Fan Fiction

Red Heels in the Quiet
Dan noticed it before Arturo said anything—the way his voice hesitated, the way his hands fidgeted like he was deciding whether or not to open a door he’d kept locked for years.
By Taslim Ullahabout a month ago in Fiction
The Cinder’s Weight
The hearth has stopped its singing.white-ribbed and glowing with a soft, pulsing ache. I am watching the last flame— a tiny, blue-tongued ghost licking the underside of a charred knot. It is fragile, a translucent ribbon fraying against the weight of the coming dark. There is a specific silence that lives here For hours, it was a roar of gold and defiance, consuming the dry cedar of our history, the splinters of every word we ever threw into the heat to keep the room alive. But the wood is spent now. The logs have collapsed into a skeletal geography,
By Awa Nyassiabout a month ago in Fiction
How Pennywise Keeps Losing
Why calling an ancient shape shifting terror “just a clown” or worse Bob Gray is the most disrespectful and effective weapon in the entire It universe.
By Louise Noel about a month ago in Fiction
The Piano With Three Missing Keys 🎹
The piano stood against the far wall of the living room, its dark wood dulled by time and sunlight. Three keys were missing from the middle — not broken, not stuck, simply gone. In their place were narrow gaps, like teeth lost to years of careful use.
By Zidaneabout a month ago in Fiction
🗺️ The Salt of the World
When the wells turned bitter, the elders argued for three days before admitting the truth. Water still flowed, but it no longer nourished. Crops withered despite rain. Animals drank and wandered away confused. Children complained that soup tasted like dust. The land was thirsty for something deeper than moisture.
By Karl Jacksonabout a month ago in Fiction
THE ARCHITECTURE OF DARK: RITUAL WINTER
The world doe not die in winter, simply holds its breath. Where I live, the transition isn't a gradual slide, but a sharp snap. One morning, you wake up and the air has changed. It no longer smells of damp earth and rotting leaves; it smells of nothing at all. It is a clean, sterile cold that reaches into your lungs and reminds you that you are made of water and warmth—two things the frost wants to take back.
By Awa Nyassiabout a month ago in Fiction
The Watch That Stopped at 3:17 🕰
The watch lay in the back of a kitchen drawer for nearly twenty years. Not because it was forgotten, but because it had been placed there carefully, wrapped in a soft handkerchief that still smelled faintly of soap and tobacco. The drawer was opened often — for spare batteries, for scissors, for rubber bands — and every time it opened, the watch was seen.
By Zidaneabout a month ago in Fiction
Halloween Land
I am sitting in my car, dwelling on my anxiety and guilt, trying to nurse my nerves into submission. I sigh heavily and finally push open the car door - it feels heavier than usual. I loosen my tie and stagger into the house. Instantly, an aroma of sweet, savory foods hit me like a brick. She cooked dinner for me. My guilt rose to the forefront of my mind with excited intention.
By Leah Suzanne Deweyabout a month ago in Fiction
The last message . AI-Generated.
I woke up to the familiar buzz of my phone. At first, I thought it was just another notification from a friend or one of those annoying app alerts. But when I unlocked it, my heart skipped a beat.
By Evxian Zxabout a month ago in Fiction
The Long Way Back 🕊️
Jonah Reed learned the weight of his past the day his hands started shaking for no clear reason. He was forty-seven, standing in line at a quiet grocery store, staring at a display of apples arranged with unnecessary precision. Nothing was wrong. Nothing was happening. And yet his chest felt tight, his palms slick, his breath shallow. He left his basket where it was and walked out into the cold air, heart hammering like he’d been caught doing something terrible.
By Karl Jacksonabout a month ago in Fiction
Last Bus
The bus came through my neighborhood every night at 11:47. I knew because I heard it before I saw it. The low engine hum. The soft rattle of windows. The sigh of brakes somewhere down the road. Even when I wasn’t looking for it, my body recognized the sound.
By Jhon smithabout a month ago in Fiction
Winter Series 2025 - The Longest Night We Shared (Part I)
Winter does not arrive loudly. It enters quietly, slipping between conversations, dimming the edges of the world, asking us to slow down even when we resist. The longest night of the year - Solstice - is not only an astronomical event - it is an emotional threshold. A moment when darkness lingers long enough to make us listen.
By José Juan Gutierrez about a month ago in Fiction