Fantasy
The Varrow: Part 1
Rheyn Varrow was having one of its moods again. The alley she walked down was getting narrower every few steps, like it thought she'd be more comfortable in a coffin. The walls pulsed like they were breathing through its own damp structure. Something in the bricks groaned.
By Daniel Millingtonabout a year ago in Fiction
Time Owes No Favours
"Remember, you will have only 24 hours, so make whatever you do count." That message rang in my ears as I went to sleep. If things went according to plan, I'd wake up several years—okay, decades—back in time to May 17th, 1985. I had a very restless night. Fortunately, my associates had supplied me with a strong version of benzodiazepine. As soon as I popped a couple of pills and downed them with the last of my Irn Bru, I passed out and was in dreamland.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
The Path To One Question
Once upon a time, there existed a traveler in a faraway land. He wasn't a merchant seeking buyers for his goods, nor was he an explorer in search of riches beyond this world, but a mere man - broken and lonely, crossing land upon land to break free of something invisible to his eyes but felt by his soul. Walking under the skies stitched with shimmering stars, he met bizarre wonders known to not many people. He gained knowledge of this world and beyond, from books and scrolls and from scholars and legends, he found truth and he found myth. But even after knowing so much, one question still puzzled him all the same - as it has done for all those past years. 'Why was he so devastated over the loss of something that wasn't his to even begin with?' The wound burned in his heart alive and fresh every day, refusing to give any reason or to be forgotten.
By Kartikey Mishraabout a year ago in Fiction
Clash of the Stripes and Spots. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
Clash of the Stripes and Spots When Pride Meets Power in the Heart of the Wild In the tangled embrace of the Sundarbans—a land where the roots of ancient trees claw into the riverbanks and the mists drift like ghosts—two predators ruled in silence. Rudra, the tiger, was a creature of immense strength. His orange coat, slashed with black, was like fire in the shadows. He was a legend in the forest, known for his sheer power and unchallenged dominance. Animals gave way when they heard his growl, and none dared contest his claim to the northern hunting grounds. Veer, the leopard, was no less respected, though in a different way. Smaller, yes, but swift as a gust of wind and clever as the monkeys that danced through the treetops. His coat, dappled with rosettes, blended with the jungle’s shifting light. Veer ruled the dense southern thickets, where the canopy turned day into dusk, and where only those who knew the shadows could thrive. For years, they lived apart—two kings with separate realms, their paths never crossing. But nature is never predictable. A harsh summer came. The rains, usually faithful, betrayed the land. Rivers ran low, and prey vanished into the deeper woods or died from thirst. The only reliable watering hole was one at the heart of the forest, neutral ground claimed by no beast. Until now. It was dawn when Rudra arrived. His massive paws left impressions in the cracked earth as he approached the watering hole. He dipped his head, drinking deeply, feeling the coolness spread through his parched body. He looked around and, seeing no threat, marked the area with a powerful roar—a declaration. This was his now. But Rudra wasn’t alone for long. Just as the sun climbed above the trees, Veer arrived, his movements silent, his golden eyes watching from the brush. He had heard the roar. He had smelled the tiger’s scent. And though every instinct warned him to avoid conflict, something stirred in him. Hunger, pride—perhaps both. Veer emerged slowly, tail flicking. Rudra turned. Their eyes locked. “What brings you to my water, leopard?” Rudra’s voice was deep and calm, but laced with warning. “This water belongs to the forest, not to you,” Veer replied, standing tall on the roots of a fallen tree. “We all suffer the drought. I will drink.” The wind hushed. The trees seemed to lean in. Rudra growled, stepping forward. “Go back to your shadows, Veer. Do not test me.” But Veer didn’t move. His pride flared hotter than his fear. “If the jungle is dying, it’s no time for kings. Only survivors.” With a snarl, Rudra leapt. Veer was ready. He darted aside, fast as a flash of lightning. Claws met claws, and the clearing erupted into chaos. Dust rose. Birds screamed into the sky. The tiger’s brute strength clashed with the leopard’s nimble fury. Rudra tried to pin him down, but Veer slipped through his strikes like water through a sieve, leaving bloody scratches in return. Still, Rudra was relentless. A powerful swipe caught Veer in the side, sending him crashing into a tree. He staggered up, panting, bleeding—but his eyes still burned with defiance. “I do not run,” Veer hissed. “No,” Rudra said, circling. “But you should.” They collided again. This time, it was not about territory—it was about honor. The forest itself watched. Monkeys hid in trees, deer crouched in the underbrush, and even the crocodiles in the nearby stream held still. But then, something strange happened. A cry—a desperate bleat—echoed through the trees. A young deer, alone and limping, wandered into the clearing, too weak to run, too thirsty to wait. Both predators turned. The deer looked up, terrified, caught between two monsters. Veer stepped back. Rudra hesitated. Something shifted. They saw the truth: this wasn’t a war of survival anymore. It was pride that had nearly destroyed them both. In a forest hanging on the edge of ruin, even kings must choose between ego and endurance. Rudra let out a slow breath. He turned away from Veer and walked to the watering hole, allowing the deer to drink. Veer watched. Then, silently, he followed. That day, they didn’t speak. But they drank side by side, two hunters sharing not just water, but understanding. The drought would pass eventually. And when it did, the forest would remember the day when stripes and spots did not clash—but coexisted.
By Sami Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Sam Gets a Shooting Lesson for Once
This is the next installment in The ShambElla Saga, wrapping up the companions' time with Damien Daimon, the Unwilling Antichrist, and the gifts and lessons he has for them before they tackle the final leg of their journey.
By C. Rommial Butlerabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Dragon
In the quaint village of Windlewharf, nestled between mossy hills and eternally ticking windmills, lived a peculiar old man named Thaddeus Pinch. He was a clockmaker of no small repute, known not only for mending broken timepieces but for crafting intricate mechanical wonders that seemed almost alive. Birds made of brass sang lullabies at dusk, spiders of silver spun delicate webs in lantern glass, and mice of copper chased crumbs across countertops.
By THE STORY ROOMabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Clock That Whispered Wishes"
The Story Begins... In a quiet village where nothing unusual ever happened, there stood an old clock shop at the end of Moon shadow Lane. No one remembered when it opened, or who owned it, but everyone knew one rule: Never ask the clock for a wish unless your heart truly means it.
By Ayesha Maryamabout a year ago in Fiction
The Silver Feather and the Brave Princess
Once upon a time, in a quiet kingdom nestled between misty mountains, there lived a princess named Amira. Her heart was as gentle as the morning breeze, and her love for animals and the people of her land was well known. She was often called upon to settle disputes and bring peace between villages. Everyone admired her for the way she listened, cared, and worked towards harmony. But there was one mystery that had always intrigued the people of the kingdom: ''The Silver Feather''.
By Ayesha Maryamabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library Between Worlds
Every Thursday at 3:03 p.m., Marla stepped into the library that didn’t exist on any map. It was tucked between a shuttered bakery and a pawn shop that sold broken dreams and secondhand jewelry. No one noticed her enter—not the teenage cashier scrolling on her phone, not the old man feeding pigeons like clockwork. The library shimmered just slightly when she touched the doorknob, like breath on cold glass.
By Hassan Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
