Fantasy

The secret life of an object
Huuuhh When do I get to move around? I've been sitting in this same place for a week! I want to flex my joints, crack my arms and move around, explore the vast world out-there instead I've been here for a week staring at the same ceiling that only changes colours with the opening and closing of the light.
By Abdullah Talaatabout a year ago in Fiction
Romells' Ride. Top Story - August 2025.
The land was still steaming from the day’s rain. The smell of sodden leaves and black loam rose about him, clinging to his clothes, insinuating itself into the flesh. Romells rode bare-headed, letting the night wind lay its cool hand along his hair. It felt good — so bloody good — to be out from under stone ceilings, to have the sweat on his skin drying under the stars.
By Aaron Richmondabout a year ago in Fiction
The Potion
Pew Eponos was having a wonderful dream. Until he wasn’t. He was rudely plucked from his imaginings (of enjoying some goddamn peace and quiet), and thrust into the musty, dung-scented world of consciousness. His ears picked up on the trill of furious clucking around the same time as he felt a creature’s foul little beak peck him directly in the eye. He flailed his arms (damn they felt awfully heavy today), and waved them erratically, shooing the feathered vermin away.
By Alyssa Cheriseabout a year ago in Fiction
The Labyrinth of Ketu
The silence was surreal. After hours of rhythmic drums rattling her bones, heavy woodsmoke choking her lungs, and nearly fifty people passing her around like a doll, Sonia was exhausted. The ritual was finally over.
By Alyssa Cheriseabout a year ago in Fiction
The Porch Between Us. Honorable Mention in Leave the Light On Challenge. Top Story - August 2025.
The moment the Sun disappeared beyond the horizon I took my usual place on the porch swing. It was that day of the year again.
By Imola Tóthabout a year ago in Fiction
Lost but Not Alone
Undulating through the crystal blue water, Bubbles spun and tumbled. She couldn’t help but giggle as a school of rainbow gillpies flittered by. Their scales tickled the bare bronze skin on her arms and neck. Her sunset-hued, locked tresses hid a few stragglers. A few hundred yards away, Bubbles spied a disturbance on the surface. Ever curious, she kicked her tails and quickly approached the vessels.
By K.B. Silver about a year ago in Fiction
Waiting For Dawn. Content Warning.
6 pm She loved Vampire films, and tonight she was going to watch a classic, "Nosferatu", Max Shrek's portrayal was her favourite portrayal of the undead. While she loved Christopher Lee's "Dracula", his suave vampire did not hold for her, the threat and creepiness of the Max Shrek monster.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
The Day My Dog Became a Social Media Star (Without Me)
It all started on an ordinary Tuesday morning—the kind where nothing exciting is supposed to happen. My plan was simple: drink coffee, scroll aimlessly on my phone, and avoid doing anything remotely productive until at least noon. But my dog, Max, had other plans. Max, for context, is a fluffy golden retriever with the face of an angel, the appetite of a sumo wrestler, and the cunning of a jewel thief. He’s also the reason my neighbors think I’m either eccentric or unstable. For years, Max had been content with his small local fame—winning “Cutest Pet” at the annual community fair and charming free snacks out of every café owner within a three-mile radius. But apparently, that wasn’t enough. The morning began with me heading to the bathroom, leaving my phone on the coffee table. Max was lounging on the couch, looking innocent—which should have been my first warning sign. When I came back, my phone was gone. Instead, Max sat proudly on the rug, wagging his tail with the kind of smug satisfaction usually reserved for villains in spy movies. My phone was wedged under his paw. “Max,” I said in my best stern voice (which, I’ll admit, is about as intimidating as a polite librarian). “Give it back.” He didn’t move. Instead, he licked the screen. Then, with one perfectly timed nudge of his nose, he somehow unlocked it. I stood there, speechless, as his paw tapped the screen like he had been secretly attending night classes in smartphone literacy. By the time I got my phone back, Max had posted a photo of himself—tongue out, ears flopped—on my Instagram. But that wasn’t all. He had also managed to add the caption: “Hooman is slow. Send treats. #DogLife #HandsomeBoy.” I laughed, thinking it was a fluke. Then my phone pinged. And pinged again. And again. Within minutes, the post had hundreds of likes and comments. People I barely knew were writing things like, “OMG he’s adorable!” and “Max should have his own account!” Someone even asked if they could “collab” with him. Collab? With my dog? I thought it would blow over in a day. It didn’t. That one post snowballed into a frenzy. My friend Lisa messaged me saying she had shared Max’s photo on her Twitter, where it was now being retweeted by pet fan accounts with names like “Pawsitive Vibes” and “Doggos R Life.” Someone even tagged a dog food brand. By lunchtime, my kitchen looked like a media control center. My phone was buzzing nonstop. People were sending fan art of Max. A stranger from Australia asked if they could ship him a hand-knitted sweater. That’s when I made my first mistake: I gave Max his own Instagram account. I told myself it was just for fun, a way to keep my notifications from exploding. But Max took to social media like a duck to water—or, in his case, like a retriever to a muddy puddle. Every time I left the room, I’d come back to find him posing dramatically in front of the window or arranging his toys in suspiciously photogenic ways. One day, I caught him sitting next to my laptop, his paw resting on the keyboard, while the screen displayed an online order for “organic duck jerky.” I canceled it, but two days later, a box of gourmet dog biscuits arrived in the mail, addressed to “Max, Influencer.” He started gettingg packages weekly. Treats, toys, bandanas, even a dog bed so fancy it made my own mattress look like a lumpy pancake. Brands wanted “content” from him. I tried to explain that he was just a dog, but Max wasn’t listening—probably because he was busy wearing a pair of sunglasses a fan had mailed him. Then came the sponsorship offer. A company selling “all-natural paw balm” reached out with a very official email addressed to “Mr. Max.” They wanted him to model for their product. The pay? More than I made in a week. I looked at Max, who was sprawled on the couch like a Roman emperor, and realized I had officially been demoted from “dog owner” to “assistant to the talent.” Soon, Max had a schedule. Morning walks became “photo shoots.” Trips to the park were “fan meet-and-greets.” I wasn’t allowed to eat a snack without first photographing Max “reacting” to it for his followers. Things reached peak absurdity the day he got recognized in public. We were walking down the street when a teenage girl gasped, pointed, and shouted, “Is that Max from Instagram?!” Before I could answer, she ran over, squealing, “Can I take a selfie with him?” Max, the shameless ham, struck a pose. Within minutes, a small crowd formed. Someone asked for his “pawtograph.” Another person knelt down and whispered, “You’re even fluffier in person.” I stood there, holding his leash, completely invisible. When we got home, Max strutted into the apartment like he owned the place (which, given the amount of free merchandise with his name on it, was arguably true). I flopped onto the couch, exhausted. Max jumped up beside me, dropped his head on my lap, and sighed contentedly—as if to say, This fame thing is hard work. That night, while I was brushing my teeth, I heard a suspicious click from the living room. I peeked out and saw Max with my phone again. He was live-streaming. Thousands of viewers were watching him do absolutely nothing but blink slowly and wag his tail. The comments were a mix of “I love him” and “I’d die for Max.” Someone even proposed marriage—to my dog. By the time I took the phone away, Max’s follower count had passed fifty thousand. Fifty thousand! Meanwhile, my own personal account had 312 followers, most of whom were distant relatives and people I’d met at weddings. I tried to set limits. No more late-night posting. No more ordering snacks without my permission. But Max was a social media juggernaut. One day, I came home from work to find a film crew in my living room. “Hi,” the director said cheerfully. “We’re here for Max’s commercial shoot.” Apparently, my neighbor—who also happened to work for a local ad agency—had reached out to them after seeing Max’s Instagram. They were filming a commercial for a luxury dog shampoo, and Max was the star. I stood in the corner holding his water bowl while Max was pampered, fluffed, and filmed under studio lights. The director kept saying things like, “Can we get more sparkle in his eyes?” and “Max, darling, give me joyful curiosity.” When the commercial aired a month later, Max was instantly recognizable in our neighborhood. People stopped us on walks. Shopkeepers gave him free treats. Even the mailman asked for a selfie. And me? I became “Max’s human.” Not by name. Just “Max’s human.” I had lost my identity, my privacy, and most of my couch space. But here’s the thing—I couldn’t even be mad. Because every time Max tilted his head at me or rested his paw on my knee, I remembered that underneath the fame, the brand deals, and the ego the size of a small country, he was still my goofy, lovable best friend. The only difference was now, the rest of the world loved him too. Of course, I still draw the line at one thing: Max is not allowed his own TikTok account. I made that clear. But just yesterday, I caught him sitting in front of my laptop with a suspicious glint in his eye… so if you see a dancing golden retriever go viral anytime soon, you’ll know exactly what happened.
By Sajid about a year ago in Fiction
The 27th Hour. AI-Generated.
Mara first noticed the 27th hour on a Tuesday. Not the Monday that came before it, or the Wednesday after. Tuesday, at exactly 12:59 a.m., when the second hand should have swept into tomorrow, the clock hesitated. The tick hung in the air like a held breath, and then — against all reason — the hands slid to 1:00 a.m., only… it wasn’t 1:00 a.m.
By Azmat Aliabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library Where You Borrow Memories
Story It was hidden in the oldest part of the city, down an alley too narrow for cars and too crooked to follow a map. The sign above the door was a single brass plate, engraved with three words:
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Woman Who Spoke in Weather
Story The Woman Who Spoke in Weather Harold Linton had been the city’s morning weatherman for nineteen years. He was steady, reliable, and rarely surprised — the kind of man who could read a sky like a favorite book. His office sat on the eleventh floor of a squat, concrete building downtown, where he had a perfect view of Ashbury Street.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Day My Grandfather Stopped Time
I always thought my grandfather was just… ordinary. Old, quiet, and a little forgetful. But one rainy afternoon, he showed me something I’ll never forget. He took my hand and led me to the attic—a place I had never dared enter. Dust danced in the light as he opened a small, wooden box. Inside were dozens of old photographs, each labeled with a date. “This,” he said, “is how I stopped time.” I laughed. “Stopped time? Grandpa, you’re being dramatic.” He smiled but didn’t answer. Instead, he handed me a photo. It was me, sitting in the living room at age five, smiling at something I couldn’t see. “Look closer,” he said. And I did. Hidden in the background, almost invisible, was a tiny shadow… smiling at me. He explained that in every photo, there was a moment frozen that no one else could see—a second where happiness was so pure it could outlast the years. He had been capturing them all his life. That day, I understood: time doesn’t really stop. Memories do. And sometimes, the simplest moments are the ones worth holding forever. I left the attic with a strange sense of peace. Because even if the world moves on, the magic of ordinary life never disappears.
By Haileyesusabout a year ago in Fiction