Fantasy

Do you know? Many people have quietly given up on themselves
They go to work, clock in, and smile every day. There are travel photos in their Moments, and they can send a "haha" when chatting, and even occasionally say: "I'm doing well recently."
By Lucianabout a year ago in Fiction
The Man Who Sold Time
Everyone in the city said it was a myth. A whisper. A foolish rumor carried by the wind through cracked alleyways and flickering neon signs.
By Ahmad Dostabout a year ago in Fiction
🤖 When the Robot Took My Job. AI-Generated.
I didn’t think much of it at first. A line in a company-wide email: “We're excited to pilot JasperBot, an AI content assistant, to help streamline editorial workflows.”
By alviabout a year ago in Fiction
The Town That Vanished at Midnight
Prologue: The Last Bus to Hollowbrook The bus driver didn’t meet my eyes when I handed him my ticket. "Hollowbrook?" he grunted, as if I’d cursed him. "Last stop. Midnight. Don’t be late."
By Wiki Rjmabout a year ago in Fiction
The Letter by the Lake
On the quiet edge of a small village, there was a lake where time seemed to slow down. Every afternoon, Ayan would sit under the old tamarind tree, sketching the ripples on the water and watching the birds fly home. One day, while he was drawing, he noticed a piece of folded paper tucked between the roots of the tree. Curious, he picked it up. It was a letter. “To the one who sits by the lake, I see you every day, lost in your art. I wonder what you’re thinking, and whether you see me too. If you read this, leave a flower on the stone by the tree. If not, I’ll know it’s just my silly heart.” The next day, Ayan brought a marigold and left it on the stone. The letters kept coming, and he replied with small notes of his own. They never saw each other, yet their words were full of color, laughter, and quiet dreams. Over weeks, a silent love grew. One rainy evening, Ayan sat by the tree with a single red rose, his heart pounding. As thunder rolled across the sky, someone approached, holding a yellow umbrella. It was Mira—the girl who lived across the lake. Their eyes met, and no words were needed. The letters had already said it all.
By Sijan Ahamedabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Secret
In the heart of a forgotten town nestled between the mountains and the sea stood a small clock shop with dusty windows and a crooked wooden sign that read: Elias Grimm, Clockmaker. Most of the townsfolk passed by without a second glance. After all, in the digital age, who needed ticking clocks?
By MD BILLAL HOSSAINabout a year ago in Fiction
CONFUCIUS AND SOCRATES: THE DAWN OF A NEW WORLD
Night had fallen over the nameless city. Beneath a pergola of stone entwined with ivy, in the flickering light of a few oil lamps, Confucius and Socrates sat side by side.
By Alain SUPPINIabout a year ago in Fiction
Fizzwhistle Bumbletwist and the Cheese-Fueled Time Machine
In the heart of Tinkerbellows, a town where magic and machinery danced like old friends at a tea party, there lived a most curious character: Fizzwhistle Bumbletwist. With wild red hair sticking out in all directions like a startled hedgehog and goggles permanently perched on his forehead, Fizzwhistle was the town’s unofficial inventor, official oddball, and semi-professional kazoo player.
By Ashikur Rahman Bipulabout a year ago in Fiction
NEO is Coming in Speed
My name is NEO,born ages ago from gold dust and pebbles of colliding meteors in outer space. I have been flying with no specific purpose for eons adrift ,specific effects happen wherever I shift,every galaxy I swam through knows my name.Speed is my offensive skill and damage is what happens to anything that comes in front of me. I, the black asteroid the one and only, know no friends and everyone and anyone is a collateral damage in my way with diameters as large and big as you have never seen and a speed you have never witnessed with your eyes. For ages, I have been swimming in the void for no purpose crossing miles of distances in a flash of light through the darkness emitting an immense sound like a roar of terror in the lost void. Hearing it means only a crucial impact afterwards causing explosions and ruins and more dust and pebbles.
By Youness Laktaouiabout a year ago in Fiction
The Artsy Traveler
Once there was a nice sunny day but breezy in a downtown Chicago. There were bunched of delicious food, cool clothes, and outrageous entertainment. People laughing, crying and shouting!
By Meghan LeVaughn about a year ago in Fiction
The Straight Path: A Story of Spiritual Awakening
In the ancient city of Zahraan, nestled between golden sands and olive groves, lived a young man named *Yusuf*. He was known for his sharp intellect and restless heart—always seeking, always questioning. His father was a devout man, who began each day with prayer, but Yusuf… Yusuf had drifted. He had grown weary of rituals and words he didn’t understand. One evening, after a heated argument with his father about religion, Yusuf stormed out of the house. The sun had just dipped below the dunes, and twilight painted the sky in shades of sorrow. As he wandered the edge of the desert, his thoughts were heavy. *"Why do I feel empty… even with everything I have?"* He came upon a small, crumbling masjid—abandoned for years. Something drew him inside. Dust floated in the air like whispers, and silence wrapped the walls. On the old, cracked mihrab, he saw an inscription carved in fading calligraphy: **"Guide us on the Straight Path."** It stopped him. The words echoed in his chest. Suddenly, he remembered—a childhood moment. Sitting beside his father during prayer. Repeating verses he didn’t yet grasp. That same line: *"Ihdina-s-siratal-mustaqeem..."* His father had once told him, *"This is the most important prayer you'll ever say, Yusuf. It’s asking Allah to hold your hand through life."* Yusuf sank to the floor. The weight of years—of arrogance, confusion, and distance—came crashing down. For the first time in a long while, he wept. Then he whispered: **"You alone we worship… You alone we ask for help."** And in that moment, something shifted. Not a thunderbolt. Not a miracle. Just... peace. The kind of peace that sinks into your soul like rain into dry earth. He began to return to that broken masjid every evening. He dusted its floor, repaired the cracked walls, and reopened its doors. And each time he stood in prayer, Surah Al-Fatiha became more than words—it became a conversation. A guide. A light. People noticed a change in him. He no longer argued out of pride, but listened with humility. He no longer questioned just to rebel, but sought truth with sincerity. Years later, Yusuf would become the imam of that very masjid—restored now and alive with prayer. And when people came to him, searching for meaning in a chaotic world, he would gently tell them: *"Start with Al-Fatiha. Ask for the Straight Path. Everything else will follow."*
By Tazimabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker's Gift
In a sleepy town between two warps of fog, there was an old clockmaker of the name Elias. His store, which happened to hide in a quiet corner of a forgotten street, was overfull with clocks of all shapes and sizes, and the ticking of them in unison was so loud and clear that it seemed to distract from its own natural harmony. But a most peculiar clock in his whole collection was the one that attracted people's attention so much that they did not fear to go near him.
By StoryTimeabout a year ago in Fiction