Fantasy

🌇 The Last Ray of the Sun
✍️ Written by: The sky was painted in shades of orange and crimson as the sun sank behind the mountains. Zain sat alone on the park bench—the same bench where he and Ayesha once shared dreams of forever. Ayesha… She was the girl who could turn silence into poetry, who laughed like spring and spoke like autumn leaves falling softly. But today, Zain’s world was quiet. No dreams. Just questions. “Was it all a lie? Or did time simply steal our truth?” Just then, a small boy—barely seven—walked up to him, holding an old envelope. “Uncle,” the boy said, “my mama told me to give you this… if I ever saw you sitting here.” Zain froze. That handwriting… it was hers. Ayesha’s. > *"Zain, if you’re reading this, it means you still come here. I never truly left you. In my final breaths, I whispered your name. This boy... he is ours. I gave you everything, even while staying away. Time didn’t let us win… but love never lost."* Tears blurred Zain’s vision as he looked at the boy again. “Why are you crying, uncle?” the child asked softly. Zain knelt down, hugged him tightly, and whispered: “Because I just found my son… and my reason to live.” The sun disappeared behind the hills, but in Zain’s heart, a new sun had just risen.
By Misbah about a year ago in Fiction
The Echo in the Mountain
Dr. Aris Thorne knew the Earth’s voice better than her own. Seismographs were her language tutors, translating the planet’s rumbles and groans into data points on her screens. Her work at GeoDyne Labs predicted earthquakes, saved lives, and earned accolades. It also gnawed at her nerves like tectonic plates grinding under pressure.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Cat Nights Are Coming
Introduction Cat Nights begin on August 17. This term harks back to the days when people believed in witches. A rather obscure old Irish legend said that a witch could turn herself into a cat eight times, but on the ninth time (August 17), she couldn’t regain her human form. This bit of folklore also gives us the saying, “A cat has nine lives.” Because August is a yowly time for cats, this may have prompted the speculation about witches on the prowl in the first place. Also, nights continue to get longer. Cats, crepuscular creatures, are nocturnal hunters. Their superior night vision means that the nights belong to them.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
She Disappeared from Our School Overnight and No One Talks About It
You think stories like that are made up. I wish I could tell you mine. Her name was Lila Harper. We weren’t best friends or anything. But she sat right next to me in English class, third period, by the window. She always wore matching socks, doodled in the margins of her notebook, and hummed softly when the teacher wasn’t looking.
By Echoes of Lifeabout a year ago in Fiction
Nvidia is Now Worth More Than… Well, Basically Everyone Else
In the world of finance and technology, there are rare moments that make jaws drop. Apple hitting a $1 trillion valuation in 2018 was one. Microsoft overtaking Apple in 2021 was another. But nothing — and I mean nothing — quite compares to what Nvidia has pulled off in 2025.
By lony banzaabout a year ago in Fiction
He Said the Stars Were Mine, So I Lit the Sky on Fire
By- AK STORY: He said the stars were mine. Every single one. He said it on the roof of his broken-down Chevy, hands laced behind his head, breath fogging into the cool August air like he was exhaling dreams. His voice was steady, almost too steady, like he’d practiced the line in the mirror a few times. I should’ve known then. “You see that cluster?” he pointed, “That’s Andromeda. Yours. And that one—Orion—he’ll guard you when I can’t.” He was full of poetry like that. Big words, small actions. Grand gestures, forgotten birthdays. But back then, I didn’t care. I was seventeen and willing to believe that stardust could be currency. That if someone gave you the sky, they wouldn’t take it back when the weather changed. For the first few months, it felt like magic. We made a list of all the places we’d go. Printed it. Laminated it. Stuck it in his glove compartment like a sacred relic. We’d drive nowhere with the windows down, screaming songs into the wind and kissing at red lights. He wrote my name on the fogged-up window once. It stayed there for days until it rained. I still remember how it looked—the way the letters blurred as the water ran down the glass. --- He changed slowly, like most people do. First, the texts got shorter. Then, the calls got quieter. And one day, his eyes stopped following me in a room. I asked if something was wrong. He said, “You’re too much.” I laughed like it was a joke. It wasn’t. “You talk about everything like it matters,” he added. “It’s exhausting.” Funny thing is, that used to be what he loved most. The way I lit up about galaxies, or the way I noticed patterns in the way people spoke or carried sadness in their shoes. But somewhere along the way, he stopped finding it charming and started finding it inconvenient. He didn’t say goodbye. He just… stopped showing up. --- Two months later, I saw him under those same stars. With someone else. Different laugh. Different lips. Same constellation promises. I stood across the parking lot, clutching a milkshake I’d bought myself after a solo drive to clear my head. My hands were shaking. Not from anger, not even from heartbreak—but from realization. He never gave me the stars. He just knew I wanted them. --- So I did what any heartbroken girl with a fire inside her would do. I took them back. Not literally, of course. I’m not a goddess—though I started acting like one after that night. I meant spiritually. Metaphorically. Emotionally. Cosmically. I lit the sky on fire. I started showing up to the places I used to avoid. Wore red lipstick even on Tuesdays. Took road trips alone, played my music louder, danced in diners with no shame. I unfollowed him, un-tagged myself from our memories, and unlearned every lie he wrapped in stardust. I wrote letters to the constellations. Not to him—never to him—but to the parts of myself I left behind in his orbit. And slowly, they started writing back. --- One night, I climbed the hill behind my house with a blanket and a notebook. The same one I’d once used to write love poems about him. I crossed them out. Page by page. Then I started a new list—not places I wanted to go with him, but places I wanted to go alone. Or with someone who saw all of me and stayed anyway. The sky was still there, waiting. Orion still stood tall. Andromeda still shimmered. The stars didn’t belong to him. They never had. They belonged to anyone brave enough to look up and claim them. --- Here’s what they don’t tell you about heartbreak: It doesn’t kill you. It makes you louder. Bolder. Hungrier. It teaches you to set your own fires instead of waiting for someone else to hand you a match. I started painting again. Not pretty watercolors like before, but chaotic, cosmic canvases. Deep blacks and violent blues. Gold-leaf galaxies. Suns colliding. My bedroom turned into a universe, and every wall held a piece of me. When people asked what inspired it, I just smiled and said, “A boy once gave me the stars. I gave myself the galaxy.” --- Now, when I lie under the sky, I don’t think of him. I think of how I mistook crumbs for constellations. How I confused poetry for presence. And how beautiful it felt the moment I stopped asking for space and started taking it. So if you ever find yourself on the receiving end of a promise wrapped in stars, take a second. Ask yourself: Is it a gift—or a leash? Because the right person won’t give you the sky as a distraction. They’ll sit beside you while you build your own. And when you’re done, they’ll point to the brightest one and say, “That one’s yours—and no one can ever take it away.”
By anas khan about a year ago in Fiction
Thirteen Locks, One Lie: A Chilling Mystery Behind the Doors of Black Hollow Manor
By- AK STORY: Part 1: The Letter That Changed Everything Eleanor Gray never liked surprises—especially not from dead relatives. So when a letter arrived claiming she’d inherited an entire Victorian mansion from her estranged uncle Victor, she didn’t know whether to be excited or concerned. The envelope was sealed with wax. Inside, in her uncle’s tight handwriting, it read: > “To my only living relative, I leave my home and all its contents. You may live there, sell it, or burn it. But beware: there are thirteen locked doors on the second floor. Twelve tell the truth. One is a lie. If you find it—do not believe what it shows you.” Most people would toss the letter, but Eleanor had just lost her job and was three months behind on rent. So she packed a bag and drove six hours to Black Hollow, a forgotten town that didn’t even show up on modern maps. When she arrived at the manor, the wind howled as if the house itself was exhaling. The towering black shutters, ivy-wrapped walls, and broken gate gave it the look of a place long abandoned. Yet the door opened easily. Inside, the air was cold and stale, as if time had stopped the day Victor died. --- Part 2: The Thirteen Doors On her second day exploring, Eleanor found them: thirteen identical doors, each one locked, each with a strange symbol carved into it—a crow, an hourglass, a knife, a moon, and others she didn’t recognize. In the study downstairs, she discovered a small wooden box with thirteen skeleton keys, each labeled with a matching symbol. A yellowed note lay beneath them: > “Each door hides a truth about our family. Only one holds the lie that ruined us all. You’ll know it when you see it—but by then, it may be too late.” She should’ve turned around right then. But curiosity is louder than fear. Eleanor made a decision: she would open one door a day. --- Part 3: Unlocking the Past Day 1 – The Crow Door Behind the first door was a small room, walls covered in photographs. Each picture showed her uncle standing with a group of people wearing black robes. The same phrase was written on the back of every photo: > “The Watchers are always near.” Day 2 – The Hourglass Door This room held only a table and a glass hourglass filled with dark red sand. As she watched, the sand flowed upward instead of down. Eleanor felt her chest tighten. The air in the room was colder. She left quickly. Day 3 – The Knife Door Inside: shelves of surgical tools, some rusted and stained. Open notebooks littered the floor. On one page: > “Subject #12: Memory erasure unsuccessful. Containment breached.” Every day, the truth became more horrifying. By Day 7, she stopped sleeping. She kept hearing footsteps outside her door at night, whispers in rooms she hadn’t entered yet. The manor was waking up—or maybe, something in it never slept. --- Part 4: The Lie By Day 12, only one door remained. The Moon Door. Eleanor hesitated. This one had a cold presence, like it was waiting. The moon key felt colder than the others. She inserted it. The door creaked open into a white room. No furniture. Just a full-length mirror on the far wall. She stepped inside. The door slammed behind her. The mirror flickered. Then a girl appeared in the reflection. Her face. Her eyes. But not her. “Hello, Eleanor,” the reflection said, smiling. “Or should I say... the new Eleanor.” She stared, heart pounding. “What are you?” “I’m who you were before the lie. Before Victor used the thirteenth door.” Eleanor stepped back. “This isn’t real.” “Isn’t it?” the reflection said. “Why do you think you don’t remember anything before age ten? Why do you dream of fire and screaming?” “I... don’t,” she whispered. But she did. The mirror glowed brighter. The reflection pressed its hand to the glass. > “Let me out—and remember who you really are.” The walls began to shake. Cracks spread like veins in the mirror. Eleanor screamed and ran for the door. It wouldn't budge. Then everything went dark. --- Part 5: Missing When the police arrived days later—alerted by a friend who hadn’t heard from Eleanor—they found the house abandoned. There were no signs of struggle. Nothing was stolen. But on the second floor, they found thirteen doors. All unlocked. Every room was empty—except the one behind the moon door. There, a mirror stood with a message scrawled in red: > “There were never thirteen truths. Only one lie. And she believed it.” Eleanor Gray was never found. But some nights, local teens dare each other to approach Black Hollow Manor. They swear if you look in the mirror, you’ll see her standing behind you. Smiling.
By anas khan about a year ago in Fiction
The King of Conflict
I warned him against it. I urged him with every energy I could muster to take a different path. I left the country so the ritual could not be completed properly.
By Meredith Harmonabout a year ago in Fiction
By Their True Names. Top Story - July 2025.
The artifact hums and warms in my presence. I step close, eager but hesitant, and feel an electric charge in the air. It’s intoxicating - staring at this artifact - a quartz pyramid covered in runes I have never seen before.
By Cypher Robinsonabout a year ago in Fiction
Echoes of a Life Not Lived
When Olivia Harper opened her eyes, everything felt wrong. The ceiling was not hers. It was smooth and white instead of the familiar cracked plaster of her tiny apartment. The morning light that spilled in was too soft, filtered through elegant linen curtains—not the threadbare shades she remembered. And the bed… was enormous. King-sized. Crisp linen sheets. Too clean.
By Shakespeare Jrabout a year ago in Fiction
My Robot Boyfriend is Broken
In the year 2090, love had a price tag. Loneliness was an epidemic, and society finally gave in. Robots—designed for companionship—became legal partners for humans. You could custom-order a “partner” to fit your personality, your fears, even your pain. No cheating. No lying. Just someone made to love you exactly how you wanted.
By Shakespeare Jrabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers of the Tide: A Story Told in Shells
At first glance, the image is simple—serene, even. A ceramic bowl, resting gently on the damp sand, cradles an exquisite collection of seashells. They sit nestled together like quiet thoughts, each one shaped by time and tide. Beyond this peaceful arrangement, the shoreline stretches toward a glowing horizon, golden with the touch of evening light. A lighthouse stands distant and steady, a silent witness to the sea’s ever-shifting moods.
By Fazal Malikabout a year ago in Fiction