Fantasy

The Memory Weaver of Willow Creek
Elara didn’t have a shop with a sign. The people of Willow Creek knew where to find her small cottage, tucked away behind a canopy of ancient willows that dipped their long, green fingers into a slow-moving creek. They came to her not for mended shoes or fresh bread, but for something far more delicate: their memories. Elara was a memory weaver, and in a town where the past weighed heavy on every soul, she was a quiet, necessary comfort.
By Jack Nodabout a year ago in Fiction
The Macabre Terror Of Boogie Night 79. Content Warning.
Lori looked in the mirror, gave her hair one last fluff, and spun around twice. She thought to herself, “once for style, once for luck.” Tonight was going to be a night of glitter, glamour, and maybe a little trouble. She grabbed her gold clutch, the one that squeaked when it closed, and strutted out into the hallway. This would be the big party night before heading out to a Toronto suburb and her first nursing job.
By Bruce Curle `about a year ago in Fiction
The Weaver of Yesterday
Elias was a tailor of ghosts. In his dimly lit workshop, nestled in the chrome and neon canyons of Neo-Alexandria, he didn't work with fabric and thread, but with the gossamer strands of synaptic data and raw emotion. He was a Mem-Weaver, an artisan of the highest order in an age where genuine experience was a luxury few could afford. For the right price, he could stitch together a memory of a first kiss under a star-dusted sky, the triumph of summiting a mountain that existed only on a server farm in the Pacific, or the simple, quiet joy of a childhood that never was.
By Alpha Cortexabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Stargazer
The cold was a thief. It stole the warmth from your breath, the feeling from your fingers, and, worst of all, it stole the light from the sky. On the world of Aethel, the stars were dying. For generations, they had vanished one by one, like celestial embers smothered by an encroaching, cosmic dark. With them went the magic they fueled and the hope they inspired.
By Alpha Cortexabout a year ago in Fiction
Fearful, sensory AI Foibles.. Top Story - August 2025.
Somewhere Between the acceptance of AI and Myself...there hums a melody caught in neon lights, of question marks, interspersed with introspection and ambiguity. It suggests a liminal space, a blurred boundary between identity and artificiality, thought and algorithm. A conceptual direction we desperately need to explore.
By Antoni De'Leonabout a year ago in Fiction
Echoes in the Empty Hall
Lena kicked a pebble along the cracked sidewalk, her sneakers scuffing the gravel as she passed the old school building. It was just past six, the sky fading to a soft lavender, and the air smelled of fallen leaves and damp earth. At seventeen, she was supposed to be home helping with dinner, but tonight, her feet had other plans. The abandoned school, with its sagging roof and ivy-choked bricks, had always been a backdrop to her walks home from the new high school across town. Her mom called it “the old heart of Mapleton,” full of stories from her own teenage years—dances, crushes, teachers who left a mark. Lena never paid much attention before, but lately, she’d felt restless, like she was searching for something to anchor her in this small town she sometimes dreamed of leaving.
By Thomasabout a year ago in Fiction
The Hidden Door
Elliot Grayson was twelve, all elbows and knees, stuck in the middle of Willowbrook Middle School’s social shuffle. He wasn’t a nobody, but he wasn’t a somebody either—just a kid who doodled dragons in his notebook and dodged the lunchroom chaos. Deep down, he ached for something more, a spark to break the monotony of math homework and rainy days. One gray Tuesday, with rain pelting the school windows, Elliot slipped into the basement to escape a wild game of tag. That’s when he saw it: a wooden door tucked behind a stack of dusty textbooks, its surface carved with swirls that seemed to glow faintly, like stars trapped in wood.
By Thomasabout a year ago in Fiction
The Call Came After Midnight
I was half-asleep when my phone rang. The screen lit up my dark bedroom, the name flashing across it like something out of a dream — or a nightmare.
By ETS_Storyabout a year ago in Fiction
“The Last Paper Crane”*
In a narrow lane where the sun barely touched the ground by midday, tucked between a tea stall and an old tailor’s shop, stood a small stationery store with peeling green paint and a wooden sign that read “Baba Jan’s Papers” in faded ink.
By meerjananabout a year ago in Fiction
pinot
i reach the corner of the street and turn left down a dark, dirt path. yes, the spooky branches and trees are here as well...but, i've made this walk so much that they aren't scary anymore.
By amiracdotesabout a year ago in Fiction
Suppose Me
Norah was sitting on the balcony terrace alone. She was looking for fresh air at night while seeing the stars and moon in the night sky. However, somehow this night was very different. Her heart was beating fast until she squished her hands. She was closing her eyes to what had happened in her mind. It turned out she was overthinking about her past period. She admitted to having regret in the past.
By Mirda Gabout a year ago in Fiction
From Pajamas to Pirate Battles
William Sawyer went to bed at the same time every night. Not a minute earlier, not a minute later. His evening routine matched his daytime routine, utterly predictable, painfully ordinary, and completely unremarkable. Nothing ever changed, same tie, same job, same old same old. Nothing ever surprised him. And to be honest, that was exactly how William liked it.
By Bruce Curle `about a year ago in Fiction