Fantasy
Midnight Whispers
They say not to knock on the witch’s door past midnight—unless you’re prepared to give something up. In the quiet village of Bellwick, nestled between wilted forests and forgotten hills, everyone knew of the witch named Circe. She wore velvet like royalty and lilac like dusk. Her cats, Mischief and Moonpaw, were the kind that stared too long and blinked too little. They say her eyes changed color depending on what you were hiding—and her lips curled when someone told a lie.
By Tsume's talesabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Ember
Prologue The wind howled through the desolate streets, carrying with it the scent of rain and forgotten dreams. In the heart of the city, where neon lights flickered like dying stars, a lone figure stood beneath a flickering streetlamp, clutching a worn journal. This was the beginning of his initiation—not into a secret society, but into the truths that lay hidden within himself.
By Vincent Otiriabout a year ago in Fiction
The Red Dragon
This is the next installment of The ShambElla Saga. Table of Contents: Previous Chapter: The Red Dragon Colt and the goons ran ahead against the horde of imps, tearing them limb from limb, dispersing as many as they could to pave a way to the tower and protect the other companions.
By C. Rommial Butlerabout a year ago in Fiction
Dodge Tanner and the Great Blink Mink Accords
Dodge knew the moment he stepped onto his porch. The minks had been here. It wasn’t just instinct—it was experience. His cabin, snugly nestled in his private clearing by the glimmering waters of Lake Hearth, was meant to be his peaceful retreat. Instead, it had become the epicenter of an escalating war of catastrophic proportions. The site of a never-ending battle of wits against a foe more clever and cunning than any of his illustrious career.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
Love at First Sight
had never believed in love at first sight. To me, love was a slow-burning fire, built over time and familiarity. I’d scoffed at rom-coms, rolled my eyes at sappy novels. Love, I thought, was forged through trials, not lightning strikes. But everything I knew shattered the moment I saw her. It was a rainy Thursday afternoon in late October. I was running late to my best friend’s gallery opening downtown, rushing across puddled sidewalks and dodging umbrellas. The gallery was tucked between a forgotten bookstore and an abandoned laundromat—one of those hidden gems only true artists knew existed. I stepped inside, shaking off the cold, when I caught sight of her. She wasn’t even looking at me. She stood alone in front of a painting—one of those abstract swirls of color and chaos that usually made no sense to me. But the way she stood there, head tilted slightly, hands tucked into the sleeves of her oversized coat—it was as if she and the painting shared a secret. Something in my chest shifted. She turned, and for a moment—just a moment—our eyes locked. Green. Bright, curious, alive. Her lips curled into the faintest smile, as if she recognized me from a dream we hadn’t had yet. I felt like I’d walked straight into a song, one I’d never heard but somehow knew by heart. I should’ve said something. I should’ve walked right up and introduced myself. But I froze. She moved on, disappearing into a crowd of half-drunk art lovers and the clinking of cheap wine glasses. I lost her. I spent the next thirty minutes pretending to admire paintings while scanning the room for her. But she was gone. Disappointed, I stepped outside again, the rain now gentle, as if the sky, too, had softened. I stood under the awning, trying to shake off the strange ache in my chest. That’s when I heard the voice. “You didn’t like the paintings, did you?” I turned, and there she was—coat zipped up, hair damp, a knowing smirk on her lips. I laughed, caught off guard. “They weren’t exactly... my thing.” She grinned. “Same. I just come for the free wine and weird conversations.” “Did we have one yet?” “Not yet,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Ava.” I took it, still stunned. “Liam.” We walked. No destination, just streetlights and soggy sidewalks. We talked about everything—books we hadn’t read, places we hadn’t visited, childhood dreams that never quite died. She told me she wanted to open a plant shop, even though she couldn’t keep a cactus alive. I told her I used to write poetry but was too afraid to share it. It didn’t feel like we’d just met. It felt like we were continuing a conversation that had begun long before we were born. Weeks passed. Then months. And the more I got to know her, the more surreal that first moment felt—like the universe had paused just long enough for our paths to cross. And when I finally kissed her, under the same gallery awning where we’d re-met, the world stilled again. Just like the first time. People still ask me if I believe in love at first sight. I smile every time. Not because I believe in fairy tales, but because I lived one. And maybe it wasn't magic in the traditional sense. Maybe it was timing. Maybe fate. Or maybe just two people seeing something in each other that the world had hidden until then. But I know this much: The moment I saw her, something in me whispered, There you are. And I’ve been listening ever since. In a world of noise and chance, love found its voice in a glance—and never stopped speaking since.
By Dr Gabriel about a year ago in Fiction
The Firefly That Never Dies
Every summer, the people of Durgapur spoke of the never-dying firefly. Even in the heaviest downpours, it danced just above the paddy fields and glowed brighter than the moon. It was thought to be the spirit of a long-dead saint who looked after the land, blessed the crops, and punished those who broke the rules.
By Ahmed Rayhanabout a year ago in Fiction
