Fantasy
Red Spindle, Burning Blue
The rebels moved like ghosts they were silent, pale shapes swallowed by the smoke-stained corridors of the Red Spindle. Their boots barely touched the scorched floor, gliding through flickering light and digital dust, remnants of a world that once pulsed with power. Faces masked, eyes sharp, they slipped between the skeletal remains of machines like whispers through a dying network. Fear kept them fluid. Training kept them quiet. But it was the hope, the fragile kind that clings to the edges of impossible missions that made them relentless. They had come for the myth at the core of the ruin. And every breath they took felt like it might be their last. Silent, fast, afraid. It was the year 2999 and they had survived. The Fold. The famine. The Kinetic Plague.
By Toni Du Plooyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Whisper of the Willow
There was a willow tree standing at the edge of a quiet village, older than the oldest grandmother’s memory. Its wide canopy spread like a protective embrace, branches sweeping low to the earth as if to comfort every living soul that wandered close. The villagers believed it had been planted long before their ancestors built the first cottages, before the first laughter had echoed through their narrow streets.
By Terence Lisherabout a year ago in Fiction
The Room Upstairs
The real estate agent called it “cozy,” which I’d learned meant small, old, and likely full of ghosts — though she never used the word. She said it was ideal for a single writer, which was generous considering it had no working outlets in the kitchen, and the upstairs bathroom faucet ran backwards.
By Yasir Nawazabout a year ago in Fiction
Love at First Sight
Amaan was never the kind of boy who believed in love stories. He always thought they were exaggerated tales people told to make life sound more colorful than it really was. But on the first day of college, that belief shattered like fragile glass.
By Aman Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
when the town stopped dreaming
There was a time when the people of Windmere dreamed in color. They dreamed of dragons soaring over the hills, of bridges made of stardust and oceans that whispered secrets. The butcher once confessed he'd dreamed of baking cinnamon rolls in the shape of galaxies. The schoolteacher wrote poems based on visions she saw while asleep—poems that made even the mayor cry. Children giggled in their sleep, mumbling about magical creatures and kingdoms hidden beneath their beds. But one day, the dreams stopped. No one noticed it at first. One person waking without a dream is hardly newsworthy. But then, another. And another. And within a week, the entire town of Windmere woke up to silence—not just in the world, but in their minds. No more surreal landscapes. No more flying. No more unexpected reunions with long-gone loved ones. The canvas of sleep had gone blank. At first, people shrugged it off. "Maybe it’s the weather," someone said. "Probably just stress," another offered. The town physician checked for pollutants, sleeping disorders, even mass psychosis. But everything came back normal. Perfectly, frustratingly normal. The town's color began to fade—not literally, but in spirit. Conversations dulled. Laughter lost its luster. The bakery stopped experimenting with whimsical recipes and returned to plain white bread. The library, once filled with eager readers chasing fantasies, stood dusty and quiet. Even the birds seemed to sing less. Children stopped drawing. And that was when people really began to worry. --- Ten-year-old Elsie Maddox was the first to ask the question everyone had been avoiding: “Where do dreams go when they disappear?” Her parents, like most grown-ups, gave her a soft smile and changed the subject. But Elsie was not like most children. She noticed things. She noticed the silence. She noticed her goldfish no longer danced in its bowl at night, the way it used to when she had adventure dreams. She noticed that her dog, Patches, whined in his sleep now, instead of chasing imaginary squirrels. And so Elsie, determined and brave in a way that only children can be, decided to find the answer herself. She packed a notebook, a flashlight, and two peanut butter sandwiches. After everyone had gone to bed, she tiptoed out into the foggy streets of Windmere. She visited the wishing well in the town square, where people once threw coins and asked for dreams to come true. She looked down into its depths and whispered, “Bring them back. Please.” Nothing. Then she visited old Mrs. Dellarose, who was known for reading tea leaves and once claimed she dreamed in languages no one had heard of. Mrs. Dellarose hadn’t spoken in days, her eyes distant. But when Elsie held her hand and whispered her question again—“Where did the dreams go?”—the old woman blinked and murmured, “They were stolen.” Stolen. The word echoed in Elsie’s mind. --- She spent the next week asking everyone if they remembered their last dream. Most didn’t. A few remembered fleeting flashes: a tree made of mirrors, a song they couldn’t hum, a face they almost recognized. Each time, Elsie drew what they described in her notebook. Patterns emerged. The same tree. The same melody. The same face. She followed those clues to the edge of Windmere, to a long-forgotten shack covered in ivy and moss. Inside, she found journals stacked high—every one full of dream fragments. Thousands of them. Torn from sleep, stolen, collected. And sitting in the center, hunched over a book, was a figure wrapped in shadows. “I didn’t mean to take them all,” it whispered. “But I was lonely. And dreams… dreams are company.” Elsie stepped forward. “But they’re not yours to keep.” “I know,” the figure said, its voice trembling. “But I couldn’t help it. The world forgot me. I thought if I held their dreams, I’d be remembered.” Elsie sat beside it. “Maybe we can remember you another way.” She took the figure’s hand. “Come back to the town. Tell us your story. Let us dream with you.” The figure, once feared and forgotten, nodded. --- That night, Windmere dreamed again. First it was a baby who smiled in her sleep. Then a teenager who woke up sketching impossible machines. The librarian dreamed of a flying whale that lived in a cloud library. The mayor dreamed of dancing on a rooftop with his childhood dog. And Elsie? Elsie dreamed of a girl with a notebook, walking hand-in-hand with a shadow that no longer felt alone. The color returned. The laughter bloomed again. And Windmere learned that dreams aren’t just about sleep—they’re about connection, about remembering even the forgotten, about hope lighting up the dark corners of our minds. Because when a town stops dreaming, it starts to fade. But when it dreams again—oh, how brightly it shines.
By Mati Henry about a year ago in Fiction
When Lily Met Elora. Content Warning.
A glimmer of light streams through my curtains as my alarm starts ringing. I grab my phone and quickly turn it off, exhaustion riddling my bones. That mirror kept me up all night. The knowledge that it shows the truth... the truth of who you were. I’m not ready to know, but it calls to me. That’s why I put a cloth over it years ago. The last time I gazed into it was when I was still carefree. Now I see no reason to remember a time of joy. I lazily pull myself out of bed and toward the bathroom—another mirror, but this one is covered in paint hastily put on. I haven’t had a usable mirror in years, but that doesn’t bother me as much as knowing the person who would be staring back at me is a failure. That’s all that reflected back for years. I shake my head, removing the thoughts from my mind.
By Elora ThornWoodabout a year ago in Fiction
She's Bananas
CLICK TO BEGIN RESTART Bob hovered his finger over the restart button. Once he hit that button he knew there would be no turning back. He would officially be… offline… all night long. He knew that the restart would take 8 hours and he was going to sleep through most of that anyway. His friends teased him about having a phone addiction, but he knew he could always put it away.
By Amos Gladeabout a year ago in Fiction
