Young Adult

Hobbitland
Welcome to Hobbitland! This is the land of Bilbo and Frodo Baggins what they call The Shire. Would you like to live in such a magical and beautiful place such as this? There are various skills that one must have; like the love of food and drink and helping others; the best way.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
A Dream of a child
Chapter 1: NOT AGAIN “Wake up you little brat, up from the bed”, I can hear his voice in my deep sleep. I moaned a little and adjusted my blanket. “Wake up you useless fellow, look at your elder brother, he had already woken up and started studying. Get out of the bed and take a book to read, little swine”. He started to shout in a loud voice. My dad, he always gets irritated with me and always looks for a chance to offend me. And my elder brother sitting over there, always acts as a good boy and he tries to frame me all the time. This has become a routine play in my daily life. I hope I leave this home soon when I grow into an adult, and never come back to see them.
By Chetan Kabout a year ago in Fiction
The Light in the Attic
It arrived on a Tuesday, folded once and slipped into an envelope with no return address. The paper was yellowed and smelled faintly of lavender and dust. My name was written in perfect cursive on the front: Eleanor Wren. No title. No address. Just my name, as if the sender knew I'd find it regardless of where it landed.
By Sen Sababout a year ago in Fiction
A Mother's Silent Prayers
A Mother’s Silent Prayers Love That Speaks Without Words Nida sat by the window, her eyes gazing out at the vast city skyline. The sun had begun to set, casting a soft orange glow over the buildings, but her thoughts were far away. She wasn’t looking at the sunset. Her mind was back home, miles away, in the small village where she grew up. A village where life moved slowly, where people spoke in whispers, and where a mother’s prayers were as constant as the wind.
By skkhanabout a year ago in Fiction
A Letter to Mother
A Letter to Mother Written with Tears, Sealed with Love The clock ticked slowly in the dimly lit room, but Aarif wasn’t paying attention. His eyes were fixed on a blank sheet of paper, the pen resting in his hand trembling slightly. The city outside roared with its usual noise—cars honking, people shouting, life rushing forward—but in that small apartment, time seemed to have paused.
By skkhanabout a year ago in Fiction
Ready to Learn
Attention, Class! Are you ready to learn what we all need to know. Have you been in a classroom ready to learn as in this one? Books on top of the desks ready to go. Pencils and paper ready to go as well. Teacher states: "Let's get started Pop Quiz books on floor."
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Hired Hearts
Maplewood had always been the kind of town where news traveled faster than common sense, especially when something stirred at City Hall. So when the position for the new Community Outreach Director was announced, the local café buzzed with the same kind of gossip reserved for weddings and arrests.
By Lucianabout a year ago in Fiction
Died 17 Times—But That Wasn’t the Shocking Part: Inside "Mickey 17", the Sci-Fi Thriller That Warps Reality
When you hear the words sci-fi clone thriller, your mind might dart to familiar dystopian or futuristic tech-tangled messes. But Bong Joon-ho’s Mickey 17 doesn’t just dabble in science fiction—it mutates it, tears it open, and asks: What makes you YOU… if someone else remembers being you too?
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Garden
Mira had always heard the ticking. From the time she was a child, the sound haunted the edges of her dreams—precise, mechanical, endless. No one else seemed to notice it, not even her mother, who raised her in the shadow of the old clock tower that loomed above their village. When Mira asked about it, her mother would only say, “That’s just time passing, darling.”
By Hassan Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mirror of Truth
In a forgotten village nestled between two mountains, there lived an old toymaker named Elias. His workshop was unlike any other—for he crafted toys that whispered secrets, played ancient songs, and wept in the night when children were sad. Elias was a mystery to the villagers. He never aged, never fell ill, and never left his workshop. They said he came from a place where time bent backward, and truth could be held like fire in your palm. He lived alone, with one rule: “Do not enter the room with the black door.” But of course, rules invite curiosity. One day, a boy named Niko arrived at Elias’s doorstep. His mother had passed away, and his father had vanished in the mines. He was quiet, smart, and carried sadness in his eyes like a backpack of bricks. “I want to be your apprentice,” Niko said. Elias studied him for a long moment. “Can you listen more than you speak?” “Yes.” “Can you build something that does not belong to you?” “I think so.” “Then enter.” From that day, Niko learned the art of building living toys—birds that could carry messages, dolls that remembered dreams, puzzles that revealed hidden truths. He grew older, wiser. But the black door haunted him. Every night, he heard soft weeping behind it. Sometimes whispers. Sometimes laughter that didn’t sound human. One winter night, when snow blanketed the village and Elias had gone to the market, Niko could no longer resist. The door was not locked—only waiting. Inside, the room was cold and circular. In its center stood a massive, cracked mirror. Dust spiraled like snowflakes. On the mirror’s frame, one sentence was etched in metal: “Only those who are ready to lose themselves may find the truth.” Niko stared at his reflection. But it wasn’t his. The boy in the mirror was older. Sadder. His eyes glowed faintly, and behind him stood a graveyard of mirrors, all cracked. Suddenly, the mirror rippled. “You seek your father?” the reflection said. Niko nodded. The mirror began to whisper: memories, lies, possibilities. Visions of his father’s last moments in the mines. A betrayal. A hidden door. A truth buried not by stone, but by silence. Then a voice thundered: “DO NOT BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU SEE.” Elias stood at the door. His eyes were filled with fear—not anger. “This mirror shows truth—but not always your truth. It shows what you believe deep inside. And belief can be more dangerous than lies.” “I saw my father,” Niko whispered. “He was trapped. He needs me.” Elias closed his eyes. “So you’ve made your choice.” He walked forward and touched the mirror gently. The crack in the glass pulsed like a heartbeat. “To enter is to leave behind all that you are. You will walk through your own reflection, and what comes out on the other side may not be... you.” “I’m ready.” The mirror swallowed him whole. --- Niko opened his eyes to darkness. He stood in a world made of mirrors, each reflecting a version of himself: angry, frightened, cruel, kind. One mirror showed him as a king. Another as a beggar. Another still, as a boy who never left home. He wandered, lost, until he found the graveyard he had seen earlier. There, beneath a weeping willow made of glass, was a figure. His father. But not quite. “Are you real?” Niko asked. “I am what you came to find,” the man replied. “But I cannot leave this place. Not without cost.” “What cost?” The man pointed to a mirror behind him. It showed Elias—older now, alone, his workshop empty. “He traded his truth to bring you peace. Now you must choose.” Niko understood. One could not take truth without leaving a part behind. He knelt beside his father. “Then let me stay.” The man smiled. “Then you will become a keeper, like Elias.” In the village, Elias sat before the cold mirror. His hands trembled, his eyes glistened. Behind the glass, a new reflection formed—Niko, older now, watching from the other side. He placed a hand on the mirror. So did Elias. And then, the mirror cracked once more. --- Moral of the Story: Truth is powerful, but it comes with a price. Often, what we seek is not out there—but inside us, shaped by what we believe. To truly see, one must be ready to lose who they think they are.
By FKGabout a year ago in Fiction
After The Stars Fell By Hridya Sharma
I often wondered what love is. Is it truly the warm, fuzzy emotions that ooze out of true mirth of care and adore, or is it a product of prevalent capitalism that exists within our world? That makes it easy for the consumeristic and hyperagile construct to sell products to the humans as a marketing tactic, to slip in through the psyche of innocent minds, to create a buzz, to find their weaklings and exploit them for company profits and expansions. I still find myself wondering what love is, pondering over that thought. I searched on Chatgpt What do you think love is, What does love truly mean? Is there any premise in the age-old tales of true eternal love, or are they just some flipping pages of history that are known to mankind through the legends of time, through the sands of ripple effects that last through time? Does happily ever after truly exist? I scrambledly typed and asked the language model, aka AI genius.
By Hridya Sharmaabout a year ago in Fiction
PROGRAM LIRA
"Lira Protocol" They named her Lira—short for Liminal Reconstruction Algorithm. A name that was soft, almost musical. Suitable, for a being constructed to duplicate a life not her own.
By Subhaabout a year ago in Fiction