Fantasy

Before the First Light
The last sliver of sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges that mocked Elara’s somber mood. Night had a different kind of gravity here, in the old, creaky house nestled on the edge of Whispering Woods. It wasn't just the lack of light; it was the way secrets felt heavier, decisions sharper, under the shroud of darkness. Tonight, the air was particularly thick with them, for it marked thirteen years since Lily had vanished.
By Stefano D'angello6 months ago in Fiction
Shadows That Remember
In a small, quiet village tucked between ancient, rolling hills, there lived a ten-year-old girl named Nina. She had a head full of wild curls that never stayed still and eyes that sparkled like the morning dew. Her home was a place unlike any other, not because of its cobblestone streets or its wooden cottages, but because of its shadows.
By Muzamil khan6 months ago in Fiction
The 2:22 to Nowhere. Content Warning.
The first thing he noticed was the overhead light. Fluorescent, humming slightly and the exact shade of beige that only government buildings and hospital waiting rooms could manage. Then the smell hit: over-worn upholstery, faint antiseptic, and something oddly sweet, like wilted flowers left too long in water.
By Aspen Noble6 months ago in Fiction
Boss Fight at Midnight
The moon was high, a pale coin above the crumbling city skyline, when Alex’s HUD began flashing crimson. BOSS ENCOUNTER INCOMING – 00:03:17
By Haris Raheem6 months ago in Fiction
Perfect
They awoke, as they did every time sleep left them, into darkness. With the ease developed by maneuvering through an unseen world they left their chamber and removed the accumulated toxins and liquids from their body quickly and efficiently with the extractor then moved towards the replenisher to restore their electrolyte balance.
By Judey Kalchik 6 months ago in Fiction
A Shadow Over Helen
As night gathered, the treacherous brother of Cupid, Betrian, slunk his way through the glittering halls of proud Menelaus. Betrian of the devious mind, with his webbed appendages, forked tongue and sharp teeth, silently prised open the sturdy door to the bedchamber of the alluring Helen, swathed in bedsheets of silk stuffed with goose feathers. A candle, lone and flickering cast shadows for the silent Betrian to skulk between. Crawling up the bedpost, the gracious Queen of Sparta lay alone, for proud-hearted Menelaus had taken off to hunting with spear and hound accompanied by his companions. Betrian, close to sweet Helen’s ears, whispered his twisted words into her pleasant dreams.
By Joseph Whitehead6 months ago in Fiction
*The Forgotten Bench*
In a small town cradled by rolling hills and thick forest, there was a wooden bench by the lake. It wasn’t grand—its green paint had peeled, one leg was uneven, and the wood bore the soft scars of time. But if you sat there long enough, you might feel something linger in the air—quiet, familiar, like the echo of a laugh carried by the wind.
By meerjanan6 months ago in Fiction
I Was Born a Slave
I Was Born a Slave I was born in the heat of a field, not in a house, not in a bed, not even in the shade. The women worked with me still inside my mother, and when I came there was no rest for her hands. She bit her lip, finished tying the bundle of cane, and only then knelt to wrap me in a strip of cloth torn from the hem of her dress. Her sweat was the first thing I smelled. Her heartbeat was the first thing I heard.
By Marie381Uk 6 months ago in Fiction
My Friend’s Last Words Came in a Dream
It’s been a year since Lily passed away, but sometimes it still feels like she might text me, or I’ll turn a corner and see her laughing in that way only she could. Grief is strange like that—it never really goes away, it just changes shape.
By ETS_Story6 months ago in Fiction
The Last Door Closed
e house had been quiet for days, the kind of silence that presses against your chest like too much water in your lungs. Dust curled in the corners of the hallway, catching shafts of sunlight that still dared to visit. Maya stood at the top of the staircase, her hand resting lightly on the banister, staring at the door at the end of the hall. The last door. She hadn’t opened it in over a year. Downstairs, the kettle began to whistle, but she didn’t move. The sound was distant, barely a memory. Like his voice. Leo had always been the heart of this house. Wild, brilliant, impulsive Leo. He had walked through life like it owed him something and somehow made you believe it might. Even when things got hard—especially when things got hard—he smiled wider, laughed louder, dreamed bigger. Maya had been the opposite. Quiet. Measured. Focused. But he saw her. Not just saw, understood. They met in college. She had been sitting in the library, headphones in, reading a neuroscience textbook. He tapped her shoulder and said, “You look like you’re trying to cure death. Mind if I join you?” She laughed for the first time in days. Their love wasn’t the kind that exploded—it unfolded. Slowly, patiently, like flowers learning the shape of sunlight. They married young. Too young, everyone said. But it worked. For a while. Leo wanted to write music. Not just perform it—compose it. Live it. He would stay up for nights at a time, scribbling notes and humming melodies, chasing fragments of sound through the house like they were butterflies. Maya supported him, at first. She worked long shifts at the hospital, sometimes overnight, saving lives while he chased his dream. But dreams are expensive. Rent climbed. Bills piled. Studio time wasn’t free. And when she miscarried the first time, Leo was composing in Berlin. He sent flowers. She never opened the box. The second miscarriage broke something in both of them. Maya buried it, like everything else. Leo drowned it in his music. Then came the silence between them. It wasn’t filled with anger—it was worse than that. It was filled with nothing. The last time she saw him, it was raining. He’d come home from a recording session, eyes wide, voice trembling with excitement. He’d finally sold a score to an indie filmmaker. Not much money, but enough. “It’s happening,” he said, grabbing her hands. “Everything’s finally happening.” She didn’t smile. She had just come from a twelve-hour shift, her shoes soaked, her back aching, her arms still trembling from losing a child on the operating table. She had nothing left to give. “Leo,” she said, her voice flat, “I can’t do this anymore.” He let go of her hands like they burned him. There were no dramatic fights. No screaming. No slamming doors. Just a quiet dinner. A shared glass of wine. And then, in the morning, he packed his things. He didn’t say goodbye. Just left a note: “I’ll always love you. But I can’t keep being the reason you’re unhappy.” The call came six months later. Maya had just gotten off a night shift. She ignored the unknown number at first. But something made her check the voicemail. “This is Detective Sloan. I’m calling regarding Leo Hartley. Please call back as soon as possible.” Her chest tightened. She sat down on the floor of her kitchen and listened again. And again. Leo had been found in his small studio apartment. Cause of death: fentanyl overdose. Intentional. The note beside him was just one line: “The music stopped.” She didn’t cry at the funeral. Everyone told her how brave she was, how composed. But it wasn’t composure. It was emptiness. Grief came later. In waves. Violent. Unforgiving. She tried to outrun it. Threw herself into work. Volunteered for more shifts. Avoided their old apartment like it was haunted—because it was. But when the lease ended, she returned. She told herself it was for closure. But really, it was punishment. She cleaned the apartment methodically. Room by room. Closet by closet. Until everything that had once made it theirs was gone. Except for the last room. Leo’s studio. She kept that door shut. Now, a year later, she stood before it. The kettle had long gone quiet. Outside, the sun was setting, painting the hallway in gold and shadow. Her fingers curled around the doorknob. She turned it. The door opened with a soft groan, as if waking from a long sleep. The room was frozen in time. Stacks of sheet music covered the desk. Guitars leaned against the walls. A keyboard sat beneath the window, half-covered in dust. On the far wall, pinned like sacred offerings, were dozens of sticky notes—fragments of lyrics, melodies, random thoughts. She stepped inside, the floor creaking beneath her. Her hand brushed over the desk, lifting a yellowed paper. Notes danced across the staves, delicate and beautiful. And then she saw it. A folder labeled: “For Maya.” Her breath caught. She opened it. Inside were pages of music. Lyrics. Personal notes. A letter. “This was going to be your song. I wanted to give you something as beautiful as you made my life. I’m sorry I couldn’t finish it.” She sat down, her legs no longer able to hold her. The melody was incomplete—but it was stunning. It began with soft piano, rising slowly, like dawn. The lyrics were raw, tender: “Even the stars are quieter now, Since you stopped looking up.I tried to build a world for you—But I was never enough.” She cried then. Not for Leo. Not for the music. But for all the things left unsaid. For the years they lost to silence. For the door she had never opened. She didn’t know how long she sat there, surrounded by his ghosts. But when she rose, something inside her had shifted. She took the folder and placed it in her bag. Later that week, she walked into a small recording studio near downtown. She handed the music to the engineer and said, “I want to finish this.” She wasn’t a musician. But she had heard him play it in fragments, in the dark, through walls. She knew it by heart. And with the help of others, she began to bring it to life. It took months. But when the final note was recorded, she closed her eyes and listened. It didn’t bring him back. But it gave him a voice one last time. A year later, on the anniversary of his death, she held a small gathering in the old apartment. Friends. Family. People who had known Leo, and people who never got the chance. She played the song. No speeches. No explanations. Just music. When it ended, no one clapped. But no one moved either. The silence that followed was not empty this time. It was sacred. That night, she stood again in the hallway. The room was dark now, empty. The folder was gone, given to Leo’s parents. She looked at the door. And for the first time— She closed it. Not to forget. But to begin. The last door closed. And the first window opened.
By Sajid 6 months ago in Fiction
I Followed a Song No One Else Could Hear… and Disappeared
The first time I heard it, I thought I was losing my mind. It started as a faint melody, barely audible beneath the hum of everyday life. No one else seemed to notice it—not my family, not my friends, not even the neighbors. But to me, the song was clear, like a thread woven through the air, pulling at something deep inside.
By Vincent Otiri6 months ago in Fiction
The First Night. Content Warning.
As she drove up to the hospital, she was a little nervous. This was a new job for her, and she didn’t really know what to expect. And it was the night shift. In a hospice unit. She figured the patients would be asleep. What she wasn’t banking on was the emotions she would be feeling by the time the shift was over.
By Pamela Dirr6 months ago in Fiction