Fantasy

Terms
Colin stepped back from his father’s gravestone, turning up his collar against the lingering winter chill. Father preached, ‘Take no risks. Stay the course’ for a trouble-free life. But Father never had to explain blight to a hungry child or when they might eat again. In his day, their valley was bountiful and taken for granted. What would Father think today?
By H.G. Silviaabout a year ago in Fiction
She Left Her Diary on My Coffin.
It was raining the day they buried me. Not that it mattered. I was dead—cold, breathless, and buried beneath six feet of regrets. The world moved on quickly. No one wept loudly. No one screamed.
By Syed Sarafatabout a year ago in Fiction
The Wand Of Whatever
Genre: Fantasy/Comedy Setting: The Realm of Kabloonia — a land where logic took a vacation, and reality was replaced by a suggestion box.
By Alexander Siro Marieraabout a year ago in Fiction
Beneath the Velvet Sky. AI-Generated.
The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and anticipation, the kind that makes your skin hum before you even know why. In the quiet coastal town of Solara, where the ocean whispered secrets to the cliffs, Elena stood on her balcony, her silk robe slipping just enough to catch the moonlight. She wasn’t waiting for anyone—at least, that’s what she told herself. But when a stranger’s low, velvet voice called her name from the shadows below, her heart betrayed her with a reckless thump. Something dangerous and delicious was about to unravel, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to stop it.
By mobeen islamabout a year ago in Fiction
The Silent Hour
It began, as most mysteries do, in silence. At exactly 3:17 AM on a rain-soaked Tuesday morning, every clock in the small English town of Alderbridge stopped ticking. Not a second more, not a tick less. The hands froze in synchrony, and the town slept on, unaware that time had taken its leave. By morning, the oddity was chalked up to a local power surge. Grandfather clocks, digital wristwatches, even battery-powered alarms—every timepiece had paused at 3:17. Only one man noticed what it truly meant. Detective Charles Leighton had been retired for eight years. Widowed, solitary, and living in the last house on Bramble Lane, he’d learned to appreciate the quiet, until that quiet started screaming. For Leighton, the stillness of 3:17 wasn’t a glitch. It was a sign. When the local historian, Margaret Hensley, failed to open the town’s museum that morning, concern spread quickly. Margaret was as punctual as the town bell. By noon, Constable Reeves was knocking at her door. No answer. Leighton, hearing the ruckus from his garden, wandered over. Reeves looked up. "She’s not answering, and the door’s locked from the inside." Leighton’s eyes scanned the perimeter. "Check the back." The rear window was slightly ajar. Inside, the house was dark, untouched. A teacup lay shattered on the floor beside an open book. Reeves radioed for backup, but Leighton stepped inside without waiting. Margaret Hensley was gone. --- The next clue came that evening. Leighton sat with a cup of strong tea, reviewing what he’d seen. The book beside the broken cup was a journal—old leather, weathered spine. Inside, a single page had been torn out. The rest was a meticulous account of Alderbridge’s past. Margaret had spent years documenting the town’s oddities: the church fire of 1901, the unsolved disappearance of a choirboy in 1922, the blackout of 1973. But one entry, written in faint pencil, stood out: "Clocks stopped before. 3:17 AM. August 14th, 1901. Edward Bell vanished. No explanation given. One survivor: Thomas Greaves, who later claimed he heard whispers when time froze." Leighton’s breath caught. August 14th. Today’s date. He rummaged through his attic and found what he hoped still remained—a dusty folder marked Greaves. He’d investigated Alderbridge’s cold cases in his younger days. Greaves had been dismissed as mad, committed to a sanitarium, and forgotten. Within the folder: a black-and-white photograph of Greaves, eyes wide in terror. A transcription of his ramblings: "They wait when time sleeps. They only speak in the silent hour." Leighton stared at his wristwatch, now working again. It read 10:06 PM. He had five hours until time stopped again. --- At 2:58 AM, Leighton stood outside Alderbridge Museum. The rain had returned, mist curling through the streets like breath from a hidden mouth. He carried Margaret’s journal and his revolver—a relic he hoped he wouldn’t need. Inside the museum, everything was as Margaret left it: old maps, Victorian gowns, a broken phonograph. But one exhibit stood out now. A tall grandfather clock in the corner. Its face read 3:17. Frozen. He opened its casing. Instead of gears, a hollow cavity. Inside—folded parchment. A letter. "To the next who hears the silence, They return every seventy years. They took Bell. They’ll take more. At 3:17, the veil lifts. Only those who listen can see. Only those who see can stop it. — M.H." The second hand on Leighton’s watch shuddered. 3:16. He felt it before he heard it: a pressure, as if the air itself had paused. The room chilled. The lights dimmed, then held. And then came the whisper. Not from outside. From within. "Charles..." He turned, revolver raised. Nothing. But the clock ticked once. Just once. "They wait... behind the hour..." The museum blurred. Walls twisted, shadows deepened. And then, in the center of the room, a figure. Margaret. But not as she was. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, her mouth moving in silent words. Behind her, four silhouettes in long coats, their faces obscured, circled like vultures. Leighton stepped forward. "Let her go." The room whispered: "Trade." He clenched the journal. "Why?" "Knowledge is the cost. Secrets must be kept. Time must be sealed." Margaret raised a hand, trembling. A flicker of recognition in her eyes. "Tell them... don't forget the silent hour." And then— The clocks restarted. 3:18 AM. The museum was empty. --- Morning came heavy with fog. Margaret was never found. Leighton told Reeves she’d vanished in the night. No one questioned it too much. The town had a way of smoothing over the strange. But Leighton knew the truth. He returned to his home, opened a new journal, and began to write. August 14th, 2025. The clocks stopped. Again. One taken. One warned. Next time—must be ready. He wound his wristwatch and stared at the second hand, ticking forward. Always watching. Waiting for the silent hour to return.
By Rohanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library That Grows What You Need
You’ll never find it by looking for it. That’s the first thing they say about the Library. And it’s true. I wasn’t searching for it when I stumbled through the overgrown alley behind my grandmother’s bakery, chased by a debt collector with more fists than sympathy. I ducked under a sagging arch of ivy, slipped between cracked stone walls, and there it was.
By Muhammad Sabeelabout a year ago in Fiction
The Swan of Dawn
It happened in that fragile hour — just before the world wakes. When the stars are still holding on but the first hints of light start bleeding into the sky. That’s when I saw her.
By Debarghya Chatterjeeabout a year ago in Fiction
The Future of Love
AI relationships are becoming more than just science fiction as virtual companions and AI chatbots increasingly blur the lines between human and artificial connections. What starts as casual interaction with AI assistants sometimes develops into something deeper, raising questions about the nature of emotional attachment in our digital age.
By Muhammad Sudaisabout a year ago in Fiction
The Future of Love
AI relationships are becoming more than just science fiction as virtual companions and AI chatbots increasingly blur the lines between human and artificial connections. What starts as casual interaction with AI assistants sometimes develops into something deeper, raising questions about the nature of emotional attachment in our digital age.
By Designary Techabout a year ago in Fiction
CONFUCIUS AND SOCRATES: THE DAWN OF A NEW WORLD
Thousands of leagues to the West, by the dazzling sea and the sun-scorched hills, a child was born—one whom no one would then have suspected of a destiny. Socrates was not noble. He was not handsome. He was neither the son of heroes nor of oracles. His father, a stonecutter, carved the statues that adorned the temples of Athens; his mother, a midwife, helped women give birth amid cries and prayers. From his father, he learned the patience of the chisel upon the rock. From his mother, he inherited the subtler art of helping souls give birth to themselves.
By Alain SUPPINIabout a year ago in Fiction
The Skyfire Compass
The Skyfire Compass A Journey Across the Fractured Realms The compass gleamed in Arlen's hand, its needle spinning wildly until he whispered the name: "Vaelora."
By Gabriela Toneabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Lightkeeper. AI-Generated.
Eli Moran had lived alone on Marrow Isle for twenty-seven years, tending the ancient lighthouse. Once, ships filled the bay like scattered marbles, and Eli’s light meant life or death to sailors fighting the tides. But times changed. GPS and satellites replaced him, leaving Eli a relic—forgotten by everyone but the island itself.
By Rendy Bagusabout a year ago in Fiction