Fan Fiction

The Last Lightkeeper
The Forgotten Lighthouse High above the restless sea, where the waves roared like ancient beasts and storms carved their rage into the cliffs, stood the Asterfall Lighthouse. For centuries, its white tower had guided ships away from the jagged rocks below.
By Iazaz hussain2 months ago in Fiction
The Doorway You Walk Past Every Day 🚪✨
Every town has one. Every neighborhood has one. Every person has walked past one and never realized what they were missing. A portal. A doorway. A thin slice of the world where reality feels just a little too quiet… a little too heavy… a little too charged, like the air itself is holding its breath.
By Karl Jackson2 months ago in Fiction
The Last Catalog
The Lennox Mansion Library was a mausoleum for books, and Elara was its reluctant caretaker. She was the last archivist before the wrecking ball turned two centuries of knowledge into dust. The city council had sold the land, deeming the building a rotting hazard. To Elara, each crumbling leather spine was a tragedy.
By Habibullah2 months ago in Fiction
Countdown. AI-Generated.
Part One: The Plan The city streets were quiet as the four men gathered in a cramped apartment above a laundromat. Outside, the hum of streetlights and distant traffic was the only sound. Inside, the table in the center was covered with maps, printed schedules, and diagrams of a large suburban house.
By William Ebden.2 months ago in Fiction
The Heist that Never Happened. AI-Generated.
They said he was the best. Not in newspapers and not in small bars where criminals traded stories, but in the quiet circles that mattered. People whispered his name, and the whispers always followed him into every room. He liked that feeling. It gave him confidence when he sat alone with his map, pencil tapping, tracing possible routes the way someone might trace the outline of a lover.
By William Ebden.2 months ago in Fiction
Bella Ciao.. AI-Generated.
The village of Monteverde slept at the foot of the mountains, wrapped in soft mist that drifted between the trees. It was early morning, a pale and gentle hour when the world had not yet decided to wake. Only one window glowed with light. Inside, a girl named Rosa stood at a small wooden table, tying her worn boots with slow and steady hands.
By William Ebden.2 months ago in Fiction
Shadows of the City. AI-Generated.
The streets were wet from a light evening rain, the kind that made the neon lights shine brighter but also made the whole city feel colder and more empty. Ren walked slowly with his hands in his pockets, his coat collar pulled up against the mist hanging around the streetlamps. He didn’t know why he was wandering like this, only that something was pulling him forward. Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was guilt. Either way, his feet kept taking him deeper into alleys he didn’t remember ever walking through.
By William Ebden.2 months ago in Fiction
The Silence on Hawthorne Street.. AI-Generated.
It was the kind of evening that made people lock their doors a little tighter. Rain had been falling steadily since morning, slicking the streets and coating the sidewalks in a reflective sheen. James Whitaker pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders and walked slowly down Hawthorne Street, the collar brushing the back of his neck. His footsteps echoed in the otherwise empty street, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the rhythm of raindrops hitting the pavement.
By William Ebden.2 months ago in Fiction
The Crimson Horizon.. AI-Generated.
The wind tore at the sails, snapping them sharply, and the salt stung James Calder’s face as he leaned over the railing of the Sea Serpent. The waves rose and fell like restless giants, each one threatening to toss the ship into chaos. He tightened his grip and squinted at the horizon. Somewhere out there, hidden among the fog and endless water, lay the treasure that had driven men mad for centuries.
By William Ebden.2 months ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Promise
M Mehran Everyone in the quiet town of Eldenbrook knew Elias Thorn, the old clockmaker whose shop stood at the corner of Willow Street. The windows were always fogged with dust and time, and the shelves were filled with clocks—grandfather clocks, pocket watches, delicate sand timers, and curious contraptions no one had names for.
By Muhammad Mehran2 months ago in Fiction
Ink-Stained Souls
The cabin didn’t look like much at first. Just a weathered A-frame tucked against a line of whispering pines, its roof heavy with old leaves that clung on the way memories cling to people who haven’t figured out how to heal yet. But everyone at the Cedar Ridge Writing Retreat swore it had magic in its bones. Or at least that’s what the brochure said, right under a photo of a smiling woman holding a pen like it was a wand.
By Karl Jackson2 months ago in Fiction
The Lantern Maker of Lyria
M Mehran Lyria was a town that did not sleep. Even at midnight, its narrow cobblestone streets glowed with strings of paper lanterns—blue for peace, yellow for hope, white for healing, and red for courage. But the most beautiful lanterns, the ones people whispered about, came from the workshop at the very edge of the riverbank, where an old woman named Sera lived.
By Muhammad Mehran2 months ago in Fiction