuttle buried beneath it still held promise. Her father had once forbidden her from touching it, saying it was only for the end. Perhaps, she thought, this is the end—or the beginning. She worked tirelessly, scavenging, repairing, teaching herself from brittle manuals. Her hands bled. Her body weakened. But the song drove her forward. When at last the shuttle roared to life, she strapped herself in, embracing her father's coat still around her shoulders to not feel lonely. The engines screamed, and the horizon fell away. Grey deserts, broken oceans, forgotten cities shrank behind her, and the black sea of space opened its arms. Seren wept. she wept screams of hope and happiness.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction