Fantasy

Talea Lightheart - The Healing Step
Talea Lightheart - The Healing Step The halls of Losend’s Haven, the largest hospital in the city, never knew silence. The murmurs of the sick, the hurried steps of healers, the weary sighs of caretakers. It was a place where suffering clung to the air like mist.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
The Lantern’s Echo
1. Whisper in Emberglade Maris closed her eyes and inhaled the forest’s hush. Emberglade trembled with soft lantern light—tiny, floating orbs glowing in pink, gold, and sapphire, drifting like memories made visible. Each one carried a life’s echo—a lullaby sung, a promise whispered, a first spark of joy. She could feel them weave through her bones.
By Hikmatabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lantern in the Lake
They said the lake was cursed, but Eron never believed them. He believed in silence. In fog. In the way water could reflect the world and still keep secrets beneath its surface.
By Hikmatabout a year ago in Fiction
The Ember Orchard
Kael had always believed the orchard was a myth. Old travelers spoke of it with smoke in their voices, as if the words burned on their tongues. An orchard of living flame, hidden somewhere past the Hollow Cliffs, where trees grew fire instead of fruit and where the sky never truly slept. The elders in Kael’s village dismissed the tales as nonsense—"traveler’s tales," they’d say, “dangerous imaginings for a boy who already dreams too much.”
By Hikmatabout a year ago in Fiction
Niva's Task
Niva is a snow leopard who lives in the Himalayan Mountains, over 18,000 feet up in the air where very few ever dare to venture. She has made her home in the crags of two overhanging rocks where her two little cubs wait for her patiently. However, patience doesn't last long for the young and soon their are crying for something to eat. Niva rushes from her perch to soothe them before she decides to make the trek out to her favorite hunting grounds. Traveling in this cold mountain habitat is very precarious journey, but Niva has cubs to feed and can't back down no matter the cost.
By Toby Hewardabout a year ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Spoke in Colors
In a quiet village tucked between rolling hills and whispering woods, there lived a girl named Elara. From the moment she could speak, everyone knew she was different. Elara didn’t speak like other children. Her words came out in colors—soft, glowing wisps of light that drifted from her mouth and painted the air. When she said “hello,” a warm yellow shimmered like sunlight. When she was sad, her words dripped in cool blue trails, like rain falling in slow motion. And when she laughed? The air exploded with swirls of pink, gold, and green—like a festival of joy. At first, people were amazed. Her parents thought it was a blessing. Travelers came to see the girl who spoke in rainbows. But as she grew older, admiration turned into discomfort. “It’s not normal,” said the baker. “What if it’s a curse?” whispered the schoolteacher. “She’ll never fit in,” muttered the mayor. At school, the other children stared. They teased her. “Speak again, Color Girl,” they'd laugh. “Let’s see if your sadness matches your face!” Elara stopped talking. For days. Then weeks. She learned to nod, to write, to gesture—anything to avoid opening her mouth. Her world grew quieter. And duller. --- 🌈 A Voice That Couldn’t Stay Silent But magic doesn’t like being locked away. One day, while walking home through the forest, Elara came across a small bird with a broken wing. It chirped helplessly. She looked around—no one was there. So she did something she hadn’t done in months. She spoke. “It’s okay. I’ll help you.” The words came out in soft lilac and pale green. The bird blinked, calmed, and nestled into her hands. That moment changed something in her. Her voice—her colors—had soothed, comforted. Not confused. Not frightened. She began talking again, slowly, but only when she was alone or in the woods. She spoke to trees, to stars, to the wind. She didn’t know it yet, but the forest was listening. --- 🏛️ The Mayor’s Great Lie Back in the village, trouble was brewing. The mayor had announced that a wealthy mining company was going to build a factory at the edge of the woods. “It will bring jobs!” he promised. “It’s safe! Good for everyone!” But something didn’t sit right with Elara. She heard her parents whispering at night about the forest being cut down. The river might get poisoned. The animals might leave. But no one dared challenge the mayor. That was, until the town meeting. --- 🎤 The Day the Colors Returned The town square was packed. The mayor stood tall, smiling, holding papers and pointing at maps. His words flowed smoothly, convincing and confident. But Elara saw something no one else could: Each time he lied, his words came out in a dark, oily gray. Each sentence twisted the air around it. A lie. Another. And another. She stepped forward. A few villagers gasped. “That’s the Color Girl!” “She doesn’t speak anymore.” But she did now. Elara walked to the front, faced the mayor, and spoke clearly: “You’re lying.” Her words burst into a flash of crimson red and white—a signal of warning and truth. The mayor stammered. “Nonsense! She’s just a girl. She—” Elara interrupted him again, her voice glowing bright gold. “You said the river won’t be harmed, but I saw the documents. There are waste plans, not safety plans.” Now her colors painted the air like fireworks—truths the crowd could see. The villagers turned to the mayor. “Is that true?” “What else are you hiding?” The mayor tried to argue, but all his words came out in that same dark smog. The crowd saw it. Felt it. Truth had a color. So did lies. --- 💫 Embracing the Gift After that day, the factory was canceled. The mayor resigned. A new council was formed—one that listened to the people, and to Elara. No one called her “Color Girl” anymore. They called her “Truthspeaker.” Children stopped mocking her and started asking her what different colors meant. Artists began painting based on her words. A poet even wrote a book inspired by the way her voice turned sorrow into violet light. Elara didn’t need to hide anymore. She understood now that her uniqueness was never a curse—it was a gift. --- 💬 Moral of the Story In a world that asks you to fit in, the bravest thing you can do is stand out. Elara’s voice was different. Strange. Even scary. But it was real, and it was powerful. Sometimes the thing that makes you feel apart from the world… …is the very thing that can help change it.
By Abdul Musawer about a year ago in Fiction
Seraphine Dewstride - The Dawnbringer
Seraphine Dewstride - The Dawnbringer Halle had always been a place of revelry and peace. The halfling town nestled against the river’s bend, its thatched roof burrows and cobblestone paths warmed by the golden glow of lanternlight. Families laughed over their hearths, and the scent of fresh-baked food carried through the valley on the evening breeze.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
My Grandfather’s Watch Stopped the War
The watch hadn’t ticked properly in years. It lay nestled inside a velvet box, buried under yellowed letters and a faded photograph of my grandfather in uniform — tall, somber, and unmistakably holding the very same timepiece. I found it while clearing out my father’s attic the summer after he died. The house had been silent too long, and I think, in some way, the silence made the watch speak again. It was nothing remarkable to look at — brass, aged, the glass slightly fogged. The engraving on the back had long since faded, save for a few scratches shaped like initials, or maybe a date. Still, when I held it in my palm, I felt something sharp — not physical, but a prick at the edge of memory. That night, I wound the crown just once. It began ticking. And the moment it did, everything in the room changed. I blinked. The attic was gone. In its place was a field — muddy, loud, alive with the clamor of boots and shouted commands. I was standing in what looked like a trench, surrounded by men in dusty green. No one seemed to notice I’d appeared. The sky was a bruise-colored dusk, the air laced with the scent of cordite and cold metal. A voice shouted: > “Courier’s late. Orders should’ve arrived by now!” Another man leaned against the trench wall, lighting a cigarette with trembling fingers. > “If they delay one more time, we’re going over before sunrise. We won’t survive that.” I looked down. The watch was still in my hand, ticking louder than before. Its face had changed — just slightly. The hands weren’t pointing to any hour, but to a symbol — a small triangle etched in silver, glowing faintly beneath the glass. Without thinking, I pressed the center of the face. Everything froze. Time, literally, stopped. The cigarette ember hung in mid-air. A fly hovering above a soldier’s helmet stopped flapping its wings. Even the clouds above seemed to still. Then came a voice. Not spoken aloud, but inside my skull. Familiar. Worn. > “You have to deliver it.” I turned. No one. Just silence and the strange sensation that my grandfather had spoken. “Deliver what?” I whispered. The triangle on the watch blinked once. Then the world resumed. Before I could question anything further, a figure dashed into the trench — a boy barely old enough to shave, carrying a satchel. “Message from command!” he gasped, handing over a sealed envelope. The commanding officer tore it open and swore. > “Too late. They’ve already begun the march.” Panic rippled through the trench. Men began grabbing rifles, fastening helmets. I looked down at the watch again. And I understood. --- The rest of the story came to me in fragments over days. Each time I wound the watch, I was taken back to a different moment — not in my life, but in his. My grandfather’s war. A war I had only heard about in black-and-white terms, in books and footnotes. But now it breathed, it bled, it roared. Each time, the watch pulsed with one singular instruction: Change it. And somehow, I could. A note slipped under a captain’s tent flap. A tripwire disarmed before dawn. A false order re-routed to the enemy’s flank. Small things. Subtle changes. The kind you’d never notice in a history book. But someone noticed. An intelligence officer in a trench coat. She cornered me in a field hospital tent, her eyes hard and voice colder than the steel in her sidearm. > “You’re not part of this battalion. Or any battalion.” “I’m… helping,” I said, lamely. She looked at the watch in my hand. “Where did you get that?” I swallowed. “It was my grandfather’s.” She stared at me for a long time. Then nodded. > “So you’re the one.” She told me the story then — of the Watchmakers. A secret unit hidden in plain sight across generations, tasked not with fighting wars but redirecting them. Slipping time slightly sideways. Undoing atrocities before they began. > “We don’t win wars,” she said. “We end them early.” She said the watch had appeared during every major conflict. In the pocket of a silent farmer who convinced soldiers to lay down arms. On the wrist of a diplomat who gave the right speech at the wrong time. Hidden in the lining of a nurse’s coat who chose mercy over revenge. > “Your grandfather,” she said, “used it well.” --- When I finally returned to the attic — or rather, when the watch allowed me to return — hours had passed. Or maybe years. It’s hard to measure time when you’ve bent it so many ways. The watch no longer ticked. But I no longer needed it to. Because the final letter I found, tucked behind the photo, wasn’t addressed to my father. It was to me. > “If the world changes, it’s not because of guns or bombs,” my grandfather had written. “It’s because someone made a different choice at the right moment. If you’re holding this watch, you’re one of those people. Use it well. Don’t try to be a hero. Just make sure there’s something left to come home to.”
By Asim Aliabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lion and the Mouse
Start Once upon a time, in a vast and vibrant jungle filled with towering trees and winding rivers, lived a mighty lion named Raja. Raja was the undisputed king of the jungle—his golden mane glowed like the morning sun, and his roar could be heard echoing across the valley. All the animals, big and small, admired and feared him for his strength and power. Yet, despite his grandeur and might, Raja often felt a lonely silence surround him, for few dared to come near the great lion.
By Asgharabout a year ago in Fiction
The Man Who Sold Regrets
The Man Who Sold Regrets by (Mukhlis safi) In a cramped corner of the old bazaar, nestled between a spice seller and a cobbler who never smiled, was a stall so plain most walked past without noticing it. Its banner, dusty and frayed, read only:
By NASRULLAH MUKHLISabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Phone Call
The Last Phone Call Some calls aren't meant to be answered. By Darwesh The phone rang at 1:47 a.m. I hadn’t heard it ring in weeks — not since I moved to the cottage in the hills, far from the city, far from the memories. The landline came with the place. I never gave the number to anyone.
By Shafi Ullah Darweshabout a year ago in Fiction
🌕 Mailbox to the Moon
It all started with a blue mailbox that wasn’t supposed to be there. It stood crookedly at the end of the cul-de-sac, right where the neighborhood path curved into the woods. No street number, no postal mark, no name—just a faded moon sticker peeling from the side like a forgotten dream.
By Pir Ashfaq Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction