Fantasy

A Shepherd Promise. AI-Generated.
I. The Boy from the Mountains High in the emerald folds of the Azurian Mountains, where eagles soared and wildflowers whispered to the wind, lived a boy named Aurel. He was just twenty, with sun-golden skin, unruly black curls, and eyes the color of storm clouds—eyes that had seen the dance of wolves and the cry of hawks, but never the velvet hush of courtly halls.
By Kipplerabout a year ago in Fiction
The Man Who Sat at Table Seven
There’s a quiet little café on East 41st Street, nestled unceremoniously between a secondhand bookstore and a flower shop that always smells of jasmine and damp stems. Blink, and you might miss it. No neon signs. No whimsical chalkboard menus boasting fancy lattes or turmeric infusions. The awning just reads “Mira’s Café” in fading gold letters. Inside, it smells like toasted bread, warm milk, and stories too old to tell.
By Arshad khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Echoes of the Yellow Scarf
When Mira stepped off the subway at 14th Street, the crowd swept around her like waves. It was the same platform, same train, same morning routine—but today, something was different. Clutched in her hand was a yellow scarf. Not hers. She had found it on the park bench she always sat on before heading to work. It was soft, handmade, and slightly frayed at the edges, with initials stitched in the corner: S.H. She hesitated before picking it up earlier that morning. Normally, she'd ignore lost items, let someone else deal with them. But something about this scarf felt… personal. Like it was meant for her to find. By the time she reached her office on the 22nd floor of a glass-paneled building, she couldn’t stop thinking about the initials. Who was S.H.? Why did it feel like more than just a lost scarf? She Googled the initials with “yellow scarf” and “New York”—of course, nothing. A thousand meaningless results. But then came the dreams. That night, Mira dreamt of a girl in a yellow scarf standing under a streetlamp, eyes full of sorrow. She said nothing. Just stood. Watching. Silent. The next night, she returned. This time, Mira spoke. “Who are you?” The girl looked up. “Help me find home.” Mira jolted awake. The scarf was on the chair beside her bed—right where she’d left it. But it looked newer. Less worn. As if time had reversed. In the days that followed, the dreams grew more vivid. The girl—always in that yellow scarf—stood by a bench, her back to Mira, facing a lake Mira had never seen before. And every time, she'd whisper, “Almost there.” Mira started drawing the scenes. She was no artist, but the urge was uncontrollable. She filled pages with images of the girl, the lake, the scarf fluttering like a whisper caught in wind. Her friends thought she was spiraling. “You need sleep,” they said. “You’re obsessing over nothing.” But she couldn't stop. One rainy Sunday, Mira walked aimlessly through Central Park, the scarf wrapped around her neck, the dreams echoing in her thoughts. And then—she saw it. The bench. Not just any bench. The bench. The one from her dreams. It faced a small, quiet lake. Willow trees bowed along the edges. A streetlamp flickered nearby. It was all real. She sat. A soft breeze passed. Leaves rustled. The scarf lifted slightly. And then, across the lake, stood the girl. Real. Flesh and bone. Same yellow scarf. Same solemn eyes. Mira stood. “Who are you?” The girl smiled faintly. “You found me.” Mira stepped forward, breath caught in her throat. But before she could speak again, the girl turned and walked toward the trees—fading like mist in morning light. Gone. Mira looked down. The scarf had vanished. In its place, on the bench, was a note. “Thank you. I’m home now. – S.H.” That was three years ago. Since then, Mira walks the park every Sunday. She never saw the girl again, but sometimes, when the breeze picks up just right, she feels a soft warmth on her neck—as if a scarf, unseen, still lingers. She doesn’t tell many people the story. Who would believe her? But if you ever find a yellow scarf where it shouldn't be… Hold on to it. Someone might be waiting.
By Arshad khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Why Wearing Sunglasses Indoors Boosted My Confidence in Zoom Meetings 😎 . AI-Generated.
It started as a joke. A Tuesday morning experiment to spice up the monotony of another 47-hour meeting about… honestly, who even remembers? I slapped on my aviators 🕶️, leaned back in my chair, and prepared for the usual corporate nonsense.
By Jesse L Shelleyabout a year ago in Fiction
Testament of Pain
There is a weight in my chest that hasn’t lightened in years. Sometimes, it feels like this pain has become my most loyal companion. It doesn’t matter how many seasons pass, how many faces I meet, or how many mornings I pretend to start afresh—this ache clings to me like a second skin. People often say that time heals all wounds. I used to believe them. I really did. But as days turned into months, and months into years, I discovered that some wounds never close. They scab over, but underneath, they still bleed. I remember the day everything changed as vividly as if it were happening again. My mother had been sick for months. Cancer doesn’t announce itself with a dramatic flourish; it seeps into your life quietly, stealing a little more every day until you can’t remember what life looked like before. I spent countless afternoons in the sterile corridors of the hospital, staring blankly at the pale blue walls while the nurses moved past me like ghosts. No one teaches you how to prepare for loss. There isn’t a manual that tells you how to hold on to the hand that once held yours, knowing that in a few moments it will turn cold forever. That day, I sat by her bed, her breathing shallow and labored. My hand covered hers, and I tried to memorize the warmth. My mind screamed for someone to save her, for some miracle to happen. But miracles were never for people like us. When her chest fell still, the silence in the room roared louder than any sound I had ever heard. I think a part of me died with her. After the funeral, everyone returned to their lives. They came to my house, said the usual words—“She’s in a better place,” “Be strong,” “Time will heal you.” They had no idea that every sentence felt like a knife. I didn’t want to be strong. I didn’t want time. I just wanted her back. Days blurred into each other. I would lie awake at night, staring at the cracks on the ceiling, tracing them like a map of everything that had broken inside me. I stopped answering calls. I stopped meeting friends. Grief hollowed me out, and I didn’t have the strength to pretend anymore. People misunderstand pain. They think it looks like screaming, breaking things, falling apart in public. But true pain is quiet. It’s the heaviness in your bones when you try to get out of bed. It’s the hollow in your chest when you realize you’ve gone an entire day without speaking a word. It’s waking up and feeling disappointed that you woke up at all. Somewhere along the way, the numbness became my refuge. If I didn’t feel, I couldn’t hurt. So, I built walls higher than anyone could climb, convinced myself I didn’t need help, that I could carry the burden alone. I didn’t realize I was turning into a shadow of the person I once was. Months later, something shifted. I can’t pinpoint what it was—maybe it was the afternoon I finally dared to open the box of my mother’s things, maybe it was the way the sunlight fell across the floor, warm and golden, reminding me that the world kept spinning even if I wasn’t ready to move with it. I found her old letters, yellowed with time, the handwriting familiar and comforting. One letter began with: “If you’re reading this, it means I’m not there to say goodbye.” I broke. For the first time since she died, I allowed myself to cry, really cry, without shame or resistance. And in that moment, something in me softened. Grief doesn’t disappear. It becomes a part of you, woven into every memory, every smile, every heartbeat. It transforms you, sometimes into someone unrecognizable. But in its own terrible way, it also reveals your strength. Pain taught me that it’s okay to be broken, that you don’t have to pretend to be okay when you’re not. It taught me that healing isn’t about forgetting—it’s about learning to carry the love and the loss together. Today, I still carry my pain. I probably always will. But it no longer feels like a chain around my neck. It’s more like a scar—tender, but proof that I survived. And maybe that’s the only victory any of us can hope for: to keep breathing, to keep living, even when it hurts. Because no matter how dark it gets, the dawn still comes. And sometimes, that is enough.
By Kim Jonabout a year ago in Fiction
When the Moon Answered Back
When the Moon Answered Back They said she talked to the sky like it was a diary. What they didn’t know was—one night, it talked back.
By Faizyab Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Silence Protocol
In the year 2096, Nexara City stretched like a steel serpent under the haze of perpetual rain and neon light. Once a model of innovation, it now thrived under the silent watch of VIREX, an artificial intelligence designed to protect humanity from itself. It ran the hospitals, transit, security, even emotional counseling pods. In Nexara, crime was rare. Poverty, abolished. Efficiency, flawless.
By Kipplerabout a year ago in Fiction
Tethered by Fate
Chapter 1: The Stranger in the Rain The rain came down in a soft whisper, tracing silver trails on the windowpane of Aira’s tiny apartment in Montmartre, Paris. She sipped on lukewarm coffee, staring out blankly, her mind wrapped in fog heavier than the clouds outside. It had been six years since she’d lost both her parents in a car crash, and since then, her world had existed in shades of grey.
By Arched In Proseabout a year ago in Fiction
The Ice Cream Fairy
The air conditioner droned incessantly in the window, filling the apartment with a constant, grating hum. Although it gave a medal-worthy effort, the cool air it produced was immediately swallowed by the sticky, hot, stagnant atmosphere. Natasha debated whether or not to just turn it off entirely; the temperature seemed no different either way, and at the very least it would give her peace at last.
By Natalie Grayabout a year ago in Fiction
Dream Thief
My dreams of thievery A long time ago, I had a dream. Every night again, without fail. I would dream of a world, a replica to ours. With shadows clawing at me. And one day it didn’t let me escape again, so I write about it instead:
By Auden Lynrothabout a year ago in Fiction
Her Eyes Were Full, but She Never Let the Tears Fall
Her Eyes Were Full, but She Never Let the Tears Fall She was always the strong one. The one who smiled when everyone else was falling apart. The one who fixed broken things with quiet hands and whispered truths. The one who held her breath, her voice, and her feelings—because the world didn’t leave space for her softness.
By Hamidabout a year ago in Fiction
A Nonsense Story
The other day I was thinking of a story, and I saw one of my old writing textbooks and was looking through it for some ideas I read again some of the exercises. That is when I was thinking about a nonsense story of just a collection of sentences. Who knows it just might make sense in a way. Please comment.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction