Sci Fi
A Dreamer's Journey
The neural crown fitted snugly around Pudding's head, its crystalline sensors pulsing with ethereal light as they delved deep into her unconscious mind. She had been asleep for nine months now, her frail body suspended in the gossamer threads of the Dream Weaver—a chair that seemed more grown than built, its organic curves shifting subtly with each of her breaths. Above her, translucent screens bloomed like jellyfish in the sterile air, displaying the vast archipelagos of her sleeping thoughts.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
The Library of Forgotten Names
M Mehran It wasn’t on any map, nor marked by any sign. But if you ever lost something precious—so precious that the ache of it followed you like a shadow—you might find yourself wandering a narrow street one evening and stopping before a tall, ivy-covered building you had never noticed before. Its wooden doors were always unlocked. Inside, the air smelled of old parchment and candle wax. The shelves stretched higher than seemed possible, vanishing into shadows overhead. The spines of the books were unmarked, except for a single word embossed in gold letters: a name. Maya stumbled into the library on a rain-soaked Tuesday. She had just returned from a funeral—the third in as many years. Her grandmother, who had once told her bedtime stories about gods and monsters, was gone. Maya walked without direction until she found herself at the library’s door. She stepped inside, dripping water on the floor, and froze when she saw a man seated at a desk. He wore a black coat, his gray hair pulled back neatly, and his eyes were sharper than the edge of a blade. “Welcome,” he said. His voice echoed strangely, as if the shelves themselves were listening. “What name have you lost?” Maya frowned. “I don’t understand.” The man rose and gestured for her to follow. He led her past rows of books until he stopped and ran a finger along a spine. “Here,” he said, pulling one free. The cover was plain, save for the name: Elena Marquez. Maya’s grandmother. Her breath caught. She opened the book, and there it was—the sound of Elena’s laughter written in looping script, the smell of her perfume pressed into the page. Each line was a memory, captured as vividly as if it had just happened. “How is this possible?” Maya whispered. The man gave her a small, knowing smile. “Every person leaves behind echoes. We collect them here. But you must understand—borrowing comes at a price.” Maya didn’t ask what price. She simply read. Hours slipped away as she turned the pages, reliving moments she thought she had forgotten: her grandmother teaching her how to roll tortillas, scolding her for staying up past midnight, kissing her forehead on nights when storms shook the windows. She cried, she laughed, she lingered. When she closed the book at last, the man was waiting. “You may take it with you,” he said. Her hands tightened around the cover. “What’s the price?” The man’s eyes softened. “For every memory you keep, you must surrender another. The shelves remain balanced.” Maya hesitated. “Surrender? As in… lose it?” “Yes. A name for a name.” She thought of her grandmother’s face, how sharply grief had cut into her heart. The temptation was unbearable. “I’ll do it,” she said. The man nodded. “Then speak the name you wish to give up.” She searched her mind. Who could she afford to forget? At last, she whispered a name—an old school friend she hadn’t spoken to in years. The man wrote it carefully on a blank spine, slid the book into place, and nodded. Maya left the library with her grandmother’s book pressed tightly to her chest. The days that followed felt magical. She opened the book each night, reading her grandmother’s words until she fell asleep. But soon she noticed a strange emptiness. When an old classmate waved at her in the street, Maya only stared blankly. Their name was gone, as if erased from her mind. Still, she told herself it was worth it. Weeks passed before she returned to the library. This time, she asked for another book—her mother’s. Her mother was alive, but distant, her love worn thin by years of silence between them. Maya wanted what she no longer had: closeness. Again, the man offered her the book. Again, she surrendered another name. One became two. Two became five. Soon, Maya had a growing stack of books at her bedside. Every night, she devoured memories, filling the void her heart could never quite satisfy. But with each trade, her own life thinned. Friends grew frustrated when she didn’t recognize them. Colleagues avoided her. Even her reflection felt like a stranger. Until one day, she realized she no longer remembered her own father’s name. Panic drove her back to the library. She burst through the doors, clutching the stack of books. “Take them back!” she cried. “I don’t want them anymore.” The man looked at her sadly. “Once a name is surrendered, it cannot return. Memory flows one way.” Maya fell to her knees. “Then what happens to me?” He gestured to the shelves. “You’ll become like them. A book among books. A name waiting to be read.” She stared at the endless rows of spines, each a person reduced to words on a page. And for the first time, Maya felt the true weight of her choices. No one knows how long she stayed there. But years later, when another wanderer stumbled into the library on a rainy evening, they found a new book resting on the desk. Its cover was plain, embossed with gold letters: Maya Rivera. The wanderer opened it and found laughter, sorrow, love, and regret—an entire life bound in paper. They read, they wept, they wondered. And when they closed the book, the man behind the desk smiled politely. “What name have you lost?” he asked.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Fiction
The Sentient City's Plea
The first time I saw the city bleed, I was walking home in the rain. A crack in the pavement, usually filled with black grime, was seeping a liquid, golden light. It pulsed faintly, in time with the flicker of the streetlamp above me. I wrote it off as a weird refraction, a trick of the water and neon.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mighty Lion and the Brave Little Mice
The Story In the heart of a vast forest where the trees touched the skies and the rivers sang as they flowed, lived a lion named Rudra. Rudra was no ordinary lion—he was the king of the forest. His mane shone like gold under the sun, his roar shook the valleys, and his strength was unmatched. Every creature in the forest respected him, not only because of his power but also because of his sense of justice.
By Hamza Muhammadabout a year ago in Fiction
The City of Almost
The City of Almost When Mira first moved to the city, she thought the locals were joking. “You’ll see them,” her landlord had said while handing her the brass key with its strange, crooked teeth. “Don’t stare too long. That’s the trick.”
By Timothy A Rowlandabout a year ago in Fiction
