Fantasy
Magical Beastly Botanics and Altered Potions
Lainey Roberts curled her lip in stilled satisfaction as the moon lit against her eyes, pooling a reflection that wasn’t her own. She wasn’t supposed to be out at this hour of night but she couldn’t help it. She had to see for herself what the plants were doing as she peered through the glass of her latest customers home. Sure enough, Mrs. Jennings had put her prized Fiddlewood on the northeast side of her house in the largest bay-window on the block, turning the plant to face the moon. Just as Lainey had requested.
By K.H. Obergfollabout a year ago in Fiction
Fairy Tea
Deep in the forest, a tiny teapot and cup sat on a polished stone table. Chiara gazed up at her grandmother in wonder. “It’s here!” she whispered. “It’s really here!” She peered around her, eyes wide as saucers. “The stone table is all set for the fairy tea party! But where are the guests?” she asked.
By Laura DePaceabout a year ago in Fiction
''In My Mind, A New World''
In my mind, a new world blooms—not with noise and chaos, but with a quiet kind of magic. The kind that lives between thoughts, beneath dreams, and behind every closed eye. This world doesn’t follow the rules of the one we wake to each morning. Gravity isn’t a law, time isn’t a tyrant, and no one has to hide the strange parts of themselves. In my world, strangeness is celebrated. It's the currency of connection. There are cities carved from crystal and rainclouds that float like zeppelins. The skies change color with emotion. If you're sad, the sun softens its light and bathes the world in lavender. If you're angry, the clouds hum with storm-energy—not destructive, but cleansing, like a thunderstorm for the soul. The people here? They're not people, not exactly. Some have wings like ravens, some wear vines instead of clothes. Others are made of flame but never burn. They speak in poems, in pulses of color, or in music only your heart understands. No one lies here. They don’t need to. Vulnerability is strength, not weakness. You don’t armor yourself with sarcasm or politeness. You say what you feel, and the world listens gently. Pain is met with presence. Joy is shared like bread. There’s no money in this world—not in the way we know it. You trade memories, laughter, stories. If someone paints a mural in the town center, you thank them with a song or a secret. Everyone gives. Everyone receives. Balance is natural here, not something we legislate. Animals speak—not with words, but with knowing. A fox might guide you through your fears. A whale might sing you to sleep. Even the trees have voices, whispering ancient lullabies to anyone who dares to sit still long enough to listen. Technology exists here, but not to dominate. It harmonizes. There are floating lanterns that follow you through dark woods. There are mirrors that show you your best self when you’ve forgotten who you are. There are staircases that only appear when you’re truly ready to rise. You don’t age the same way here. Your body reflects your spirit, not your years. If your heart is young, you dance like someone just gave you legs. If you’ve lived deeply, your eyes glow with galaxies. In my mind, the concept of “other” doesn’t exist. Love flows freely—not labeled or boxed. You can love many, or one, or none at all, and still be whole. Identity is fluid. You can change your name with the seasons. You can be moonlit today and wildfire tomorrow. No one asks for explanations. They just witness you. And when grief arrives, as it always must, it is not shamed or hidden. There are temples where you can sit with it. Waters that carry it gently away when you're ready. You’re never told to "move on." You’re asked only to move with it—until it becomes part of your song. This world is not perfect. There is still struggle. But here, struggle doesn’t mean suffering alone. Community is not something you build—it’s something you remember. In my mind, a new world grows like moss on ancient stone. Quiet. Persistent. Alive. And maybe, just maybe, this world doesn’t have to stay only in my mind. Maybe it can leak into the spaces between this world—the real one. Maybe we start with a conversation that feels more like a connection. A look that lingers a little longer. A moment where someone says, “I see you,” and means it. Maybe we build it not with bulldozers and budgets, but with bravery. With imagination. With the audacity to believe that kindness can be more than a gesture—it can be a revolution. Maybe your world looks different than mine. That’s okay. There’s room for all of them. That’s the beauty of a mind that dreams new realities. Every vision is a seed. And every seed is a possible beginning. So tell me: In your mind… What does your new world look like?
By Israr khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Cost of a Wandering Heart
In the vibrant South Asian diaspora communities of America, where the aroma of cumin and cardamom wafts from family kitchens and weddings are grand celebrations of tradition, love is both a promise and a test. Here, family is the backbone of identity, honor is fiercely guarded, and marriage is a sacred bond woven with expectations of loyalty and sacrifice. Yet, beneath the surface of these tight-knit enclaves, where aunties gossip over chai and elders pass down stories of resilience, individual desires clash with collective duty. As an American writer, I’ve always been captivated by how these communities balance tradition with the pull of modern dreams. This is the story of Zain, Ayesha, and a love that burned too brightly to last—a tale that broke my heart as I wrote it.
By Shakespeare Jrabout a year ago in Fiction
My Tattoo Tells the Future — But Only in America
My Tattoo Tells the Future — But Only in America I never believed in fate. I’m a rational person — raised in Birmingham, educated in logic, grounded in facts. So when I got the tattoo, it wasn’t a spiritual moment. Just a silly dare in my uni days. A small Celtic symbol on my wrist — meant nothing to me then.
By Musawir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
She Found $3 Million in Her Basement—Then the FBI Showed Up
When 34-year-old Emily Reeves decided to renovate the basement of her inherited family home in Rochester, New York, she expected to find old paint cans, perhaps some forgotten furniture, maybe even a spider infestation. What she didn’t expect was to discover $3 million in cash, meticulously wrapped in waterproof bundles, hidden inside a rusted-out oil drum beneath a loose floor panel.
By Shoaib Afridiabout a year ago in Fiction
