Fantasy

Crown of the Hollow Queen
Crown of the Hollow Queen To claim the throne, she must lose everything—even her soul. The moment her fingers touched the crown, the world shattered.
By Samar Omarabout a year ago in Fiction
Eridani Prime Chronicles. Content Warning.
PART 1: "Shattered Sky" The sun was a blistering, pale orb, obscured by the vast and flickering HoloSky. High above, the illusion of clear blue skies and fluffy white clouds glitched sporadically, revealing the metal panels of the Solar Shield. Below, Ironmarsh surrounded the Eridani Prime Intergalactic Space Station. The city was a mess of rusted buildings and neon lights shrouded in a polluted smog.
By Stephanie Wrightabout a year ago in Fiction
The Writing on the Firewall. Content Warning.
The first one - three days before - mene mene ~ "I don't give a shit! Get fucking rid of them! Have they all signed NDAs? Make sure they have, and then I want them gone!" Spittle flew. His bathrobe flaps, as if joining in with his rage. Martin snatched at the garment, and fastened it properly at his waist. "Sir, I don't think-" "Don't make me repeat myself," Martin snarled. It wasn't a good snarl, either. A snarl never is, but in this case it was because he isn't the type of man who could pull it off. He's a weedy person, awkward, and something unlikeable about him besides. Even all the work he's had done has failed to make him handsome. It's only given his skin a stretched, shiny, quality. Like a balloon. Apart from anything else, a snarl just looks out of place on his odd, porcelain-looking face. It hardly matters. His main feature, the thing he's really known for, is his obscene wealth, accrued as head of a tech giant company. That's not to say he can't do anger convincingly. Combined with his personal brand of weird, it lacks a rounded, healthy quality, and comes off sinister. Brittle. He blinked at last. "Just get them all out! I'll find out who it was from security footage." The thought, unspoken, but heard loud and clear: and I'll make them pay. "Shall I call the cleaning team, as well?" "Of course you fucking should! I don't want to have to look at that all day do I?" He gestured with one rubbery arm at the mess on the wall. Someone had painted a blue hand with one digit extended. Next to it, in the same colour, the words: your days are NUMBERED Martin seethed. How dare they! He was never hosting a party in his actual home ever again. + Martin wondered whether he should tell the police. This was a brief thought, and squashed fast. He had little more than contempt for law enforcement. Or laws, truth be told. Laws were for other people. Normal people. No, the party just got out of hand, that's all. And okay, it sounded a bit threatening, but it could have been aimed at someone else. In any case, he had security, didn't he? The cleaning crew had done their usual stellar job of cleaning up, except for the one thing he'd wanted scrubbed away more than anything. The words still sniggered at him every time he was anywhere near them. The head of the team looked like he was bracing himself when he broke the news to Martin that the paint simply wouldn't come off without damaging the wall. "Then damage it!" Martin hissed, barely holding his temper. "It'll cause a lot more mess, then you'll have to paint over it anyway," the man explained, braver than most. "It might be better to just paint over it." Some part of Martin wanted to grab the fussy little man by the collar of his overall and wail I just want it gone! but this time, he held it together. Instead he growled "Fine!" The crew left. Martin didn't thank them. He called Stuart. Stuart was a handyman. He was competent and reliable, the sort to suck air in between his teeth to make you think the job was impossible, or expensive, or both. Then he'd get on and get it done.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
The Trial
Fredrick stared in horror at the scene that lay before him. The king was sitting atop his throne, his face obscured by shadow. The light of a full moon filtered through the stained-glass windows behind him, illuminating the court in a ghostly white hue.
By Danh Chantachakabout a year ago in Fiction
🛡️Legend of Holger Danske: The Sleeping Hero of Denmark
🏰 Origins in Song and Saga – From French Epics to Nordic Legends Holger Danske, also known as Ogier the Dane, is a legendary Danish hero whose tale stretches across the patchwork of European myth, medieval literature, and national pride. While his legacy is firmly embedded in Danish folklore, his origins are surprisingly French. The first known mention of Holger appears in the 11th-century French epic poem "La Chanson de Roland," where he is called Ogier de Danemarche. In this early form, he is portrayed as a vassal of Charlemagne, the great Frankish emperor.
By History Seekerabout a year ago in Fiction
Welcome Home, Forever
The key slid into the lock like it never left. Claire hesitated, fingers trembling against the cold brass. This was supposed to be a fresh start—a return, not a retreat. She exhaled and pushed the door open. The house greeted her with silence, absolute silence. Twelve years. Twelve years since she fled this place at seventeen, barefoot, blood-slicked, and screaming into the dark woods. The neighbors said it was a gas leak. The police said it was a suicide pact. Claire knew better. Her family didn’t die that night. They changed. And they’re still here. The air inside smelled like cedarwood and faint decay. The furniture was just as she remembered: mother’s red velvet chair by the fireplace, father’s dusty pipe on the mantel, the crack in the corner wall shaped like a screaming face. Untouched, like time had been stitched shut. She stepped in. The door clicked shut behind her. The inheritance lawyer called last week: “Your family’s estate has been transferred o you.” A technicality. No bodies, no wills. Just rumors. She told herself she needed closure. But Claire knew the truth. She had to face them. --- In the kitchen, the table was set. Four plates. Four crystal glasses filled with water. She hadn’t told anyone she was coming. She hadn’t touched the lights. Yet the chandelier flickered above her, humming softly like it was thinking. Claire’s fingers hovered above the back of her father’s chair. She remembered the last dinner clearly—the whispers, the wide-eyed silence, the taste of iron in the roast. Her brother’s grin, stretched too far. Her mother humming that horrible tune. That same tune drifted now from upstairs. She froze. "Claire..." A whisper. Behind her. She spun around. Nothing. Just the empty hallway. Just shadows that seemed a little too thick. She backed into the kitchen, breath catching on the sharp edge of memory. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A text: WELCOME HOME. No number. No name. Just two words. And then: WE NEVER LEFT. --- She ran for the front door. Locked. She hadn’t locked it. Another buzz. A third message: DINNER IS GETTING COLD. A sudden clunk echoed from the dining room. She turned. The plates were full now. Roast lamb, green beans, mashed potatoes. Her family’s last meal. Claire’s knees buckled. Her hand gripped the edge of the table to steady herself. The food steaming and aromatic. She took a step back. Then she heard it. Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy. Synchronized. Four pairs. Claire fled down the hallway, past childhood portraits whose eyes seemed to follow her. She ducked into the basement and slammed the door. Dark. Musty. A single chain-pull light above. She yanked it. The bulb flared—and revealed the circle. Drawn in chalk on the floor. Symbols etched into the wood. A child's doll at its center, its head twisted backward. She remembered this. The night everything changed, her brother Tommy had brought a book home. "Found it in the woods," he said, eyes glittering. They played a game. Candles, chanting, giggling in the dark. Only Claire had run when the wind started whispering back. Now, twelve years later, the circle looked fresh. Wet. The chanting resumed above. Low. Unified. She grabbed the doll—its eyes fluttered open. “Welcome home.” She screamed and hurled it across the room. The chanting grew louder. The light snapped off. A cold wind wrapped around her legs like fingers. Claire bolted up the basement stairs. --- At the top, the door creaked open on its own. They were waiting in the foyer. Her family. Same clothes, same faces—preserved like porcelain. But wrong. Mother's eyes were too black. Father’s smile never moved. Tommy’s limbs bent the wrong way. And her little sister Emily, forever eight, hovered an inch off the floor. “We’ve missed you,” her mother said, voice like splinters in honey. “You left us,” Tommy hissed, tilting his head like a bird. “We forgave you,” Emily whispered, drifting closer. Claire stepped back. "You’re not them," she said. “You’re not real.” “We are now,” Father replied, lifting his pipe with a jerk, miming old habits. “You opened the door. You accepted the house. The pact is whole.” “I never made a pact!” she shouted. Tommy grinned. “You were part of the circle. Once marked, always marked.” “We waited,” Mother crooned. “We practiced being human again. For you.” They reached for her. She ran. --- Claire crashed into the fireplace, hands searching for the iron poker. She found it and swung wildly. Emily shrieked—a sound like breaking glass—and vanished in smoke. Father howled. Tommy lunged. She stabbed the poker into his side. No blood. Just shadows leaking out. The house shrieked. Ceiling cracked. Walls wept. The air turned heavy, like underwater. “You can’t fight home,” Mother whispered, floating above the floor now. Her skin was cracking like porcelain, light bleeding from within. “We just wanted dinner,” Father said. “And our family.” “You were chosen, Claire,” Emily said behind her. “You should never have left.” --- Claire stumbled back to the kitchen. The food was rotten now, crawling with worms. She saw the bottle. Still where she left it twelve years ago, hidden behind the spice rack: kerosene. Shaking, she poured it in a wide circle. Across the floor. Up the stairs. Down the hallway. The family shrieked. “NO,” Mother howled. “You can’t destroy us. We are you.” Claire lit a match. Paused. “I’m not.” She dropped it. The house shrieked again. --- Outside, under the crescent moon, Claire watched as her childhood home burned. Figures twisted in the flames—pleading, snarling, laughing. She didn’t cry. Not for the house. Not for them. Not anymore. --- Three days later, her phone buzzed again. No name. No number. YOU NEVER LEFT. THE END
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Narrator and the Author. Top Story - June 2025.
This is the final installment of The ShambElla Saga... or is it? Table of Contents: Previous Chapter: The Narrator and the Author
By C. Rommial Butlerabout a year ago in Fiction
🧙‍♂️ The Legend of the Draugr: Norway’s Undead Mariners of the North
🌊 The Roots of the Draugr Legend — Where Sea and Death Collide In the ancient Norse worldview, few forces were as terrifying and mysterious as the sea. Cold, vast, and unforgiving, the ocean was not only a means of travel and trade—but also a realm of death. Norwegian sailors and coastal villagers told tales of the Draugr (plural: Draugar), a revenant of the sea. Unlike typical ghosts, Draugar were physical beings—corpse-like, bloated, with pale or blue-tinged skin—and they were known to haunt grave mounds and coastal waters.
By History Seekerabout a year ago in Fiction
The Underground.
This happened back when I was working as an investigative journalist. I was assigned on a project, but the site we were supposed to investigate was far from where I lived. Like, really far. A village way out in the hills. Isolated. No cameras, no networks. Just people and land.
By Ruth Girma about a year ago in Fiction
The Legend of Blå Jungfrun
: Sweden, a land rich in natural beauty, ancient history, and folklore, is home to countless legends that have been passed down through generations. Among these, the legend of Blå Jungfrun—the "Blue Virgin"—stands out as one of the most captivating and mysterious stories rooted in Swedish tradition. This island, situated in the Baltic Sea off the coast of Öland, is shrouded in myth, superstition, and wonder, renowned for its striking natural beauty and legendary past.
By History Seekerabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clever Fish Who Outsmarted the Net
In the vast, sunlit waters of the River Dhansiri, fish of all sizes darted through the current, living their lives with joy and freedom. Among the many, there lived a sharp-witted fish named Tuna — not large or particularly fast, but clever beyond measure.
By Nauman Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
THE HEART BENEATH THE HOOD
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By Joey Rainesabout a year ago in Fiction