Fantasy

The Silver Whistle
At six o'clock every Thursday, the back room of the Silver Whistle filled with its usual patrons. Gruff chaps in tweed, with hearts of gold. Salt of the earth, etc. Shortly after, the room thickened with cigar smoke and traces of bourbon breath. Bruno, a retired greyhound with a pinstripe vest and a wicked top spin, chalked his cue like it owed him something.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
A Letter to the Father Who Left
Dear Dad, I don’t know how to begin this letter. It feels strange even calling you “Dad.” The word feels foreign in my mouth, like a name I was never meant to say. But here I am, writing to you after all these years—years that have shaped me, scarred me, and, strangely enough, strengthened me.
By Haris Raheemabout a year ago in Fiction
A Voice Without a Face
Paul had always battled sleep. Each night, he tossed and turned, his mind a flickering projector of unfinished tasks, missed deadlines, and "what ifs" that marched in endless loops. His bed, rather than a sanctuary, had become a battleground between rest and racing thoughts. On this night, however, something felt different.
By Anthony Chanabout a year ago in Fiction
Three Little Fools and the House That Never Stood
✦ The Story: Once, not too long ago, there were three little fools. Not the kind of fools you mock. These were kind fools—hopeful, creative, maybe a bit too optimistic. Armed with laptops, ambition, and unpaid rent notices, they tried to make it on their own terms.
By Saeed Ullah about a year ago in Fiction
The Letter Found Inside an Old Library Book
It was a cloudy afternoon when Hannah stepped into the town’s old library, seeking a quiet place to escape the drizzle—and the noise in her mind. She was at a crossroads: newly single, out of work, and unsure of what came next. Life felt like a jigsaw puzzle without a picture on the box. She hadn’t set foot in that library since she was a child, but the worn brick walls and ivy-covered doorway felt oddly familiar, like a forgotten memory calling her back. Inside, the scent of old pages and polished wood welcomed her like an old friend. She wandered through the aisles, fingers brushing across the spines of books that hadn’t been touched in years. She wasn’t looking for anything—just a little stillness. A place where no one expected answers. Drawn to the history section out of habit, she picked up a weathered book titled The Lost Legacy of Letters. Its cracked leather cover felt delicate in her hands. As she opened it, something fluttered to the ground. It was an envelope—aged, yellowed, sealed with a brittle sticker. Neatly written across the front: “To Eleanor.” She paused, unsure. It felt wrong to open it. But the seal was already loose, and her curiosity outweighed her hesitation. Inside was a single page, handwritten in elegant cursive, the kind that spoke of another time. The letter was from someone named Edward. A love letter—raw, honest, and heartbreakingly tender. He wrote of danger and uncertainty, of promises he hoped to keep. Of a ring hidden beneath an oak tree. Of dancing barefoot in a kitchen. Of a love that had kept him alive when nothing else could. At the end, he wrote: If I don’t make it back, promise me one thing. Don’t stop living. Don’t stop laughing. Find joy, even if it’s not with me. And if you ever wonder if someone loved you with their whole soul, know that I did. I always will. Hannah sat frozen. The letter trembled in her hands. It felt like she’d stumbled into someone else’s love story—one that had never quite reached its ending. The past had quietly slipped into her present, unannounced and unforgettable. She took the book and letter to the front desk. The librarian on duty—an older woman with kind eyes and silver hair—adjusted her glasses as Hannah laid the items before her. “I found this inside,” Hannah said softly, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment. The librarian read the letter with quiet reverence. “People leave all kinds of things in books,” she murmured. “But this… this is something else.” She looked up. “Would you like to find out who they were?” Something in Hannah stirred. “Yes,” she said, without thinking. “I want to know how the story ended.” What began as curiosity became a mission. Each day, she returned to the library, diving into archives with the librarian—whose name, she learned, was Mrs. Winfield. Together they pored over old yearbooks, dug through yellowed newspapers, searched forgotten records. Slowly, the story unfolded. They found two names. A girl and a boy who once went to the same school. Bright smiles in black-and-white photos. Hints of poetry, of promise. Mrs. Winfield remembered a family that once lived nearby. Following the thread, Hannah found the house. The new owners mentioned an elderly woman who’d moved into a care home not long ago. Hannah visited. Nervous but determined, she stood at the door of a small room where an old woman sat by the window, knitting quietly. “Ms. Whitmore?” she asked gently. The woman turned, her eyes sharp and clear. “I think I found something that belongs to you,” Hannah said, offering the envelope. The woman took it with trembling hands. When she saw the handwriting, her breath caught. Her fingers hovered over the flap. She didn’t need to open it to know. “I never received this,” she whispered. “I thought… I thought he never wrote.” She read it slowly, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I waited,” she said after a long silence. “For years. Then came the telegram. I thought he’d gone without a word. But he didn’t. He said goodbye. I just never knew.” Hannah explained where she had found it. The old woman—Eleanor—smiled softly. “He used to leave me notes in books,” she said. “Little poems tucked in margins. Love hidden between pages.” She held the letter to her chest. “Thank you. You’ve brought something back I thought was lost forever.” From that day on, Hannah visited often. The two became close—reading poetry, sharing stories, laughing softly in the fading light. Eleanor became a kind of grandmother to her, and Hannah—without meaning to—found herself healing. One day, Eleanor gave her a ring. A simple silver band with a small stone. “He left this for me once,” she said. “It was meant to mark a beginning. But it became an ending. I want you to have it. As a reminder: always say what matters. Don’t wait for time to make the decision for you.” Years later, when Eleanor passed peacefully in her sleep, Hannah stood at her funeral wearing that ring. She read Edward’s letter aloud to those gathered—friends, staff, strangers drawn in by the story. In that moment, the love that had been paused decades ago was finally heard. But Hannah didn’t stop there. She wrote about it. Not just about Edward and Eleanor, but about how a forgotten letter found in a quiet library gave her life new meaning. Her book—a quiet reflection on love, loss, and the small things that change everything—found its way into hands across the country. And ever since, readers everywhere began checking their library books just a little more carefully, wondering if they, too, might find a letter—or a life—waiting inside. The End.
By Sajid about a year ago in Fiction
Beneath the Surface
“What do you see?” White sand, stretching to the horizon. Gentle turquoise waves kiss the shoreline. The sky is brushed with peach and lavender clouds. The sun hovers low, warming everything with golden light.
By Saeed Ullah about a year ago in Fiction
Big Horns, Bigger Lesson
Farmer Fred had just made an exciting new purchase for his farm — a young, strong, and remarkably large bull. He proudly named him Bill. With powerful legs, a broad chest, and two magnificent horns that curled gracefully from his head, Bill was an impressive sight.
By Junaid Shahid about a year ago in Fiction
Leveling Up in Virtual Shadows
Evan sat alone in his dimly lit room, the glow of his computer screen casting long shadows across the walls. Outside, the city thrummed with life—cars honking, distant chatter, the occasional bark of a dog—but inside, it was silent except for the steady hum of his rig. Tonight was another night spent in the world of Eldoria Online, a sprawling virtual reality MMORPG where thousands of players fought, traded, and forged alliances.
By Haris Raheemabout a year ago in Fiction
A Faerie Path?
Tonight he had been invited to his mates for a drink, he couldn't afford the bus fare, so he decided that he would walk. He had a six-pack in the garage; that is how he would contribute to the night.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
The Ghost
The rain always seems to chill the bones in the worst ways. Walking the muddy streets in the snow is never a good idea to do when drunk. But who will stop me? I find an alley way, trying to find some form of shelter to not sleep in the rain.
By Aiden Klimovabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers Under the Snow
The snow is covered with more than just footprints. We called him Jesus. Nine years old. Wild curls, sharp brown eyes, always tugging at someone's coat to point at a snowflake he thought was like a star. Jesus loved winter. When most of us scurried inside with cocoa and socks, he ran into the cold. Into it. Like he belonged.
By Echoes of Lifeabout a year ago in Fiction
Midnight Sun and Moonlight Hearts
In the farthest reaches of the world, beyond towering mountains and endless forests, lay a village unlike any other. This village was unique because it existed at the very edge of the Arctic Circle, where the sun never fully set in summer and never fully rose in winter. Here, the people lived by the rhythms of the midnight sun and the haunting glow of the moonlight hearts.
By Haris Raheemabout a year ago in Fiction