Fantasy

Prophecy
The night the crimson moon rose, Elmswood fell silent. Farmers left their fields. Mothers clutched their children. The elders gathered in the square and whispered of an ancient promise—a prophecy that spoke of a chosen one. Kael had never thought of themselves as chosen for anything. Seventeen years old, they spent most days mending their father’s broken plows or sneaking off into the woods to sketch the riverside. But that night, as the moon burned red over the forest, Kael felt a strange heat crawling across their skin. When they pushed back their sleeve, a faint mark glowed on their arm—a curling sigil that matched the carvings on the village’s oldest ruins. “Child of the earth,” one of the elders whispered, eyes widening. “The prophecy…” Suddenly, every face in the square turned toward Kael. A Weight Too Heavy By dawn, Kael’s home was crowded with villagers offering blessings, questions, and fears. Their father tried to push them back, but the truth had already taken root. Kael was no longer just Kael. They were the one destined to rise when the crimson moon returned. But Kael didn’t feel like a savior. They felt like a fraud. That evening, a hooded traveler arrived at their door. He introduced himself as Thalen, a wanderer of the old paths. Without waiting for an invitation, he studied Kael’s glowing mark with quiet certainty. “The darkness stirs,” he said. “And you must stand against it. But prophecy is not a crown, child—it is a chain. You must decide whether you will wear it.” Kael wanted to slam the door. Instead, they found themselves following Thalen into the night.
By LUNA EDITHabout a year ago in Fiction
Kira Volkanova: Shadows of the Eternal Dream
Twenty years. Two decades since the rain-swept temple had stolen her mother and marked Kira Volkanova with a knowledge too heavy for a child.
By Stefano D'angelloabout a year ago in Fiction
Kira Volkanova: Shadows of the Eternal Dream
Prologue: Time, the Unforgiving The rain was relentless, a sorrowful sigh against the ancient wood of the temple. Seven-year-old Kira knew she was dreaming—the air was too heavy with cedar and ozone, the reflections in the countless mirrors too sharp, too infinite. Barefoot, in a white yukata that smelled faintly of her mother’s lavender soap, she wandered the labyrinth of polished corridors.
By Stefano D'angelloabout a year ago in Fiction
The Dream Breaker. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
— POV: Nara “The first sign of drift is forgetting thirst. The second, pain. The last, your name.” -Field Notes of the Shard-Bearer Deyrin Voss, recovered near the Ninth Pillar
By Morpheus of Stoneabout a year ago in Fiction
The Iron Garden
🌿 A short story born from this art… The quiet came first, always. It settled in the hollow spaces between her ribs like morning mist, thick and deliberate. Then the weight — the familiar press of steel against collarbone, the slow ache in her shoulders where the pauldrons had learned the exact curve of her bones. She had forgotten what it meant to breathe without the armor’s permission.
By Prompted Beautyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Silent Hunger. Content Warning.
Devonne Kincaid had never known thirst like this. Water slid down his throat by the gallon, yet his mouth stayed dry, his tongue raw. Coffee, wine, juice—nothing quenched it. At night he lay awake, jaw aching, grinding against a hunger that felt older than he was. The doctor said dehydration. Work stress. Maybe insomnia. But Devonne knew the truth in his bones. This wasn’t stress. This was something feeding on him from the inside. --- The first crack showed on the subway. The carriage swayed, packed shoulder to shoulder. Devonne leaned against a pole, eyes half-closed, when the smell hit him. Metallic. Sharp. A boy across the car had a wrist wrapped in gauze. The bandage was slipping. A red thread gleamed where it bled through. Devonne’s heart kicked hard. His throat closed. His mouth watered so suddenly he nearly gagged. He couldn’t stop staring. The boy shifted under his gaze. Devonne bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste his own blood, forcing himself back into his skin. When the train screeched to a stop, he bolted into the night air, lungs shuddering, hunger screaming. --- The dreams began after that. Dark alleys. Footsteps echoing. Shapes moving ahead of him. He reached for them with shaking hands, nails digging into phantom skin, the air thick with copper sweetness. He always woke with his pillow torn and his teeth aching as if he’d been gnawing stone. Food tasted like dust. Heartbeats became an unbearable noise. He stopped eating lunch with coworkers, stopped making eye contact, stopped riding the train. But silence only made the hunger louder. The hunger was not meant to be suppressed. --- One morning, Devonne woke with dirt packed beneath his nails. His tongue was coated in iron. His reflection in the mirror looked wrong—skin ghost-pale, pupils blown wide, teeth catching the light in ways they shouldn’t. On the news: "The body of a man was found drained of blood in an alley off Crescent Street. No wounds were visible on the victim." Devonne’s coffee mug slipped from his hand. It shattered across the tile. He looked down towards his shoes laid by the entrance door. Muddy, Thick, wet, black with rain. He couldn’t remember leaving his apartment nor coming back. --- Fear gripped him harder than hunger ever had. He kept his blinds shut. He stopped answering calls. He didn’t dare sleep. But hunger doesn’t care about fear. Hunger grows. --- It was the stairwell that broke him. He was dragging himself upstairs when his neighbor appeared—a woman, groceries in her arms, a polite smile on her face. Then she tripped. The bag split. Apples clattered, a wine bottle shattered, and her hand slid across broken glass. Blood welled instantly. Bright. Hot. Alive. A beautiful hue.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Heroes Don’t Always Wear Badges
Heroes Don’t Always Wear Badges “Sometimes courage comes on two wheels, and kindness wears leather.” The rain pounded against the neon sign of Rust & Chrome, a biker bar tucked into the edge of town, the kind of place parents warned their children about. Inside, the air was thick with smoke, the clink of beer bottles, and the low growl of motorcycles idling outside. Men with tattoos, leather jackets, and faces hardened by life filled the bar, laughing, arguing, and daring one another to drink shots faster than their stomachs could handle.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Hotel That Never Lets You Leave
The Hotel That Never Lets You Leave “Where one night feels like forever, and forever feels like one night.” The rain was relentless that night. It drummed against the windshield as Ethan gripped the steering wheel, exhaustion tugging at his eyes. He had been driving for hours through winding country roads, searching for a place to rest.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Broadcast
The Last Broadcast “When the world went silent, one voice kept speaking—across time itself.” The world had ended quietly.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Day Colors Vanished. AI-Generated.
1. The Morning of Silence It happened without warning. One morning, the sun rose over the city of Miran, but the light it spilled carried no warmth, no glow, no beauty. The sky was not blue. The flowers were not red. The trees were not green. Everything—the streets, the faces, the skies—was suddenly gray. At first, people thought it was an illusion. They rubbed their eyes, blinked, checked mirrors. But no matter where they looked, the world had become a lifeless sketch, as though someone had drained the planet with a giant eraser. Children cried at their colorless toys. Painters screamed in horror. Lovers looked at each other and gasped—the spark that once shone in their eyes was gone. The world had not lost its light. It had lost its soul. --- 2. The Fear That Spread News channels exploded. Scientists claimed a chemical imbalance in the atmosphere. Politicians blamed foreign enemies. Priests warned it was the wrath of heaven. But behind the noise, people were breaking. Artists destroyed their canvases. Designers abandoned their work. Photographers burned their film. Teachers whispered that life had lost its lesson. The world without color was not only ugly—it was unbearable. --- 3. The Girl Who Noticed In the middle of this storm lived a girl named Aaliya. She was twelve, curious, and carried a sketchbook everywhere. Unlike others, she didn’t panic that morning. She stared. She studied. And she saw something strange. When her little brother laughed nervously, his outline flickered faint pink. When her mother hugged her tightly, warmth glowed around her in shades of orange. When a man shouted angrily at the sky, a jagged burst of black smoke pulsed from him. Colors weren’t gone. They had moved. They no longer lived in objects. They lived in emotions. But no one else could see it. --- 4. The Sketch of Hope That night, Aaliya filled her sketchbook with what she saw: the soft blue of her father’s sorrow, the green flicker of her neighbor’s kindness, the golden shimmer of her own curiosity. Her drawings looked gray to others, but she knew what they meant. And the more she sketched, the more certain she became: If the world wanted its colors back, it would need to feel again. --- 5. The First Experiment The next day, Aaliya gathered children from her building and took them to the rooftop. She gave them broken chalk pieces. “Draw your happiest memory,” she told them. The children frowned. “But there’s no color.” “Close your eyes,” Aaliya said softly. “Remember the laughter, the hug, the warmth. Feel it first. Then move your hand.” One boy scribbled wildly, remembering the day he rode a bike. A girl carefully traced circles, remembering her grandmother’s lullaby. The chalk was gray, but Aaliya gasped—colors exploded around them. Pink swirls, golden sparks, blue ripples. She saw joy returning, alive and glowing. The children couldn’t see it, but they could feel it. They laughed, they hugged, they played. For the first time since the vanishing, the rooftop glowed with life. --- 6. Spreading the Spark The next morning, Aaliya stood in the town square with a small drum. People walked by, dull and heavy, their faces blank. She began to play—softly at first, then louder, with rhythm and joy. At first, no one cared. But then an old man stopped. He tapped his foot. A yellow glow flickered around him. A woman clapped, and green sparks rose. A child giggled, sending pink ripples into the gray air. The marketplace shimmered faintly. Word spread quickly: “There is a girl who brings colors back.” --- 7. Doubt and Resistance Not everyone welcomed her. Leaders accused her of trickery. Scientists said she was spreading false hope. Preachers warned she was playing with forbidden powers. “Stop filling people with illusions,” an officer barked as he dragged her away from a crowd. But people noticed something undeniable: the officer’s anger was heavy and black, while Aaliya’s defiance glowed like sunlight. Whispers spread: “Maybe she is right. Maybe colors live inside us now.” --- 8. The Awakening Aaliya did not stop. She told stories to children. She asked lonely people about their dreams. She sang in the streets. And every time someone opened their heart, colors burst around them. She discovered something powerful: Joy glowed orange. Compassion shimmered silver. Grief pulsed deep blue. Courage blazed red. Forgiveness glowed soft lavender. The city was learning again—to feel was to see. --- 9. The Festival of Gray Months later, Miran announced its annual festival. But how could a festival be joyful without fireworks, without flowers, without light? Crowds gathered in the dull square. No decorations, no music, no laughter. Just silence. Then Aaliya stepped forward. She climbed the fountain and raised her voice. “Look around you. This world is not empty. It is waiting. Color doesn’t live in the sky or the ground—it lives in your hearts. Feel it. Share it. Let it rise.” She began to sing. Not a perfect song, not a rehearsed one, but a raw melody of hope. Children joined her. Parents followed. Strangers held hands. Some cried, some laughed, some shouted. And then— The square exploded. Waves of crimson, gold, green, silver, blue rose into the sky like invisible fireworks. The crowd gasped, not with their eyes but with their souls. For the first time in months, the city of Miran truly breathed. --- 10. A World Reborn The colors never returned to objects. The grass stayed gray, the skies remained pale. But no one cared anymore. They had discovered something greater: real colors were never outside—they were always inside. Aaliya grew older, but her name became legend. Schools began teaching empathy alongside science. Artists painted emotions instead of surfaces. Leaders were judged not by promises, but by the colors they carried. The city once broken by despair became the most vibrant place in the world. And whenever anyone forgot, whenever life felt dull again, they remembered the story of a girl who stared into the gray and refused to believe it was empty. --- 11. The Whisper That Spread Travelers carried the story far beyond Miran. Some laughed at it. Some dismissed it. But those who visited always returned with the same whisper: “The city still looks gray… but when you walk among them, when you cry and laugh with them, when you really live—you see colors brighter than rainbows.”
By Ihtisham Ulhaqabout a year ago in Fiction
The Forest of the Forgotten
Amnity sat on the old tree stump. Her face was gentle and fair against the light blue and orange hue that engulfed the early morning hours surrounding her friendly metaphysical shop when I came walking up. Amnity had her nose deep in her white oak magic book with the golden-rimmed sheets of paper, and she was reading from it calmly. Crickets broke the silence, but not her attention as she read.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
The Last Broadcast. AI-Generated.
The Last Broadcast The night shift was the loneliest shift in the city. By the time the clock struck midnight, the streets outside were empty, save for the hum of streetlamps and the distant moan of the wind. Inside Station WPRX, only one light burned: the studio booth of Midnight Letters, a radio show hosted by a man who called himself Solomon Grey.
By Rashid khanabout a year ago in Fiction