Sci Fi
The Lantern in the River
M Mehran In the quiet town of Bellmere, where the river curled like a silver ribbon through the valley, people whispered about the Lantern. No one quite remembered how the tale began. Some said it was a fisherman’s trick of light, others swore it was the ghost of a woman waiting for someone who never came home. Whatever its origin, the story lived on: every August, when the moon was high and the nights grew cooler, a single lantern appeared, drifting down the river against the current. Mira, a young journalist for the Bellmere Chronicle, had always dismissed it as one of those stories people told to keep small towns feeling magical. But this year, when her editor demanded something “bigger than bake sales and council meetings,” she decided to chase the Lantern. On the first night of August, she stood by the riverbank, recorder in hand. The town was still, except for the hum of crickets and the gentle rush of water. She had almost given up when she saw it: a glow far downstream, bobbing gently, moving up the river as if the current were nothing but air. Her breath caught. It wasn’t a campfire, nor the reflection of a streetlamp. It was a lantern—wooden frame, glass sides, and a steady golden flame burning inside. Mira followed it. She walked along the bank, stumbling over roots, brushing through tall grass. The lantern moved slowly, waiting for her, until it reached a bend where the trees leaned close like old listeners. And then, without a sound, it vanished. The next morning, Mira’s article caused a stir. Neighbors dropped by the Chronicle’s office, eager to share their own encounters: a farmer who saw the Lantern from his porch in 1978, a teacher who claimed her grandmother followed it once and never came back. Mira listened, scribbling notes, half convinced and half skeptical. But what unsettled her most was the letter she found slipped under her apartment door that night. It was written on faded paper in a shaky hand: “The Lantern chooses. If it waits for you, follow it. It will show you what you most need to know.” No name, no return address. By the third night, curiosity gnawed at her more than fear. She returned to the river. Again, the Lantern appeared, glowing softly like a star within reach. Mira followed it further this time, across the wooden bridge and into the darker stretch of forest. The sound of water faded; all she could hear was her own heartbeat and the crackle of flame. At last, the Lantern stopped in a clearing where the river pooled like glass. It hovered for a moment, then sank slowly beneath the surface. The flame did not go out. Instead, the water lit up, shimmering with threads of light that formed an image: her mother’s face. Mira staggered back. Her mother had disappeared when she was six years old. The police said she’d drowned in the river during a storm, but no body was ever found. Now here she was, smiling gently, as though waiting. “Mira,” the image whispered—not with sound, but directly into her chest, like memory made real. “You are ready.” The light rippled, showing Mira a small wooden box, its lid carved with the same pattern as the lantern’s frame. She remembered it vaguely, tucked high on a shelf in her childhood home, always locked. The vision faded, and the clearing was once again only shadow and water. The Lantern was gone. Mira stood trembling, recorder useless at her side. For the first time, she believed. The next day she searched her late father’s attic, and there, under dusty blankets, she found the box. The lock snapped open easily, as if it had been waiting. Inside lay letters—dozens of them, written by her mother. They told a story Mira had never known: her mother came from a long line of “Lantern Keepers,” people bound to the river’s strange gift. Each year, one person was chosen to guide lost souls back to those who remembered them. The flame was not of fire, but of memory. Her mother’s final letter was dated the night she disappeared: “If the Lantern comes for me, I must follow. But one day, Mira, it will come for you. Do not fear it. The river remembers.” Mira wept quietly in the attic, clutching the pages that smelled faintly of cedar and river mist. She realized the Lantern had not shown her the past to haunt her, but to pass on the duty. That August, Bellmere buzzed with rumors of Mira’s investigation. Some thought she was fabricating stories for fame. Others, older and wiser, simply nodded and said, “The Lantern found her.” Mira never published the letters. Some truths, she decided, belonged to the town’s hush and mystery. But at night, when the river glowed faintly beneath the moon, she walked its banks with a lantern of her own, flame steady, waiting to guide those who still searched for home.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Fiction
The Fisherman’s Net
The Fisherman’s Net The net was my grandfather’s true legacy. Not the small cottage, not the rickety boat, but this twenty-foot span of hand-knotted cork and twine. It smelled of salt, seaweed, and a lifetime of hard work. After the funeral, it was the only thing I wanted.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Starlight Café – Part 1: Daily Life & Introductions. AI-Generated.
Chapter 1: Morning Haze The neon sign flickered pink and blue: “Starlight Café — Open 25/8.” I wiped the chrome counter again, though it had been cleaned ten times already. The smell of coffee, fried eggs, and synthetic bacon lingered like a warm fog.
By Ai.Pendrakeabout a year ago in Fiction
The Bridge of Second Chances
M Mehran In the town of Riverton, a small bridge spanned the quiet river that divided the old neighborhood from the new. To most, it was just a functional crossing, worn with age and lined with chipped paint. But to those who knew its history, it was a symbol—a bridge between regret and redemption. --- Marcus’ Struggle Marcus had grown up in Riverton, a boy full of ambition but trapped in circumstances he could never control. His father had disappeared when he was young, leaving him with a mother who worked double shifts to make ends meet. By his teens, Marcus had fallen in with the wrong crowd, chasing money in ways he shouldn’t have. The bridge, with its rusty iron railings and narrow walkway, became his refuge. Whenever the weight of his mistakes pressed too hard, he would stand there, staring at the river, wishing life had given him another chance. --- The Turning Point One late evening, Marcus encountered Mrs. Thompson, an elderly woman who had lived on the edge of town for decades. She saw him leaning against the railings, hands trembling, eyes distant. “You look like someone carrying the world,” she said softly. Marcus laughed bitterly. “Maybe I am. What does it matter? I’ve made too many mistakes.” Mrs. Thompson didn’t argue. Instead, she handed him a small, worn notebook. “Write,” she said. “Write your story. Sometimes, putting your pain on paper can show you the path forward.” Marcus wasn’t sure why he accepted it. Maybe it was desperation, maybe curiosity, or maybe just the need to be heard. That night, for the first time in years, he opened the notebook and wrote down everything—every failure, every fear, every dream he had buried. --- Rediscovering Purpose The act of writing became a habit. Marcus returned to the bridge every evening, pen in hand, capturing the moments he had missed, the people he had hurt, and the things he hoped to achieve. Writing didn’t erase the past, but it gave him clarity. One night, a teenager approached him nervously. “I see you here every night… writing. Do you… think it works?” Marcus looked up. He saw a reflection of himself in the boy—lost, unsure, searching for direction. He handed the notebook over. “Try it,” he said. “Even small steps matter.” Word spread. Soon, the bridge became a place where residents—young and old—gathered to share stories, dreams, and lessons learned. The bridge was no longer just a structure over water; it was a meeting place for second chances. --- The Community Responds Riverton began to change. Neighbors who had drifted apart started talking again. Teenagers who once ran the streets aimlessly found guidance from those willing to share their own journeys. The bridge became a nightly ritual, a symbol of hope and transformation. Marcus, too, transformed. With the notebook as his guide, he applied for a job at the local community center and began mentoring youth. He shared his experiences honestly, explaining how mistakes can teach as much as successes. People noticed. Parents trusted him with their children. Teachers invited him to speak at schools. Slowly, the bridge’s reputation grew beyond the town, becoming a story of redemption that inspired others to believe in the power of second chances. --- The Bridge Speaks One rainy evening, Marcus returned to the bridge alone. Water splashed against the railings, and the river reflected streaks of gold from the streetlamps. He opened his notebook and began to read aloud, not to anyone in particular, but to the wind, to the river, and to himself: “Every step I take is a chance. Every mistake I’ve made is a lesson. Every moment I live is a gift.” In that quiet, he realized the truth: the bridge had never been magical. Its power was in the people who stood on it, in the willingness to confront the past and build a better future. --- Passing It On Years later, Marcus published a book about the bridge and the people who had shared their stories there. He returned frequently, walking the worn planks, greeting new visitors, and offering notebooks to anyone willing to try. The town of Riverton remembered him not as a man who had once stumbled, but as someone who had risen, bringing others with him. The bridge became a symbol of resilience, a reminder that no mistake is too great to overcome and that every person deserves a second chance. For Marcus, the bridge was more than a structure—it was a promise. And for Riverton, it was a lesson in compassion, courage, and the quiet, transformative power of storytelling.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Fiction
Human Justice
Vocal+ Summer Writing - Everything Looks Better From Far Away Human Justice The University had developed over 3000 Literary Device Interpretives and Modules, and had begun a knowledge splice so specific that it could be expanded and contracted, then still maintain an adequate Interpretation of multiple Knowledge Bases. The Arbitration Model had been as standard as that space-show hoped it would be. The Intended Communities were to distributed knowledge that could expand from Tactile to Computation, to be supportive and retractive depending upon use or misuse... the very term of Transmorphic String Theory had an awe of atmosphere of itself that seemed to glisten off the eyes of the beholders of more than 33% Reality, 33% Calculated, and 33% Hypo-theory/ Hyper-theory. The Process and Procedure of this life-Intervention and Messaging was as the glorification of light... a completing of the 1% faith, belief, property rights and property laws, well beyond boasts of trespassing that caused an explicit reduction, beyond solicitation, persecution or prosecution.
By Lawrence Finlaysonabout a year ago in Fiction
Beyond the Glass. Honorable Mention in Everything Looks Better From Far Away Challenge.
I stand there, looking out of the observatory windows on the top deck of the civilians’ quarters. Designed almost like the bulb of a snow globe, it consists of triangular glass panels held together at the edges by gray metal rods. Through the several feet of glass, I can see the stars, beautiful and un-warped despite the thickness of the panes. There is an elegance to them that is enhanced by the swirls of reds, blues, and purples that envelop them against the pitch-black sky. So big and so expansive, it is hard to believe that we have traversed so far from home
By Gunnar Andersonabout a year ago in Fiction
