Fantasy
I am Bexley: Love in the night chapter 22
The night has always had a sacred quality to me yet it has a strange sense of inbalance in how we perceive it. A shadow of a tree can appear like a sleeking boogie man. A creak of a bough is a creature crying out in the darkness. A raccoon hiding under a rotting wood looks like a feral monster ready to pounce.
By Melissa Ingoldsbyabout a year ago in Fiction
A Thousand Splendid Suns
There are stories that live inside books, and then there are stories that live inside people. This is one of the latter. I met her in a moment of absolute chaos. The kind of moment where life breaks apart in slow motion—where the world becomes unrecognizable and grief wraps itself around your ribs like wire. We were strangers then. Just two women standing in the rubble of what used to be our homes.
By Muhammad Saleemabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Light
The Last Light – A Story of “Luminous” There was once a village wrapped in quiet hills and thick, whispering woods. It was a place time had mostly forgotten. The world beyond it rushed ahead with noise and invention, but the people of Velden lived slowly, holding onto rhythms older than clocks.
By Terence Lisherabout a year ago in Fiction
Bread across barbed wire
The Weight of Sweat The summer sun scorched the rooftops as Kurt dragged himself home from school, sweating lines down his dust-covered face. upon arriving home, his mother woke up, who was taking a siesta rest break. She woke up and fried yesterday’s cooked beans by adding some tomatoes and served him the meal. After making his lunch, his mother told him to check upon his father, who did not come to the lunch, which was unusual.
By Ihtisham ul haqabout a year ago in Fiction
The 2099 Reset: How NASA's Secret Files Changed Everything. AI-Generated.
Legal Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, organizations, or events is purely coincidental. The author does not claim the truthfulness of any statements within.
By Myths Of Bouhiaabout a year ago in Fiction
Fantasy:
The storry fantasy By Zakria shah In the realm of Eldoria, where ancient forests whispered secrets to the wind and towering mountains guarded hidden valleys, a young hero named Kaelin lived. Kaelin, barely a man, possessed a spirit as bright as the morning sun and a heart that beat with the rhythm of courage. His kingdom, once a beacon of prosperity, was now shadowed by the malevolent gaze of Malkor, an evil sorcerer whose dark magic threatened to consume all that was good.
By Zakriashahabout a year ago in Fiction
"Whispers Of Magic". AI-Generated.
Days passed, but Kael couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching him — something old and hungry. The Hope Flame inside him flickered whenever doubt crept in, and with it came visions: flashes of a forgotten past, a family lost to shadows, and a power sealed away long ago.
By EchoesOnPaperabout a year ago in Fiction
"Whispers Of Magic". AI-Generated.
Kael’s heart hammered as the shadow behind him stirred into something more — a figure cloaked in darkness, eyes gleaming like cold stars. But before fear could root him to the spot, a soft voice echoed inside his mind. “Trust the light within.”
By EchoesOnPaperabout a year ago in Fiction
The House That Dreams of You
Elara waited at the entrance of Whisper Hollow, her breath catching in the salt-wind. The house loomed before her—three stories of weathered wood, vine-crested balconies, and boarded-up windows that looked like sleep-heavy eyes. They'd told her not to go. Locals claimed the house was strange, even cursed. But Elara did not believe in strange things. She believed in numb things. It had been quiet since the accident. She hadn't picked up a paintbrush in months. When the letter arrived—a legacy from a great-aunt she'd never known—it was as much an invitation from destiny. The front door creaked open with a soft sigh, as if the house had waited tens of years with its breath caught. Dust clung to the inside like pale, misty light. Wallpaper peeled off, like skin worn thin. Elara stepped inside slowly, feeling a pulse beneath the doorboards. With every room she entered, she felt something new—each room felt known, as if from her childhood daydreams. The staircase curved like the one from her grandmother's home. A stained-glass window bore the shape of a tulip she used to paint in sixth grade. She couldn't sleep. A lullaby floated down the hall, muffled and distant. She passed by it, bare feet on groaning boards, to a room that had not been there before. Shelves contained books—books that she remembered from her father's study, burned up in a fire years past. On the desk was a picture. Her picture. The one that she'd burned after the accident. Her fingers trembled as she touched it. The paint was fresh. The house was recalling her. Over the next couple of days, rooms changed. New ones appeared behind doors that hadn't existed last night—rooms that looked like her studio from years ago, her college dorm room, her boyhood bed room down to the scuffed corner where she'd hidden notes. The house was building itself out of her memories. Not everything was in the past, though. She woke one morning to a sunroom with an outlook of a flower garden she never saw, and on the table, a sketch—a older herself with graying hair, smiling. Another room opened to her a painting she wasn't yet going to paint—a portrait of a faceless child by the water. The house was not only remembering. It was dreaming. And then there were whispers. Not words exactly—more whispers of emotion: sadness in the walls of the kitchen, longing in the boards, a soft joy humming in the attic. At times it felt like the house was trying to speak. To advise her. She found a diary hidden in a fake panel in the guest room. Her great-aunt Marianne's. >The house stirred awake, as well. It recognizes your spirit. It holds what you entomb. But if you stay long enough, it recalls whose dream it's having. Elara's flesh crawled. She had a dream about her mother that night. Not in a portrait or picture—but in the hallway, alive, emanating moonlight. "Don't stay, Elara," the specter whispered. "The house won't let you go after it adores you." The next morning, the front door was gone. In its place stood a wall, painted with dozens of paintings: scenes from her future life: a laugh from her daughter, a wedding in winter, a hospital bed where her own wrinkled hand was being held by somebody crying. She sat on the floor. The house wasn't haunted. It was lonely. It dreamed of lives it would never be able to live, hearts it would never be able to own. And it had chosen Elara—because she was shattered, shards to mend her with. But Elara wasn't ready to be a memory yet. She went back again to the attic, which was now bathed in golden light. In the center was a canvas—white. Waiting. She picked up the brush. Her hand moved. Colors mixed. She painted a door. Red, old, with peeling paint and a brass doorknob. A door like the one she had first pushed aside to her entrance. When she finished, she opened her eyes and whispered, "Thank you." A soft breeze brushed the attic. The canvas glowed. And when Elara opened her eyes once more, the painted door stood before her—real. She stepped over it. Out, the sea was calm. The morn was fresh with gulls and sun. She didn't look back. --- End.
By Mind Between Linesabout a year ago in Fiction
