Fantasy
Whistlers Grandfather
Arlin Savoi had known that the paint brush he had found in his grandfather’s attic felt “strange” when he picked it up from the box of ancient art supplies. As he held it, a picture formed in his mind: a portrait of an old man. Seemingly without volition he stepped over to an easel sitting by the dusty window. On the easel a blank canvas was lit by shafts of early morning sunlight, dust motes dancing in the beams. By the easel was a small table with scattered paint pots on it. Opening the pots he mixed colors almost at random until he had a hew that resembled true skin… human skin. Dipping the brush, he set bristle to canvas.
By Andrew C McDonaldabout a year ago in Fiction
Dodge Tanner’s Highly Unrecommended Travelogue - #78: An Unwanted, Unwarranted, Game of Tag
Dodge prided himself on being many things—a skilled gatherer, an expert climber, and, most importantly, someone who rarely made a fool of himself. Unfortunately, today was shaping up to be an exception.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
"We grew up, but the treehouse waited."
We grew up, but the treehouse waited. It stood at the edge of Grandpa’s orchard—an old wooden shelter nestled in the gnarled arms of a sycamore tree. The steps had once been planks nailed unevenly along the trunk, and its roof was patched with mismatched shingles that Dad and Uncle Ray had salvaged from the barn. To anyone else, it looked like a crooked shed stuck in a tree. But to us, it was everything. We built that treehouse when I was eight and Lily was six. Every summer, we’d climb into it with peanut butter sandwiches, comic books, and wild imaginations. Some days it was a pirate ship; others, a castle under siege. The treehouse was never just wood and nails—it was our world. It held secrets, laughter, and sometimes even tears we didn’t want adults to see. But childhood doesn’t stay forever. Time doesn’t knock—it just takes. After Dad passed away when I was fifteen, we stopped going to the orchard. The treehouse began to blur into the background like an old dream. I moved away for college, then for work. Lily stayed in town for a while, took care of Mom, then eventually left too. Life moved on—new homes, new relationships, new responsibilities. The orchard was sold after Grandpa passed. I didn’t think I’d ever see the treehouse again. Until last month. Mom’s health had started to fade, and I flew back to say goodbye. Lily and I found ourselves driving through the old roads after the funeral, barely speaking. Everything felt heavy—like grief had woven itself into our silence. Then she turned down a familiar path. I didn’t question it. We knew where we were going. The orchard gate was rusted shut, but we climbed over it like we used to when we were little and trying to sneak cookies from the kitchen. The grass was taller, the trees wilder, but the sycamore stood there just as we’d left it—bending slightly under age and time. And there, impossibly, the treehouse. The paint had peeled, the door hung crooked, and ivy had begun to crawl up its legs. But it was still there. Waiting. We stared at it for a long time. Finally, Lily whispered, “Do you think it remembers us?” I smiled sadly. “Maybe. We left enough of ourselves in it.” We climbed up—carefully, like old friends greeting each other after years apart. Inside, the floor creaked beneath our weight, and dust danced in the sunlight coming through the gaps. But on one of the walls, still faintly visible, was the drawing of our initials inside a lopsided heart. Beneath it: “Forever Pirates.” I felt something crack inside me—a memory, maybe, or a piece of my heart I hadn’t known was missing. “I thought we lost all this,” Lily said, her voice trembling. “We didn’t,” I said. “We just stopped looking.” We sat there for hours. Talking. Laughing. Crying. Not just about Mom or Dad, but about everything. About how fast life pulls you away from the people and places that made you. Before we left, I looked back one more time. The treehouse stood quiet, its wood weathered but strong. And I realized—it hadn’t been waiting to be remembered. It had been remembering us all along.
By Dr Gabriel about a year ago in Fiction
What If Your Memories Were Sold to the Highest Bidder?
The bidding began at midnight. In a sleek, chrome-paneled room somewhere deep beneath the ruins of what used to be Chicago, men and women in expensive suits clicked their virtual paddles as images flickered across a wall-sized screen. The auctioneer’s voice echoed through the air like a machine-generated chant: “Lot 244. Childhood. Age range: 6 to 10. Vivid. Intact. Unfiltered. Starting bid: 250,000 credits.”
By Muhammad Sabeelabout a year ago in Fiction
I Tried a 30-Day Digital Detox—But Something Was Watching Me Offline
I Thought My Brain Needed a Break The internet was burning me out. TikTok loops. Doom scrolling. Emails at midnight. So, I committed: 30 days offline. No phone. No laptop. No smart anything.
By Sohanur Rahmanabout a year ago in Fiction
The People Who Were Never Born
Dr. Ethan Clarke had never believed in alternate realities. A man grounded in logic, physics, and the unyielding laws of nature. But on one quiet November evening, in the stillness of his lab in Boston, everything he believed about the universe shattered.
By F. M. Rayaanabout a year ago in Fiction
Dodge Versus possibly the most Deadly, Implacable, Foe yet.... Administrative Paperwork.
The trouble started the moment Dodge Tanner walked into Wayfinder Headquarters, the air thick with the scent of old parchment, ink, and the faint, oppressive musk of mind-numbing misery. He had joked, on more than one occasion—that paperwork was a blight upon the world, a slow-acting poison that emptied the brain & drained the soul with every quill stroke. Today, however, he was not joking.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
