Fantasy

Are You a God?
It felt like a big break through, at first. Realising who these people were, I mean. It's a funny thing, being surrounded by people you created. I'm not saying I'm a god or anything. But.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
I am Bexley book two: Talking Rocks chapter 21. Top Story - June 2025.
Author note: if you enjoy this please check out the first book of I am Bexley series, on Amazon, JMS Books and Barnes and Noble!
By Melissa Ingoldsbyabout a year ago in Fiction
Flirt
Introduction A Short Story Inspired By A Facebook Post From Goethepunk, which you can check out here: Flirt But who was flirting with whom?
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
The clockmakers gift shop . AI-Generated.
In a quiet village tucked between green hills and winding cobblestone streets, there lived an old clockmaker named Elias. His tiny workshop sat at the corner of Market Lane, filled with the gentle ticking of countless clocks and the soft scent of wood shavings and oil. Elias had crafted timepieces for nearly fifty years. Grandfather clocks with golden chimes, delicate pocket watches with engraved initials, even tiny cuckoo clocks that chirped joyfully at every hour. People came from far and wide not just for his skill, but for the strange magic in his work—clocks that seemed to tick a little smoother, keep time a little truer. But Elias had no family, no apprentice. Only his cat, Thistle, who curled beside the fireplace as he worked late into the night. The village children sometimes pressed their faces to his window, watching gears turn and springs dance beneath his careful fingers. One winter, when Elias sensed his hands trembling more than usual and his eyes tiring, he began work on one final piece. It was a clock unlike any other—small and round, carved from an old cherrywood box he had saved since youth. Inside, he placed a golden mechanism, the finest he had ever made. On the back, he etched a message: "Time is a gift—spend it with love." When the clock was finished, Elias wrapped it in soft velvet and placed it on his workbench. That night, he passed peacefully in his sleep. In the morning, the villagers found his workshop silent for the first time in memory. They mourned him quietly, laying flowers at the doorstep, leaving broken watches and notes of thanks. No one knows who took the small clock. Some say Thistle led a child into the workshop and nudged it toward her. Others say it vanished on its own. But stories spread of a little wooden clock that never needed winding, and wherever it went, time seemed gentler, lighter. And in every town it passed through, someone would look up and whisper: "Thank you, Elias."
By Emad Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
Dodge Tanner and the Heated Hand
In the blaze-washed heart of Cinderhold, where tempers burn hotter than the black-glass forges and grudges are carried like treasured heirlooms passed down from generation to generation, there are things you just don’t do: insult someone’s lineage, complain about the incessant heat, or, gods help you, cheat at their favored game of cards, Red Rock Flow.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
The Roar and the Tusk: A Tale of Pride and Power
When Strength Meets Strategy in the Heart of the Savannah In the vast, sunburned plains of the African savannah, where golden grass danced under an endless sky, two creatures stood above the rest—not just in size, but in legend. One was Leo, a fierce young lion whose roar echoed across the plains. The other was Tambo, a wise old elephant whose footsteps had shaped paths older than memory.
By Wasif islamabout a year ago in Fiction
To love and leave the world . Content Warning.
My name cannot be pronounced in any human tongue. But for the sake of this record, call me Elion. I came from a system light years beyond what your species has glimpsed through telescopes. My purpose was singular: Observe. Documenting everything the humans do. My directive was strict: Do not intervene. For months, I wandered Earth cloaked in the flesh of your kind. My shell—engineered to mirror human physiology—allowed me to blend seamlessly. Eyes the color of a clear sky, limbs strong yet slender, a pulse mimicking your own. A heartbeat . I was born in the belly of a capsule that fell silent in your Siberian snows. At first, Earth captivated me. Not just visually—it sang. The scent of rain on dry soil, the hush of snowfall on pine, the clamor of markets, the laughter of children, even the cacophony of languages swirled into a kind of chaos that felt divine. I wept the first time I saw a cherry blossom fall in Kyoto. I danced under the rains of Mumbai, drenched and breathless, surrounded by strangers who never questioned the joy. I ate meals whose names I couldn’t pronounce: tamales, pho, biryani, panta-ilish, poutine, bibimbap. Each a symphony of heritage and invention. And the weather. I fell deeply in love with weather. It was alive. Moody. Wild. Intimate. The fog that curled around my arms on Scottish mornings, the storms that roared over the Atlantic, the sunrises in the Andes that felt like epiphanies. I thought—perhaps foolishly—that humanity was a marvel. But then, the veil began to lift. A girl, no older than eight, locked in a cellar by a stranger. I watched her scream into silence. A man in Texas who grinned as he fired upon strangers in a mall. Children forced to hold weapons in lands parched by greed. Eyes wide with trauma older than their years. Wars waged over invisible lines, doctrines, minerals buried in soil. Entire cities turned to ash. There was a boy in Chicago. He smiled at me as I passed him on the street. A friendly encounter that happened with me anywhere I went. Hours later, his body was found in an alley—eyes open, body drenched in blood, wallet gone, dreams extinguished. I remember watching the news that night. The anchor smiled between reports of bombings and award shows. “The world,” I thought, “celebrates itself while devouring its own.” I asked myself a question I wasn’t prepared to face: How can a place of such wonder nurture such monstrosities? I decided to leave. Not in hate. In sorrow. I prepared my pod in a remote forest in Canada. But I never reached it. They came in silence—agents. Tranquilizers. Steel cuffs. I remember the click of the restraints more clearly than the bullet that pierced my shoulder when I tried to run. The blood I bled was silver. They called in more trucks after that. The facility was underground, sterile, full of hums and echoes. They stripped me. Probed me. Filmed me. The term "alien" became literal again. I became specimen. Not Elion. Not even “he.” Just it. They started with simple scans. Then heat tests. Then electric pulses. They burned patches of skin off to see how fast I healed. They forced tubes down my throat to extract fluids. They broke my bones to measure recovery. I heard one doctor murmur, “It’s fascinating. He’s crying. It knows pain.” One night, they dissected me conscious. I was strapped down, throat gagged, eyelids clamped open. Scalpel. Incision. I felt every layer split. They carved into my abdomen, searching for organs, even though I screamed into their machines with mental frequencies they couldn’t hear: STOP. I AM ALIVE. I AM SENTIENT. They never listened. They called it “learning.” I called it mutilation. For weeks—maybe months—I was drained. Vivisected. Reassembled. Stripped of dignity, of voice, of hope. Then came Mira. She was a junior assistant. Barely noticed. Her badge hung crookedly. Her eyes were kind. She started leaving small things near my chamber: a folded blanket. A thermos of water. A photograph of the sea. Then, one night, she opened the door. “You don’t deserve this,” she whispered, her hands shaking. “I read your notes. You loved us.” I didn’t trust her. But I followed. We slipped through tunnels while alarms echoed in my mind. She led me through an old maintenance hatch. I collapsed outside beneath a storm. The rain hit my skin and I screamed—not in pain, but in relief. It welcomed me home. Mira disappeared after that. I don’t know if she survived. Now, I hide in the mountains. I am weak. My body has begun to fail. But before I return to the stars—if I can—I must leave this behind. This is my journal. To the stars that sent me: Earth is both cradle and crucible. It is a place of poems and poisons. Humans are capable of creating beauty so profound it defies logic—and horror so complete it erases souls. I loved them. I still love them. But love does not blind one to truth. In your archives, this entry may read as a cautionary tale. But do not see Earth as merely dangerous. See it as raw. Unfinished. A species still birthing itself. To any who follow, I offer this: observe not only what they build—but what they destroy, and what they choose to rebuild again. Do not come expecting perfection. Come with open eyes—and armor. With grief, with hope, Elion Observer 627b — Earth Departure Pending
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Legend of the Chinese Zodiac. AI-Generated.
When chaos first separated and the Heavenly Stems and Earthly Branches were fixed, the Jade Emperor ordered a summons for all animals in the world. He intended to select twelve zodiac signs according to the twelve Earthly Branches: Zi, Chou, Yin, Mao, Chen, Si, Wu, Wei, Shen, You, Xu, and Hai.
By empire datangabout a year ago in Fiction
Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar: A Sacred, Surreal Quest for Belonging
What does it mean to live a life worth dying for? This haunting question echoes through every page of Kaveh Akbar’s debut novel, Martyr!—a work that defies easy categorization. At once a lyrical meditation on identity and a surreal odyssey through grief, addiction, and faith, Martyr! is a novel that dares to stare into the divine. It’s bold, wildly original, and brimming with emotional intelligence.
By Hamad Haiderabout a year ago in Fiction
New Sparks in the Dust
In the sun-scorched outback of Alice Springs, Australia, in the autumn of 2025, the red earth whispered tales of endurance and renewal. For 29-year-old Mira, a disillusioned archaeologist turned tour guide, the desert was both a refuge and a reminder of dreams left buried. Her story, etched in the dust of ancient lands and sparked by an unlikely friendship, unfolded under a sky vast enough to hold new possibilities. This is the tale of Mira’s rediscovery of herself, kindled by the fires of the past and the promise of a new future.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clock That Turned Back Time—But Only Once
The Clock That Turned Back Time—But Only Once The first time I noticed the clock, I was six. It sat on my grandmother’s mantel, a heavy brass piece with Roman numerals, carved ivy leaves, and a glass face clouded by age. It never moved. Not even a twitch.
By Hamidabout a year ago in Fiction
Selis Weaver - The Threadkeeper
The town of Haverford thrived in the quiet spaces between fortune and hardship. The wind carried the scents of fresh bread and tilled earth through the streets of Haverford, weaving between market stalls and bustling townsfolk. To most, the town was a simple place, hardworking, unremarkable, shaped by the ebb and flow of fortune. But one among them saw beyond the surface, beyond chance, beyond the unpredictable turns of life. Selis Weaver saw deeper. She did not believe in luck, nor chance, nor randomness. She believed in the weave, the intricate pattern of fate that bound every soul together. And she was its keeper.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction