Fantasy
The Whispering Woods
The ironwood gates groaned open, a bone-chilling sound filling the air. Elara, a young wood elf with eyes the color of moss, felt a shiver run down her spine. The Whispering Woods were not a welcoming place. Ancient and mysterious, they held secrets older than time itself. The tree's whispers were beautiful yet laced with a sense of icy indifference. Elara gripped the leather satchel tightly, its contents weighing heavily on her shoulders. Within it, the Elderwood seed pulsed with a haunting emerald light—a burden and a hope.
By Yakise Raphael Etim3 years ago in Fiction
The Battle of Kasarus
Camus The Great is standing in the heart of the Forest of Kasarus with his three fellow swordsmen: Marius, Ardeth and Antioch. The four swordsmen are awaiting the army of Syranus Camédes. Marius, Ardeth and Antioch are nervous as the army is only minutes away from approach. Camus, on the other hand is very calm and collective. It as if he is not awaiting certain death, but paradise and bliss.
By Joe Patterson3 years ago in Fiction
Resuscitating Nessie
"Well, where is she?" "She washed up on the shore, just like I told you." "Oh, she just washed up on shore, did she? — and you’d have me believe that she’s real , that she even exists. Like all those other hallucinations of yours — or what was it that you called them again? Ah yes — portals! — gateways into your fantasy world. All I have to do is follow you down the wormhole, that’s it, isn’t it? You’d think I was born yesterday, too, wouldn’t you, now? Why , you know what you could do for me? You could go and write some of that fresh bullsh*t down for me. Chisel a few lines into some stonework, or even carve out a sculpture of this whale of yours, as you see fit. No, hold on — better yet: Write a full ream of that fantastical delusion out for me, would you? You can’t even make this stuff up! Listen, kid, when you’re all done writing and you’ve got a final copy ready, hand it over on some glossy coloured paper, would you? — make it out on aqua green A4 — you hear? I want a record of it — a hard copy. I reckon one day — sorry to say, probably when you’re long gone, that’s just the way it goes for the lot of you writers; ain’t it the truth, boy? — maybe it’ll sell for something substantial, you little nincompoop you. All you’d have to do — I’d swear it on Nessie herself — is write some of it down, and maybe date it with your own hand; and just like that, they’d make a Nobel Laureate out of ya. That’s how it’s done, kid. Ten, twenty, fifty — or perhaps a hundred years from now, some sorry soul may be forced to dredge through some of your delusions in a literature class. And during this quest — whether it's the first they've heard of you or not — you may just make the grade as someone's new favourite author; it’s possible, you know? Anything is possible. But, some one — no doubt about it, kid, some ‘cowboy general’ — will finish skimming one of these books with your stories, and upon reflection, promptly slam the book down on the desk in front of him, in an emphatic fashion — right in the middle of class while the teach is going on about allusions and metaphors — and preach that you were mad as a hatter and there’s no sense in reading any of your works, at all. But, of course, you take the piss better than anybody, don’t you? If I were as high as a kite I couldn’t dream up a piece quite like this nonsense — not in the least like this, kid. And, supposing I tried, I’d probably have a seizure before I even got to the climax of the story; and even then I’d probably fall into some sort of coma, no doubt one that I’d never wake up from. So, there’s only one explanation for it, kid: you've got a tumour. Yes, that's got to be it ! I just often wonder how dangerously big it’s gotten; yet, it doesn't seem to stop you from writing like a wizard, now does it? If I were you, I’d take a crowbar to it before you start tripping over your feet though. But in the meantime, there’s certainly no harm in writing down some of these sensational ‘event horizons’. And you keep putting off your next written piece — but boy , I’d say this is it , kid. You know what else they’d do? I'll bet the real fans, the ones with all your stories on their shelves back at home — they’ll take quotations from your work and have them framed in their bedrooms. I tell ya — they’ll do it! So, go on, now: I want it in writing first, before I go on any of these expeditions with you.
By Delusions of Grandeur 3 years ago in Fiction
The Song of Stars
In the vast expanse of the cosmos, where galaxies swirl like celestial dancers and nebulae shimmer with ethereal light, there exists a harmony beyond comprehension—a symphony of stars that sings the song of creation itself. And at the heart of this cosmic orchestra lies a young musician named Lyra, whose melodies have the power to shape the very fabric of the universe.
By M.Kamran Shaukat3 years ago in Fiction
The Realm of Forgotten Dreams
In the quaint town of Willowbrook, nestled amidst rolling hills and ancient forests, lies a hidden secret known only to a select few—the entrance to the Realm of Forgotten Dreams. For generations, the townsfolk have whispered tales of a mystical realm where dreams come to life, but few have dared to seek it out.
By M.Kamran Shaukat3 years ago in Fiction
"Elbowing Up to the Bar"
There were a good dozen taverns and inns in the town of Vexdale, some of them inside and others outside the city’s modest stone walls. But since the guards that manned the Eastern and Southern gates were usually drunk even during the daylight hours, the distinction between who was an “in-towner” and who was an “out-of-towner” was rarely enforced.
By David White3 years ago in Fiction
"Pellanor in the Otherworld"
The aroma of fresh-cooked meat, the bouquet of various wines and ales, and the enticing laughter of a dozen cheerful conversations would have been much more enjoyable if the dwarf hadn’t been lying flat on his back. His rugged face was edged by a trimmed rusty-red beard less than a hand in length, short enough that many non-dwarves mistook him for a surprisingly muscular female dwarf. But such an appraisal would have been dissuaded as soon as they heard his deep, gravelly voice. His current position hadn’t resulted from combat, nor from a fall. In fact, he couldn’t recall why it was that he’d come to be lying here–
By David White3 years ago in Fiction
A Random Story Clip. Content Warning.
"Stop! You can't!! He didn't do it!! Let me go!" She struggles against her best friend's grip as he holds her arms behind her back. Her voice laced with fear and anger as tears drip from her chin to the ground, soaking the ground beneath them. Her lover is only a few feet in front of her on a platform, down on his knees with a sword pointed at his head. He doesn't fight, he doesn't run, he just sits there, accepting his fate. She tries desperately to scream the words that would save her lover from execution, but they don't come. They can't come, they are trapped in her throat, held by a spell he had placed on her, right before they dragged him away to the platform. He knows what really happened, and he knows what they would do to her if they knew she was the one who did it. He knew they would blame him, I mean, who wouldn't blame him, son of the high dragon, hated and feared by all. Her voice screeching across the field makes him close his eyes. He knows she will hate him forever for forcing her to let him take the fall, but at least she'll be alive. She beats, kicks, screams, bites, anything to try and escape her best friend's grip. She just about kneed him in the chest when she saw the glint of the sword being raised. "NO!!" The sword flies forward, embedding itself into his chest. Her screams and cries break the hearts of everyone present, including him, causing him to gasp and sob as blood pours out of his wound, a puddle forming around him. He takes a couple choking sobs before slumping down to the platform floor, staring with blank, empty eyes. She's finally released and runs to his side, kneeling next to him, she pulls his lifeless head into her lap and sobs into him. With his death, his spells die as well and she whispers to herself, "It was me- It was me-" over and over. Her best friend slowly walks up to her, listening intently as she mutters. "What are you saying..." She holds his body tighter before glaring with as much hatred as possible, she screams at them the three little words that would have saved him... "IT WAS ME!!" The entire field goes silent.
By Abigail Lyle3 years ago in Fiction
Vampire Hunters
I sat there staring at the TV, which I had turned off. My pistol, badge, and phone which was tossed on the coffee table. Jake was in the kitchen reading an old leather-bound book. We just got home from work about thirty minutes ago. It has been two days since we received the message from the demons. My phone buzzed continuously, I looked at it and it was Zach who was calling. I picked up my phone to answer it.
By Jorden Dunbar3 years ago in Fiction
