Fantasy

ATale of Friendship, Jealousy, and Justice--
‎Once upon a time, in a forest, lived a mynah and a sparrow. They were very good friends. They played and worked together. One day, the sparrow flew far away. When she felt thirsty, she drank cold water from a spring flowing from a mountain. A few drops from the mountain fell on her beak. She felt her beak getting heavy. She shook her head here and there, but the weight on her beak wouldn't lessen. She asked the mountain, "Oh Mountain, why is there so much weight on my beak?" The mountain replied, "Little sparrow, I cry once a year. My tears are made of gold. When you drank the water, by chance, a few drops of my tears fell on your beak, and a golden shell formed over it." The sparrow returned home.
By Muhammad Saeedabout a year ago in Fiction
Glass realms, Iron lies
"The truth is what breaks us. The lie is what keeps us whole." The Glass Realms were once said to be unbreakable. Seven floating kingdoms, each sculpted from starlit quartz and singing crystal, hovered above a shattered world. They gleamed in the sunlight, refracting myths and mercy down upon the scarred lands below. But beauty, as always, is a story someone wants you to believe. Lira was born on the edge of Shardmere, the lowest of the Realms. She knew two things by the age of ten: The sky above her was a lie. Her mother was never coming back. Her mother, Serel, had once been a Singer of Iron—one of the few permitted to descend to the surface to repair the fractured seals that held the lower world in place. But Serel had vanished. And when Lira asked the High Voices what had happened, they gave her silence. So Lira grew up with questions and anger braided into her hair. The Realms ran on magic, but not the kind you could see. Iron lied. That was its power. It could hold stories in place like steel bars, warp truth into obedience, and smooth over memory until even grief forgot what it was mourning. But glass—glass remembered. It shimmered with what was real. That was why only the High Voices could speak through it. And why Lira—born of forbidden blood—was never allowed near it. Until the day the towers cracked. Lira was seventeen when the sky above Shardmere fractured like a broken mirror. The shimmer-paths went dark. The floating citadels drifted, off-balance. And the High Voices began to panic. They summoned the oldest Singers. They whispered of rebellion. They reinforced the Iron Thrones. And that was when Lira did the unthinkable. She entered the Glass Library—a place no one from her caste was allowed. She expected to be stopped. Killed, even. But no one came. Only silence and memory. Inside, the walls weren’t shelves but living panes—each one capturing a piece of truth the Iron had buried. And in the center of it all, in a prism that pulsed like a heartbeat, was her mother. Not dead. Not lost. Imprisoned. The truth split her in half. Serel had discovered that the Realms floated not by magic, but by stealing weight from the world below—draining its life, its color, its future. She had tried to free the surface from that burden. And for that, they shattered her name into silence and locked her inside living glass. Lira touched the pane. It burned her fingers. But her mother’s voice came through like wind in a storm: “Child. Don’t weep. I made my choice.” “Why?” Lira sobbed. “Because the lie was too heavy to carry.” The Glass Realms began to fall that night. Each crack in the sky was a crack in the story. People began to remember. To question. To see. The Iron Voices fought back with silence and illusion—but the truth had already begun to sing. Lira fled with her mother’s memory imprinted on her skin—glass-shards glowing beneath her veins. She could hear songs now, in the wind, in stone. They told her of hidden truths buried beneath mountains and rivers. Of those who remembered before forgetting was enforced. She was not alone. She traveled to the surface—what was left of it. It wasn’t lifeless. It was waiting. Roots curled like sleeping serpents beneath ash-covered soil. Cracked statues whispered forgotten names. A tree grew upside down from a cliff and dropped silver leaves into the clouds. Everything had been lied into silence. And Lira began to sing it awake. But every song took a price. To sing the truth was to bleed. To burn. To remember everything the Iron made the world forget—including your own grief. She lost her voice. She lost her sight. And still she sang. On the last day, Lira stood atop the ruins of Shardmere, now shattered glass scattered in the wind like stars. She held the final shard of her mother’s prison. She pressed it to her heart. And she whispered: “Break me, if it means the world wakes up.” And it did. Years passed. The Glass Realms were no more. But in the new villages rising from ash and wildflower, children told stories of a girl with glass veins and a voice like morning. They said she died beneath a weeping sky, smiling. They said her mother’s voice was the wind now. They said her lie was that she had ever been just a girl at all. In the end, no statue was raised for her. But in every place where someone dares to ask, “What is the truth?”… A flower blooms through stone. Because even broken glass remembers the light. End.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
You left the door open . Content Warning.
You left the door open. That’s what the note said—scrawled in looping, childlike handwriting on the back of an old gas station receipt.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
I tried living like a book character for 7 days
It all started with a late-night scroll through TikTok and a video captioned: "Live like your favorite book character for a week. I dare you." I laughed, scrolled past, then scrolled back. The idea clung to me like a plot twist I didn’t see coming. I grabbed a notebook, flipped through my bookshelf, and whispered to myself, “Why not?” Books have always been my escape. But I wanted to see what would happen if I didn’t just read the escape—I lived it. Day 1: Elizabeth Bennet (Pride and Prejudice) I started with Lizzy, Jane Austen’s sharp-witted heroine. I put on my most classic dress, took a long morning walk, and avoided all forms of technology. No phone. No Spotify. No TV. Instead, I read poetry under a tree and sipped tea while journaling my thoughts like letters to an imaginary Mr. Darcy. The world moved slower, and I noticed things I never usually see—the shape of clouds, the rhythm of birdsong, the curious looks from strangers who saw me in a full-length dress in the park. I didn’t care. I felt graceful, grounded, and more articulate than ever. Day 2: Katniss Everdeen (The Hunger Games) This day was rough. I dressed in black, tied my hair in a braid, and trained like I was about to enter the arena. I went to an archery range for the first time in my life and actually hit the target. Once. I ate only what Katniss might have: berries, nuts, stale bread. No sugar, no comfort food. I even practiced being silent for long stretches, observing everything. It made me realize how much we talk just to fill silence—and how empowering it is to sit in it instead. Day 3: Jay Gatsby (The Great Gatsby) I dressed in vintage glam and hosted a solo cocktail night with jazz music echoing through my apartment. I imagined I was throwing a party for someone who might never show up. It sounds sad, but it wasn’t. It was romantic in a tragic kind of way. I wrote letters I never intended to send, expressing feelings I hadn’t dared say out loud. That night, I understood Gatsby more than ever: the longing, the loneliness, and the illusion that one more perfect moment could fix everything. Day 4: Matilda Wormwood (Matilda) This was a day of pure joy. I visited the local library, sat cross-legged on the floor, and devoured children’s books I hadn’t read in decades. I asked the librarian for her favorites and listened like I was five again. At home, I spent hours learning random facts, solving puzzles, and trying to move objects with my mind (I got a pencil to roll off the table, but it might’ve been the wind). Still, I felt magic—because learning is a kind of magic. Day 5: Sherlock Holmes (The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes) I people-watched like it was my full-time job. At a coffee shop, I guessed strangers’ jobs based on their shoes and posture. I eavesdropped (with dignity), made mental notes, and even solved the mystery of the missing office keys in my building (they were in the janitor’s closet). I felt smart, precise, and incredibly observant. But I also felt lonely. Sherlock was brilliant, but often misunderstood—and I finally saw why. Day 6: Luna Lovegood (Harry Potter series) This was my favorite day. I wore mismatched clothes, painted stars on my shoes, and talked to animals like they could talk back. I visited a botanical garden and named every plant something silly like "Glimmer Fern" or "Wobblyroot." I let go of logic and let wonder take over. People looked at me weirdly—but Luna would’ve smiled through it. And so did I. Day 7: Jo March (Little Women) On the final day, I stayed in. I wrote. I poured out everything I’d experienced into a notebook. Jo March taught me that writing isn’t just storytelling—it’s soul-saving. I lit candles, listened to instrumental music, and allowed myself to dream like Jo dreamed—big, bold, and boundless. --- What I Learned from Living Fiction Living like a book character didn’t just entertain me. It transformed me. I walked more slowly. I listened more closely. I treated everyday life as if it were a story worth telling—and you know what? It was. Fiction lets us borrow bravery, wisdom, and wildness. But sometimes, we forget that we can actually apply it. You don’t need a magic wand or a dragon or a tragic backstory to be interesting. You just need intention. So, next time you finish a book and wish you could jump inside it—maybe you can. Maybe, for a day or a week, you can live like the person who inspired you. Not to escape your life, but to enhance it. And maybe, just maybe, you'll come out of it a little more you than before.
By Jane Smith about a year ago in Fiction
The Inn Keeper
“Hey darlin’,” the words dripped off his tongue like honey on a hot summer day as he held the door for her. He wondered who this sweet stranger was.
By Samantha Elisabethabout a year ago in Fiction
A Friend
Have you ever met a true friend and then realized that the day you first met would be the last. That’s the way it was with me and Nightingale. I never found out his first name, but it didn’t matter. All of his friends only called him Nightingale. Let me tell you how we met.
By David E. Perryabout a year ago in Fiction
She was shaped by absence - but defined by her fight.
Marisa always left the chair by the window untouched. It was the only thing in her apartment that remained precisely where it had been thirteen years ago. Dust skimmed the arms, and the cushion had flattened, but she wouldn’t sit in it. Couldn’t.
By Olena about a year ago in Fiction
Her Eyes
It was a hot, dark day near the end of summer when she first saw her father’s sadness. A late season storm rattled the windows and the rain thrashed madly against the castle walls. Her father stood near the doorway of the room, his low voice rumbling like scattered thunder, cutting through the nasally tones of his newest ex-advisor.
By M. A. Mehan about a year ago in Fiction
Dreams
The memory of his embrace still lingers—I can almost feel the closeness of him. I even somehow feel a feeling of not wanting to let him go. I hold my breath, savoring the feeling before the moment breaks, and my alarm goes off, and again I wake up alone.
By Faith MaryEllen Caselmanabout a year ago in Fiction
You up there!
Let’s not deluge ourselves with further queries Yes, we were not really there! Lurking nowhere—yet all about, you were “good godly,” everywhere…O Gawd! And I, for one, at every moment, a blundering dunce, appearing frolicsome, and as though, yearning processions and like a motley fool, hogging airs! Towards that —wherever, whenever —somewhere out there, we were all there…And look! That in the distance .. is that a wreck ?! O with that haughty breadth, (not breathe 🧘‍♀️ ) coming off as dilly-dallying there ! Lo! Behold! Much before any secret silence loathes up in a wordless despair…As I see it …Yes, yes we dared ! But…No better nor worse, our destinies scarcely knew which way to turn…but we simply dared, as though —self deployed —like daredevils, ascending steps, fully prepared! Therein “GOM”became the familiar “NOM” ; a stillness, quite assuredly, registering senses and as an end in itself, we were fully compared …But, from where it c’d be viewed as —heartily there —we re-examined and tallied realizations —full on —as if, with our car 🚘 on rapid gears..Through and through , as another self , and also as a duplicate of every one out there —from this home to that house , in the bedroom, at the table and almost 😅 like hell under bones 🦴 we were there, and as though, the shadowed spirit of that heavenly trinity watched us as we truly shared … And to that, which seems endless, we now owe ourselves —that— free flowing wisdom which comes by as chaste, and passes us as well married in full flare ! Then again , of course, with the popular odium —coming face to face, until the fawn faced , materialistic priest calls it as —all good , fully repaired… We shall be here, there, everywhere ! Who can say we aren’t really there …And look 👀 Where is I so vacant, when me for you and you for me —pass—to be loved in this radiantly brilliant OPEN air….Evermore so, again —look! In our quest for that higher union we have always prayed 🙏 like all those desert 🏜️ 🌵 fathers who were hauntingly placed everywhere Yes , for better or worse …For all I know now, and forever I shall thusly declare—you and I are truly rare, beyond compare! Dear Reader, That ☝️ was a unconventional rhetoric as I thought out a versification on the topic : You were not really there . Okay ?! And now… here’s a narrative keeping in mind the same topic : Are we there yet?! >>>Mind it:The following is a dream sequence . A concoction of mind. Some may find it mind boggling ! Beware! It all happened in a dream! From that moment I knew I was to never look back. A lonely course, I was aware. As an inkling sown, I knew it was a given. Could it be a semblance of a nightmare, looming over ordinary grounds of that “dreamy,” despair?! Honestly, I knew not —coz I wasn’t totally there! With that said, here’s an analogy to consider subliminally which my conscious mind held a while, considering the hidden meaning in which the subject of my presence c’d be treated with varied degrees of both presence and absence in that dream . After all, who am I ….as I tread this philosophical juggle of life. Partying with prejudice I can’t call myself an enigma or … when “air” is best suited to the provincial flare of giving meaning to self via the lens of higher self : a spirit …is it?! But, who am I to bear this or that ?! While all that ☝️— those thoughts marinated through the fabric of my subliminal thoughts 💭 Something echoed back in a dream : therein lay an understanding to honor those outcomes to which we justify means and thereby associate with as in real, real meaning. That kind of heartlessness would never suit any other worldly affair. Perhaps that dream didn’t know about any reverse gear.In its most evocative —it was replete with repetitive patterns like pulling out, dipping in , with left and right turns ( stunts,) to rummage over diligent thoughts to get nowhere. From the opening, during which, he rose dreamily from nowhere , and yet it all felt like a no man’s land. He was much like a night watchman, all of a sudden, appearing at my front porch.He had little to do except for shooting imaginary arrows in the dark. Against that backdrop, I seemed to be lurking amidst the dungeon walls of a dilapidated church trying to escape somewhere. ( Freud , hold your reigns! You may be wrong with interpretations.) Next thing , I notice: The sudden rattling of the earth underneath and somebody simply walking up and pulling me out of the rubble. “There y’are, “ he said victoriously. “I knew you were in there somewhere.”Quite right, very well thank you for saving me, I said firmly, un repaired nor paired The whole spectacle was beyond the 7th dimensional plane and it had little to do with the real world happenings of this earthly existence. I was reciting the inventions of my own mind through that sleazy plot. It was a sort of a dreary dream. But with thoughts slung not particularly as nonsense, next moment— I found myself seated in a taxi cab, promising to take me away from that catastrophic sight. “Well we can get away fast now,” the cab driver said. “Yes, don’t hold up anymore. There’s no reason to delay anymore as the ground underneath is cracking. Hurry, please“ I said. “Sure, you won’t regret,” he said. As far as I could see, there was no reason why we wouldn’t set off.The cab 🚕 driver must have held the same thoughts. I thought to myself. After all, reflecting such feels , I was expecting him to be as frantic as me in his approach. But he waited there to witness the events unfolding without fleeing the situation. Instead, I found him lighting a cigarette and coolly enquiring —“where is the match? I seem to left it in the porch somewhere. “ “O ,c’mon, hurry, hurry . Is this the time to light up a cigarette,”I complained gravely. “I am no good without smokes,” the driver hailed. “We could get away now if you think we should but looks like I have to anyways get out again,” the cabby blurted in anguish. I heard the roar of the Armageddon. Within earshot, on hand to see was a crippled horse 🐴 and an axe flying towards me. I suppose the environs in the dreamscape were looming towards the end of times and here I was seated beside the cab driver who was delaying our exit from such a horrific scene.And then, guised as some irresistible combination of a haywire and hauntingly silly moment, the cab driver blankly gazed and resignedly said: “ Looks like I have forgotten the car keys. I have to get out again.”“You don’t seem to be doing anything other than getting in and out of this car, time and again. “ I blurted uneasily.Understandingly the cab driver rushed out and within moments appeared back in the front seat. This time in all thoughtfulness he had brought the keys almost out of thin air. He pushed the keys into the ignition switch and pressed the accelerator. The car wobbled and took to the road with a series of starts and stops. Then all of a sudden , like a jet engine propelled, yet moving nowhere, we moved in a zig-zag pattern with the speedometer indicating .05 miles per hour speed. Then again, a series of jerks added to that absurd mess. A snail 🐌 appeared out of nowhere as a no distance speed-mate. He flung a look at me and ran away at nautical pace. And then, in an —even more ridiculous moment, we moved off along unknown paths in the reverse gear. Just out that way, we had paced out one yard. “Do you think you are learning to drive the car for the first time,” I queried harshly.To that , the cabby replied with a harsh voice: “ I thought you don’t like to move fast. So I decided to take it easy.Have faith. You shall arrive soon.”he said “So you are saying there’s nothing wrong with your driving , “ I retorted back at him in a haste. “Well , you’ll be there soon. Look, there’s your house 🏡, behind that tree , “ said the taxi driver. “ Perfectly logical for someone to hire a taxi for a journey—“he further declared And in an odd overturn of events, the fumbling cabby dropped me at the front door of a home and passed away out of sight. We had already been through so much together. “Do I owe you anything,” I asked him generously “O! I was just returning a big favor—I owe you big time,” said the cab driver. What appeared as a play of form was actually happening as an act in a dream, and I realized, I was actually awakened by it in its fullest grace. A deeper impulse of soul has searched for truths and it was all over taking me out there —somewhere —in my thoughts and dreams, beyond compare. But , it seemed , I had finally arrived! The End ! © ✍️ Madhu Goteti, July 6th, 2025
By Madhu Goteti about a year ago in Fiction
Mr. Nightingale
I was only 3 years old when Mr. Nightingale came into my life. To me, he was a friend, everything but imaginary. He stood 7 feet tall, dark red skin, black shirt and pants, and a white trench coat that was always clean regardless of what we did together. He also had a black walking stick with a bird on top.
By David E. Perryabout a year ago in Fiction
In a Flash
It wasn't a serious accident. Someone had left their wagon on the train track and the engineer had put on the brakes that led to the quick stop. I banged my head though as I had flew threw the air.
By R. D.about a year ago in Fiction