Fantasy
Vargoth the Destroyer
Sand cooked under the burning sun, as it had done through the ages. A couple of birds had a conversation in the forest and cicadas could be heard singing their anthem somewhere in the distance, but no creature was around to hear the crackling sound that was growing over the sandy dune.
By Pete Crutchfield2 years ago in Fiction
The Button
It appeared on Eleanor’s kitchen table at 7:03 a.m.—a smooth, red button on a steel base, gleaming like it had been buffed by a god. No note, no box, just there. Her morning coffee turned bitter with the unease of it. She didn’t touch it. Not the first day. On the second day, she circled it like prey. Pressing it might mean disaster—or salvation. Her thoughts spiraled: Was this fate? Judgment? A prank from a higher plane? By day four, the button’s presence infected everything. She lost her job. Friends stopped calling. The world grew distant, unfocused. All that mattered was the choice. “Push me,” the silence begged. On day seven, she did. There was no flash. No sound. Just a blink—like the world skipped a frame. Nothing changed. Until everything did. --- It started small: she knew things before they happened. A teacup fell before her cat touched it. The mailman tripped and she gasped before he stumbled. Then it escalated. She began shifting. She'd walk through a door in Brooklyn and end up in Prague. Time buckled. She watched herself reading in her apartment while standing across the street in the rain. And voices. Whispers in mirrors. Her reflection smiled when she didn’t. Terrified, Eleanor tried to destroy the button. Smashed it with a hammer, burned it in her fireplace. It remained pristine. Unbreakable. Watching. She sought help. Scientists, shamans, priests—no one could explain the anomaly or stop the shifts. Everyone who tried vanished. It was a curse, she decided. She’d meddled with a force too vast, too alien. But then—clarity. A voice inside her skull, not hers, but familiar. “You're not Eleanor.” --- Memories she’d never lived began unfurling: A council of architects in a white dimension. Discussions of probability strands. The experiment: Earth-32. A simulated life coded into a shell named “Eleanor.” She wasn’t real. She was the test. And the button? The control mechanism. A trigger for awakening. A contingency. She tore through documents in the simulation’s government archives. Found a facility in Nevada matching coordinates hidden in her dreams. Inside: more buttons. Hundreds. Thousands. Each labeled with names: Marcus, Priya, Lu Chen, Eleanor. Hers glowed red. The others? Dim. She stood before a console marked: “RESET.” And a file opened on the screen: "Simulation #928. Subject achieved partial awakening. Reality integrity compromised. Initiate memory wipe or full reboot." There were only two options. Her finger hovered—then slammed the red “RESET” button again. --- Everything vanished. Except a kitchen table. A smooth, red button. And a woman sipping coffee. Unaware. Until 7:03 a.m.
By Reshal Manzoor 2 years ago in Fiction
Into the Center
The wind whirled around the deck of the coaster Dayla as it moves along the coastline. My eyes scanning the stacks of the dim lighted energy cells. "How are we to get past the damned blockade?" We had been stopped several times as the area has now been seized by the Gumba Alliance. An anti-Bluesea energy organization. Our last and only option, go beyond the coast. "Take us to the Center." I charge my crew as I move back up to deck, it's now time to prepare for the Kiras. As the Dayla moves away from the coast not a sound could be heard as anticipation and fear filled the air. "Ready the lasers!" I call as the Dayla approaches the center.
By M. W. Larsen2 years ago in Fiction
Lake of Blood: A Warrior’s Final Reckoning
The world above had long since forgotten the deep, uncharted caverns that lay beneath. A place where light dared not tread, and where the echoes of the past whispered like ghosts among the jagged stones. It was a realm where no living soul ventured, for fear of what might emerge from the shadows. Yet, in the darkest reaches of the earth, a figure stirred.
By Abdul Wahab2 years ago in Fiction
The Reflection Knows: A Mirror's Truth Can Shatter Reality
The Reflection Knows: A Mirror's Truth Can Shatter Reality The old mirror hums along with a diminished, persistent bass. I'm going to inherit it from my grandmother, who always warns me that it's too deep. '' I'll laugh, of course:). The story of the old woman.
By Sazia Afreen Sumi2 years ago in Fiction
Where Promises Wait
Mira sat on the same weathered bench under the orange tree in the town square at precisely 4:30 PM every day. She melted into the rhythm of the place, part mystery, part scenery, wrapped in a fraying gray shawl and her cane resting next to her like an old friend.
By The Waiting Tree2 years ago in Fiction
The Crimson Descent
A man covered in dirt and dented armor was falling—fast. The rocky walls rushed by like gray lightning. He didn’t know how long he had been falling. Time had stopped making sense. The tunnel was pitch black, but somehow he could still see the jagged stone around him. It wasn’t sunlight that lit this place—something else was watching, something that wanted him to see.
By Tejaswini Sanjay Kadam2 years ago in Fiction
"Numbers are the highest degree of knowledge. They are knowledge itself." Plato
Jed and Auralee worked with numbers. Both studied mysterious secrets hidden beneath numerical rules. Numbers influence and control life. But the numbers weren't working. Auralee felt they created a psychological fiction that only sometimes helps to understand the world.
By Katherine D. Graham2 years ago in Fiction
The Doll Maker's Curse
Any collector or treasure hunter will find something about estate sales to pique their interest. They had always captivated me; the antique trinkets, faded books, and dusty furniture loaded with lost stories drew me. Nothing, though, could have prepared me for the day I came and found an apparently harmless vintage doll that would transform my house.
By A S M Rajib Hassan Choudhury2 years ago in Fiction
