Fan Fiction

The Halazia Chronicles
Hongjoong worked alone in his cramped room, surrounded by wires, half-finished beats, and the cold glow of his laptop screen, the cursor blinking like a dying star. Midnight had folded itself around the tiny space, the walls thin enough to hear the city sigh in its sleep. It wasn’t much, but it was his—his first real space since leaving home to chase a dream his parents never understood.
By Guia Noconabout a month ago in Fiction
The Season of the Honkers
Kael was born for the high, silent corridors of the sky. A Sandhill Crane, his life was a map of ethereal places: the tundra of Sibéria, the marshes of Nebraska, the skies in between. His world was one of graceful, deliberate movement and low, rattling calls that echoed over wetlands. He flew in a neat, arrow-shaped formation with his own kind, a symphony of coordinated wings.
By Habibullah2 months ago in Fiction
Cane-Carved Memories
The neighborhood knew him only as Old Harun, the retired carpenter with the steady hands and the slow shuffle. His cane wasn’t a medical necessity, or at least not entirely; it was a companion carved from an old walnut branch he’d rescued decades ago from a fallen tree near the canal. A branch that, in his words, “still had a little memory left in it.”
By Luna Vani2 months ago in Fiction
Villanelle of Regret .The Echo I Can’t Forget
I walk with memories dressed in quiet regret. The world keeps spinning, but my heart is set— Frozen in moments where truth derailed. The night returns with whispers I can’t forget.
By Awa Nyassi2 months ago in Fiction
The Halazia Chronicles
We are the music makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams;—
By Guia Nocon2 months ago in Fiction
Margarita on the Balcony
Every Friday at five o’clock—never five-oh-one, never quarter-to—Mrs. Lillian Hart and Mr. Emilio Alvarez stepped out onto their side-by-side balconies like actors taking the stage for a play written only in the language of ritual. The two balconies faced the same peach-colored courtyard, their wrought-iron railings close enough that the breeze tangled the geraniums together. Between them sat a small round table, half on her side, half on his, hosting a single margarita in a salt-rimmed glass.
By LUNA EDITH2 months ago in Fiction
The Prince Who Chased the Morning Light
Beyond mountains shaped like sleeping giants and forests that hummed old lullabies, there lay the twin kingdoms of Elessar and Aurendale. Though they shared a border carved by a winding silver river, their histories had long been strained — sometimes friendly, sometimes cold, like two siblings who loved each other yet refused to admit it.
By Zidane2 months ago in Fiction
Barista’s Echo
Morning always begins before the sun in our café. The world outside is still blue-gray and quiet, but inside, the lights warm the walls like an early sunrise. I’ve always liked that—the idea that a place can create its own dawn.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Fiction
The Attic’s Silent Guardian. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
When we moved into the old farmhouse on the outskirts of Abbott Valley, I expected creaky floors, strange drafts, and maybe the occasional mouse. What I didn’t expect was the feeling of being watched—not in a frightening way, but in a way that resembled someone keeping an eye out for us. Protecting us.
By Mohammad umar2 months ago in Fiction
🌙 I Want the Best for You
There are moments in life that glide in so quietly you barely notice them at first. Then one day you turn around and realize they’ve rearranged the entire architecture of your heart. That was you for me. You slipped into my world without fireworks or grand entrances, just this steady presence that felt like a warm chair pulled up close in winter. And maybe that’s why it took me so long to recognize what was happening. You never demanded attention. You simply held it.
By Karl Jackson2 months ago in Fiction
The Wisp's Change of Heart
The fog in the Whispering Woods was not ordinary. It was a creature—an ancient, drifting consciousness born of damp soil and forgotten paths. It called itself the Wisp, and its greatest joy was mild, artistic mischief.
By Habibullah2 months ago in Fiction
The four walls changing of time
The marred door is heavily made of wood. A handle smooth made of opal and cold to the touch. I look at this door full of grace in wonderment and without ease. I slowly grab the handle, feeling the smoothness, looking at the changing colors with astonishment. I turn the colors while I look at the flaws of the door. The door has cracks and pictures marred in the dark oak wooden frame. Opening the door wide I feel anxious in the pit of my belly at what I will find. I see four walls full of moving scenes. On the floor are beautifully done ceramic tiles. I walk in to investigate loving the clicking of my heels on the tile, a beat to my destination of the room.
By Tabitha Hinkley2 months ago in Fiction