Fan Fiction

Akatsuki Members as War Justifications
The beauty of anime is really in the details, to some it might just seem as cartoons but for the open minds, there is so much hidden in the details. Here is an interesting twist in the popular anime Naruto you might have missed, for those who might not know the Akatsuki were the main villain group the heroes were fighting against and throughout the series they had to take them down one after the other. The writer of this show didn’t just create a villain group made up of thugs out for violence, he put much more thought into their character than you might have realized.
By real Jemaabout a month ago in Fiction
The Upside Down of Snacking: Chocolate Treats That Belong in Every Stranger Things Fan’s Basket
Maybe it’s the 80s nostalgia. Maybe it’s the late-night binge-watching energy. Or maybe it’s because every episode feels like a roller coaster and your taste buds need emotional support.
By Emily Marenabout a month ago in Fiction
The Gospel of Gumption
The assignment from her editor was a footnote, a punishment for having annoyed a major advertiser. “Go to Gumption, Vermont,” the email read. “Cover their ‘Fall Furnival.’ Yes, with a ‘U.’ File 500 words on the quirky local color. Try not to poison the well.”
By Habibullahabout a month ago in Fiction
Roots and branches
My roots formed in uncelebrated places — In kitchens heavy with silence, In prayers said without witnesses, In hands that learned endurance Before they ever learned rest. They grew quietly, gripping soil That knew both hunger and hope, Teaching me early that survival Is a kind of wisdom.
By Awa Nyassiabout a month ago in Fiction
SHADOWS IN THE LANTERN FOG
The City That Smelled Like Regret Ravenbridge never smelled like rain. Not really. The city smelled like wet concrete, burnt oil, and the kind of smoke that curls out of closed bars at three in the morning when no one remembers what burned. Neon signs flickered in puddles of black water, distorted into eyes that watched you as you walked. The fog settled in the alleys like a warning, thick enough to make even the bravest think twice before stepping too far. I had lived here my entire life—or at least, enough of it to know that nothing in Ravenbridge existed for the good of its citizens. Everything existed for its own amusement. You could call the city alive, if you didn’t mind that it was the sort of life that gnawed at your insides and whispered when you were alone. It was the city that chewed dreams and spat out regrets, and I was one of the few who had made peace with it—or at least tried.
By Alisher Jumayevabout a month ago in Fiction
WHEN THE TIDES LEARNED OUR NAMES
By the time the ocean reached the fifth step of the old courthouse, no one bothered arguing whether the flooding was temporary anymore. Harborreach had become a city that survived not through denial, but through adaptation so gradual it felt like habit. Streets were re-mapped according to tidal charts. Homes wore stilts like sensible shoes. Boats replaced buses, and children learned to swim before they learned to read. The water didn’t arrive violently—it came patiently, season by season, salt creeping into foundations and memories alike. People still argued about the weather out of reflex, but they planned their lives around it now, checking sea forecasts the way their grandparents once checked calendars.
By Alisher Jumayevabout a month ago in Fiction
THE TEAPOT THAT KNEW MY NAME
Willowfen was the kind of village that forgot the meaning of hurry long before I was born. It sat between a river that sang softly to itself and a meadow that smelled of honey even in winter, stitched together by cobblestone lanes worn smooth by centuries of unimportant footsteps. Nothing legendary had ever happened there—no dragons, no chosen heroes, no prophecies scribbled in fading ink. Instead, Willowfen specialized in the ordinary miracles: bread that rose perfectly every morning, lamplight that glowed a little warmer when someone walked home alone, and gossip that traveled faster than the wind but never meant any harm. It was the sort of place where people waved even if they didn’t know your name, and somehow, by the end of the week, they did.
By Alisher Jumayevabout a month ago in Fiction
THE SILENCE BETWEEN LATIN VERSES
Blackthorn University did not rise from the earth so much as loom over it. Its spires pierced the fog like accusations, its stone corridors soaked in centuries of whispered ambition. Founded in 1649, Blackthorn prided itself on tradition, rigor, and an unspoken belief that mediocrity was a moral failure. The walls were lined with oil portraits of scholars whose eyes followed you as you passed, their painted gazes heavy with judgment. Students learned quickly that this was not a place to find yourself—it was a place to be reshaped. Knowledge here was not neutral; it was sharp, elitist, and alive. And like anything alive, it demanded something in return.
By Alisher Jumayevabout a month ago in Fiction
THE CLOCK THAT REMEMBERED ME
The clock began as an apology. Dr. Mara Ellison built it in the basement of her childhood home, beneath the creaking floorboards that still remembered her mother’s footsteps. The house sat abandoned on the edge of Greyhaven, a town that had learned to live around grief instead of through it. The neighbors said the place was cursed. Mara called it unfinished business.
By Alisher Jumayevabout a month ago in Fiction
Amo Te Semper
The cobweb stretches across the door like it alone holds the room closed, a testament to how long it has succeeded. Yet, a web is nothing more than an illusion of time. It could be a century old, or only a day. I know precisely how long it has been since anyone last crossed this threshold.
By Luna Vaniabout a month ago in Fiction
The Rooms Between
She enters the room. The door has always been there — unpainted wooden panels, a brass knob, no keyhole — standing between her bedroom and the bathroom every morning and every evening, and yet she cannot remember if she has ever stepped inside.
By LUNA EDITHabout a month ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Window
Every town has a place where time moves a little differently. In Briar Hollow — a quiet valley town with more trees than people — that place was Harlon’s Clock Shop.
By Zidaneabout a month ago in Fiction