Fantasy
Jungle Companions: Horse Meets Camel
“The Path of Two Strangers” In a land where the sun kissed the earth through a canopy of emerald leaves, and the air was thick with the scent of wild blossoms, a jungle thrived untouched by time. Here, in this haven of endless green, lived creatures who had never known the touch of reins or the clang of human footsteps. It was a place where time walked slowly, and silence had a melody.
By Mukhtiar Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers from Tomorrow
It at floor where relics of forgotten decades sat under sheets and cobwebs. But when the rainstorm poured through the broken roof, his mom sent him up with towels and a bucket. That’s when he found the diary. It was lying under an old chest, dry despite the leak, its leather cover aged but intact. Curiosity outweighed the damp smell, and Jamie opened it. The handwriting inside was neat, looping, and strangely familiar. August 15th *Don’t go near the corner store. There’s going to be an accident at 4:17 PM. Trust me. Jamie blinked. That was today’s date. A chill slid down his spine. Just a prank, he thought. A weird coincidence. But at 4:00 PM, he found himself sitting across from the corner store, half-laughing at his own stupidity. At 4:17 PM exactly, a silver car skidded on the wet road and slammed into a lamppost outside the shop. No one was hurt, but Jamie dropped the diary as if it had burned him. Back home, he flipped through the pages. Most were blank. But a few scattered entries were filled in—each one with a date just a day or two ahead, written in the same careful handwriting. August 16th *Don’t let Dad leave for work early. The bridge is unstable after the storm.* He hesitated. His dad *always* left at 6:30 AM. But the next morning, Jamie faked a fever, begged for help with schoolwork, anything to keep his dad until 7:15. The news came on later. A small landslide had collapsed the westbound bridge—right at the time his father would’ve crossed it. Jamie didn’t know what scared him more: the diary’s accuracy, or the thought that someone knew the future… and was trying to help him. The entries kept coming. A few days later: August 20th *Tell Rachel she matters. Don’t let her walk home alone.* Rachel, his neighbor and best friend, had been unusually quiet lately. Jamie took her aside, gave her a clumsy but heartfelt hug, and told her she was important to him. That night, she texted him: *Thanks. I almost didn’t make it home. Some guy was following me. But I remembered what you said. I ran.* Jamie’s hands shook as he held the diary. It wasn’t just random advice. It was saving lives. But the scariest entry came a week later. August 26th *You’re running out of time. Don’t ignore the signs. The fire starts in the basement. Midnight.* Midnight. That night. Jamie ran to check the basement. Everything seemed normal—no smell of gas, no exposed wires. But his gut churned. He filled a jug of water and stayed up late, diary clutched in one hand. At 11:58 PM, the smoke alarm blared. He bolted down the stairs to find an old fuse box sparking wildly, cardboard boxes nearby catching fire. He doused them quickly, yelling for his parents. They evacuated safely. The fire didn’t spread. The fire department called it a “close call.” After the fire, the diary changed. New pages began filling in with longer entries. They started using “I” instead of “you.” August 27th I can’t hold this timeline much longer. Every time I send a message, it costs me a piece of memory. You’re doing well. But soon, I won’t remember how to warn you. August 28th Jamie, it’s me. I’m you. From the future. I found a way to bend time back—just enough to send words, not bodies. Every entry I write fades from my mind as soon as I send it. But I remember the fire. The bridge. Rachel. Jamie stared at the page. Future *him*? The handwriting matched. The voice felt right. The next few entries became more erratic. August 29th She’s the key. The one in the library. You must find her. She can fix the loop. Who? Jamie skipped school and went to the local library. A girl he’d never seen before was reading alone in the back corner, surrounded by dusty books on quantum physics. Their eyes met. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said simply. Her name was Elara. A prodigy in theoretical time dynamics. She’d been getting messages too—in binary code, in books she hadn’t read, dreams she couldn’t explain. Together, they pieced it together: a time-loop anomaly caused by an experiment gone wrong in a future that hadn’t happened yet. Future Jamie, alone, had found a way to send memories back through the diary. But the more he sent, the more of himself he lost. They had to break the loop before he was erased completely. The final entry came on August 31st: *This is my last page. If you're reading this, you made it far enough. End the loop. Live your own future. Be better than me. —J.* And then... silence. Jamie never wrote in the diary. He didn’t have to. He and Elara destroyed the temporal node causing the feedback loop, using knowledge they hadn’t yet earned. Paradoxically, it worked. The diary stopped changing. The future stopped bleeding into the past. Jamie kept it anyway. A reminder of who he had been—and who he might’ve become. Because sometimes, saving the world starts with listening… to yourself.
By Muhammad Ahmar about a year ago in Fiction
The Wallet in the Park
It was the kind of morning that whispered secrets to the trees. Golden sunlight filtered through the canopy of Everbrook Park, and the air smelled like fresh-cut grass. Thirteen-year-old Ravi wandered down the path, dragging his feet, a little bored and a lot curious. School was closed for the day. His friends were out of town, his parents were working, and worst of all—his phone was dead.
By Ahmad Malikabout a year ago in Fiction
The Honest Woodcutter — A Moral Story About Integrity
In a quiet village nestled at the edge of a vast forest, lived a poor woodcutter named Harun. Each day before sunrise, he ventured into the forest, his worn axe resting on his shoulder and hope in his heart. Life wasn’t easy—his hands were blistered, his clothes faded, and his earnings barely enough to care for his ailing mother. But Harun had something rare: he was honest to the core.
By Ahmad Malikabout a year ago in Fiction
A Himalayan Adventure That Changed Us
Last year, my best friend and I did something reckless—we booked tickets to Nepal on a whim. Neither of us had ever trekked seriously before. I’d get winded climbing stairs to my apartment; she thought "hydration" meant drinking coffee. Yet there we were, standing in Kathmandu’s chaotic streets, staring at our oversized backpacks and realizing: We’re actually doing this.
By michal lendenabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lover Who Lived in My Dreams
She wasn’t a supermodel. She didn’t have the kind of face that stopped time or made men trip over their own tongues. But to me, she was unforgettable. Skin like warm earth after rain, eyes deep and dark like unanswered prayers, and a laugh that made the silence afterward feel too loud. She first appeared in a dream when I was seventeen, and somehow, she kept coming back. At first, I thought it was random. A trick of the mind. One of those subconscious mash-ups of faces you’ve seen in passing—a stranger at a bus stop, someone’s cousin at a wedding, an image from a music video. But then she came again. And again. Same full lips, same quiet confidence, same calm presence that made my chest settle. She was never loud, never flashy. But she always felt… necessary. I used to tell my friends about her. They laughed, joked about me watching too many romantic movies, said I needed to get out more. I stopped talking about her after a while. Not because I stopped dreaming about her, but because it felt too personal—like sharing her would somehow make her less mine. In the real world, I dated other women. There were connections, sure. Some good moments, even real feelings. But none of them felt like her. I’d lie in bed after dates, staring at the ceiling, wondering why I missed someone I’d never really met. Some nights, I’d close my eyes just to see if she’d come back. She always did. Not every night, but often enough to feel real. In my dreams, we talked about life. She asked me why I was always running—from love, from failure, from myself. We sat in kitchens with flickering bulbs, walked dusty roads holding hands, shared music and memories that weren’t mine but felt like they could be. She told me she was proud of me once, and I woke up with tears on my pillow. I never even got her name. One night, she didn’t show. Then a week passed. A month. My dreams were filled with randomness—noisy, forgettable scraps. Her absence was a dull ache I couldn’t explain. I missed her in a way I couldn’t talk about without sounding crazy. I felt like someone who’d lost a country he’d never visited, but knew was home. I was 26 when I saw her in real life. Not in a dream. Not in passing. Real, breathing, alive. She walked into the small bookstore downtown where I’d been helping out on weekends. Wore a simple burgundy dress, hair tied in a loose bun. No makeup. Just her. She wasn’t exactly the same—her nose was a bit narrower, her smile a little crooked—but everything else… the feel of her? That was unchanged. She looked at me. Paused. “Do I know you?” she asked. I wanted to say, I’ve known you my whole life. But I just smiled and said, “Not yet.” Her name was Ujunwa. She was studying social work, loved old books and hated sweet coffee. We sat and talked for an hour that first day. I didn’t tell her about the dreams. Not then. But I knew it in my bones—this wasn’t coincidence. This was convergence. Falling for her in real life was different. Messier. No dream sequences. No perfect timing. She had doubts, moods, and a stubborn streak that could stretch for miles. But God, she was real. And with her, so was I. Maybe the woman in my dreams was never meant to be a fantasy. Maybe she was a guide—an echo of what was waiting if I stayed open long enough, patient enough, alive enough to notice. The lover who lived in my dreams taught me how to hope. The woman who walked into that bookstore? She’s teaching me how to stay.
By Chinonso Kingsleyabout a year ago in Fiction
Personal Stories That Feel Like Secrets . AI-Generated.
Personal Stories That Feel Like Secrets I still remember the night I hid in my bedroom closet, heart pounding, tears soaking my pillow. I wasn’t running from a storm or a monster under the bed. I was hiding from myself—the part of me I was too afraid to face. This wasn’t a story I shared with friends or family. It was my secret, locked away behind whispered apologies and forced smiles. But that night, in the quiet darkness, I realized something important: secrets don’t protect us. They hold us captive.
By The Last Loveabout a year ago in Fiction
When We Were Almost Forever
Chapter One: Locker 214 Jace never believed in fate, until the day he dropped his physics textbook and it landed right on Erin's foot. "I'm so sorry!" he stammered, crouching to pick it up. Erin, the girl who sat two rows in front of him in English class, the girl with honey-blonde hair and constellation freckles, smiled like it was no big deal. “At least it wasn’t *War and Peace*. You’re forgiven.” That was the start. They talked between classes. Then after school. Then late into the night on FaceTime. Suddenly, Erin’s blue hoodie was always draped around Jace’s shoulders, and his sketchbook had a dozen drawings of her smile. They weren’t officially “together”—not yet. But in their own world, they were everything. --- Chapter Two: The Lie That Grew Their bubble burst during spring break. Erin didn’t text back for a whole day. Then two. When she finally called, her voice was small. "My cousin Mia said she saw you with Lila. At the arcade." Jace blinked. “Lila? She was there, yeah—but we were in a group. You know that.” But Erin didn’t sound convinced. And Jace didn’t know it at the time, but Mia had always envied Erin. Especially when it came to things Mia couldn’t have—like attention. Or Jace. Slowly, Mia planted seeds. Little lies. Twisted truths. “She said you were laughing *with* Lila. Really close.” “She said you were holding her bag. Why would you do that unless...?” Erin wanted to believe Jace. But doubt crept in. Jealousy blurred the lines. Jace tried to hold on. To prove he was loyal. But every week, it felt like she was pulling further away. Until one night, she sent a message that read like a punch: **“I think we should stop pretending this is forever.”** --- Chapter Three: A Different Kind of Silence The hallways weren’t the same after that. They passed each other like strangers. Her friends whispered when he walked by. He stopped sitting in the courtyard. Stopped drawing. Everyone thought Jace had cheated. No one knew the truth. And Erin didn’t correct them. But it wasn’t spite. Not really. It was confusion. Hurt. Mia’s manipulation had woven itself so deep that even Erin wasn’t sure what had been real anymore. And sometimes, it’s easier to let something fall apart than face the fear of being wrong. --- Chapter Four: Graduation Confession Two years passed. They barely spoke. They dated other people. Moved on—or pretended to. Then, on graduation day, just before caps flew and people scattered to their futures, Jace saw her by Locker 214. The same place it all began. “Erin.” She turned, eyes widening. “I just need to ask,” he said. “Was it really because of Mia? The Lila thing? Or was it something else?” She looked down. Bit her lip. “I believed her,” she admitted. “And I hated myself for it later. But by then… it felt too late.” “It wasn’t,” Jace said softly. “You just never asked me.” She looked at him, years of unspoken words rushing into her throat. But instead of spilling, she gave a sad smile. “Maybe we were just a 'what if' story.” Jace nodded. “Yeah. The kind that still hurts.” They hugged—briefly, painfully. Then let go. --- Epilogue: Years Later Jace published his first graphic novel at 22. It was about two high school kids who almost got it right. In the final panel, the girl walks away with the caption: "Some people aren't meant to stay. They're meant to teach you how deeply you can feel." And on the dedication page, in fine print: “For E. You were my favorite almost.”
By Muhammad Ahmar about a year ago in Fiction
Shadows of midnight
Party with Shadows Lucas parked his car at the top of the hill. As he walked toward the mansion’s metal gates, nostalgic thoughts crept into his mind. He recognized the dense grove and the faint outline of a hidden path he used to sneak down as a child. Back then, this place was nothing more than a spooky, abandoned house surrounded by overgrown gardens. So many years had passed since then, and now, it was bursting with life, transformed into a luxurious party venue, the type he rarely attended.
By Kaloyan Kolarovabout a year ago in Fiction
The Dragon’s Oath: A Tale of Ashes and Roses
Chapter 1: The Bargain The village of Blackthorn was dying. For months, the great black dragon Ignarion had circled their skies, his shadow darkening the fields, his fiery breath withering their crops. The elders had tried offerings—gold, livestock, even their finest wines—but nothing satisfied the beast. Then, one fateful evening, the dragon spoke.
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"about a year ago in Fiction
