Fan Fiction

The Christmas We Forgot to End. Content Warning.
December descended like a thief in snow, wrapping the small town of Ashwood in a cloak of white. For Emma, it was the kind of winter that smelled like fresh cookies and forgotten dreams. She’d spent the morning baking with her grandmother, the same rituals they’d performed every year since she was a child – sugar cookies cut into stars, hot cocoa laced with nutmeg, the scent of orange and clove wafting from the simmering potpourri.
By LUNA EDITH23 days ago in Fiction
The Doorbell That Rang Once More 🛎
The doorbell had not rung in eleven years. Not once. It sat beside the front door of the narrow house on Brookfield Road, its small metal button dulled by weather and time. Dust gathered around its edges. A spider once tried to build a home beneath it, but even the spider eventually left, as if sensing there was nothing left to announce.
By Zidane23 days ago in Fiction
How We Stay Lit
Winter arrives without apology. It closes its hands around the hours, tightens the air until even silence shivers. The world grows careful. Footsteps soften. Voices lower. Everything essential learns how to last. In this season, warmth is no longer loud. It does not roar or demand attention. It survives in fragments— a candle steady on the sill, its flame no bigger than a thought, yet brave enough to stand against the dark. That small light gathers the room gently, pulling shadows closer, teaching them how to rest. It does not banish the cold. It negotiates with it. Small heat lives in the pause between breaths fogging the window, in the way hands linger around a cup long after the tea has cooled. It hums quietly in wool scarves, in coats that still remember yesterday’s body. There is warmth in presence, too— a shoulder leaned into at a bus stop, a shared silence that does not need words. Two breaths syncing, creating a fragile pocket of mercy inside the frost. Winter compresses the world, but small heat resists by expanding inward. It teaches patience. It teaches listening. It teaches that survival is not always grand— sometimes it is careful and deliberate, a decision made again and again to stay lit. A lamp left on in an empty room becomes a promise. A quiet reminder that someone will return, that absence is temporary, that darkness does not own the final word. How we stay lit is not by overpowering the cold, but by softening its edges. By holding space for gentleness when the season insists on hardness. And when spring finally loosens winter’s grip, it will not remember the storms first. It will remember the lights that stayed on. The hands that held. The flames that refused to go out.
By Awa Nyassi23 days ago in Fiction
The Second Sunset Protocol
Kaleb dropped the wrench. It hit the metal bench with a clatter that echoed too loud in the empty bay. He dragged a sleeve across his forehead, smearing black hydraulic fluid into his sweat.
By The Quiet Hustle23 days ago in Fiction
If Love Had a Voice
If love had a voice, it wouldn’t scream. It would whisper—softly, patiently—waiting for the right heart to listen. I met Aaira on a night when I had stopped believing in coincidences. The city was loud, restless, alive with strangers rushing past one another, each carrying their own unfinished stories. I was standing on a bridge, staring at the river below, wondering how something could keep moving even when it carried so much weight. She stood beside me without asking permission. “You look like someone who talks to the dark,” she said. I smiled, surprised. “And you look like someone who listens.” That night, we talked until the city fell quiet. She told me she recorded voices—random people, random moments—because she believed every voice carried a hidden truth. I told her I wrote letters I never sent. She laughed at that, the kind of laugh that stays with you longer than words. From that night on, she became my habit. We met on rooftops, cafés, bus stops, anywhere the world slowed down enough for us to breathe. She would press the record button on her old audio recorder and ask, “Say something you’ve never said out loud.” Sometimes I spoke about fear. Sometimes about dreams. Once, without thinking, I said, “I think I’m falling in love.” She didn’t respond immediately. She just kept recording. Love with Aaira wasn’t dramatic. It was gentle. It arrived in shared silences, in half-finished sentences, in the way she remembered the smallest details—how I liked my tea, which songs made me quiet, how my voice changed when I was lying. One evening, she played a recording for me. It was my voice—from weeks ago—laughing. “You sound happiest when you forget you’re being heard,” she said. That scared me. Because love has a way of making us visible, and I had spent years hiding. Then one day, everything changed. Aaira got an offer—a scholarship abroad. A chance she had worked for her entire life. She told me with shaking hands and hopeful eyes. “I don’t want you to feel left behind,” she said. I wanted to tell her to stay. I wanted to say love should be enough. But love is not a cage. So I smiled. “You were never meant to stay still.” The night before she left, we met on the same bridge where we first talked. The river moved endlessly beneath us. She handed me her recorder. “Keep this,” she said. “Fill it with your voice. So distance doesn’t erase us.” I held it like it was fragile. At the airport, she hugged me longer than necessary. “If love has a voice,” she whispered, “yours is the one I’ll always recognize.” She left. Days became quieter. Then heavier. I spoke into the recorder every night—about my mornings, my regrets, the ache of missing her. I recorded my silence when words failed. Sometimes, I played old recordings just to hear her breathe in the background. We stayed connected—messages, calls, shared dreams—but time zones are cruel, and life doesn’t pause for longing. Slowly, the calls shortened. Slowly, the space grew. One night, I stopped recording. Years passed. I became someone else—stronger, maybe lonelier. The recorder stayed locked away, like a chapter I was afraid to reread. Then one day, I received a package. Inside was the recorder. And a note. “Press play.” My hands trembled. Her voice filled the room—older, calmer. “I never stopped listening,” she said. “I heard your fear, your strength, your love. I carried your voice through cities, through nights when I almost gave up.” There was a pause. “I’m coming home.” We met again on the same bridge. Older. Changed. Familiar. No dramatic running. No tears. Just a quiet smile. She pressed the record button. “Say something,” she said. I looked at her and spoke the truth I had been carrying for years. “Some love stories don’t need to stay loud to stay alive.” She stopped recording. Because some moments are meant to be felt— not saved.
By Mustafa24 days ago in Fiction
Gentle & Healing
We learn how to care for others, how to show compassion, patience, and understanding—yet when it comes to our own hearts, we become harsh critics. Healing begins the moment we decide to speak to ourselves with kindness instead of judgment. Gentleness is not weakness. It is strength wrapped in softness. It is choosing peace over pressure and progress over perfection. ealing Starts With Awareness Many emotional wounds are not visible. They live quietly in our thoughts, shaped by past disappointments, unmet expectations, and words that once hurt us. Often, we carry these wounds without realizing how deeply they influence our daily lives. Healing begins when we become aware of our inner dialogue. Ask yourself: How do I speak to myself when I fail? When I feel tired? When I fall behind? If your inner voice is critical or unforgiving, it may be time to replace it with gentler words—words that heal instead of harm.
By Awa Nyassi24 days ago in Fiction
🚆 Leaving the Map Behind
I packed my bag three times before I closed the zipper. Not because I needed more things, but because I needed more courage. Every item felt like a decision. What version of myself was I bringing with me. What version I was finally leaving behind.
By Karl Jackson24 days ago in Fiction
✍️ Ink on a Moving Target
A character learns what it feels like to be revised while still breathing I notice it before it happens. There’s a tightening in the air, a faint tug behind my eyes, the sense that the floor beneath the sentence has gone soft. That’s when my author pauses. That’s when I know I’m about to change again.
By Karl Jackson24 days ago in Fiction
The Voice Behind the Mirror
"We hit something. I think we hit a deer." "That wasn't a deer. That sound was too solid. Like a stone wall." "The engine is dead. Try starting it again."
By Fathi Jalil25 days ago in Fiction
How to Survive the Night Shift Alone
Step 1: Enter the Building Quietly The night puts its shadow around you,--and it is silent and alert. Be careful when approaching the front door, taking every step. The old hinges' complaint evokes pity, and even the slightest creak echoes more loudly in the silence. Motion sensors are blinking slightly, and they are in synchronisation with your beat, and you wait until the rhythm gets steady. Feel the resistance of the lock by gently inserting the keycard, then use force only when necessary. Every moment of silence as well as every intentional movement is essential; a false step would trigger something intangible, hidden, and on the alert.
By ZUBAIR25 days ago in Fiction
The Mirror That Refused to Forget 🪞
The mirror hung in the hallway between the bedroom and the bathroom, framed in dark wood that had softened with age. Its surface was not cracked, not warped, but no longer perfectly clear. When light struck it just right, faint marks appeared — smudges that never fully disappeared, no matter how carefully it was cleaned.
By Zidane25 days ago in Fiction
NEON BLOOD EMPIRE
The night the city tried to kill her the sky was burning red and the alarms never stopped screaming and Nyx Virel stood in the middle of Sector Nine with blood on her hands not all of it hers watching a skyscraper collapse like a dying giant behind her while drones hunted her name through the air the city of Axiom Prime was not supposed to look afraid it was built to dominate to control to erase weakness but tonight it was trembling because Nyx had stolen something that was never meant to be touched the Core Seed a living quantum intelligence buried under the city for two hundred years and every gang every syndicate every artificial god connected to the grid wanted her dead Nyx did not run because she was scared she ran because standing still meant extinction and as she jumped across broken rails and burning streets memories flashed of the moment she met Kael Draven the man who taught her how to survive how to shoot without hesitation how to love without fear and how to trust in a world that punished trust the moment she landed hard on the steel bridge her comm crackled with his voice calm sharp alive telling her he was coming that he would get her out like he always did but this time the city itself had turned into a weapon and the gangs were not just criminals anymore they were armies enhanced by illegal cybernetic rituals feeding on fear and data and Nyx knew this was no longer a job gone wrong this was war and she was at the center of it whether she wanted to be or not
By Diab the story maker 25 days ago in Fiction