Fantasy
The Chronicles of Availian. Content Warning.
A wrathful blizzard scoured the surface of the Earth in nature's call for retaliation. Not a single inch was spared from nature's wrath. There was too much corruption and darkness roaming in a world meant for balance and life. The humans who dwelt there refused to take notice of the warnings as they vied for power and dominance. They sucked the planet dry of its resources to empower themselves, and then they focused on war. Turning their cruelty onto their own kind. Soaking the world in innocent blood. It was the poor who suffered the onslaught of the rich and powerful. There was no compassion or remorse for those who called themselves the world powers. They only thought of themselves and their comforts as they ravaged their own lands and then forged on to ravage the lands of others. Their greed and lust for power made them want what others had, and they forced their way into the ranks of neighbors. Bending the people to their will so that they could call themselves superior in their domination over life. Soon, rights were revoked, medical care denied, starvation took root, and the homeless outnumbered those who could afford homes.
By Valdeara Wallbergabout a month ago in Fiction
The Nephilhim. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
They arrived like a bad dream with excellent posture and absolutely no interest in your consent. No banners. No drums. No “we come in peace.” Just men too tall for doorways, wrapped in dark cloth, moving through torchlight like they’d bribed the laws of physics. The villagers called them Giants because humans love a myth that doesn’t require paperwork.
By Jesse Shelleyabout a month ago in Fiction
Sadie Sunshine
Sadie Sunshine always had a smile on her face and she lived in the magic village of Emerald Springs. The houses changed their colors based on the holiday. On Valentine’s Day houses would change to blue, white, or red. On Easter the houses are robins’ egg blue or bright yellow. They would be red, white, and blue on the fourth of July. They turn orange and black for Halloween. On Christmas the houses would turn not only red or green, some of them become blue or white to look like frozen ice crystals. The sheen of a crystal blue or white house in the winter time looked so pretty that remembering them filled Sadie’s heart with joy.
By DJ Robbinsabout a month ago in Fiction
The Empty Chair
I sit in my living room and look upon the empty chair. Once, a human being sat there, with life and love within him. A person with dreams, goals, and the ambition to achieve them all. Now there is only air. Empty air, dusty air, illuminated by the scant sunlight that drifts in through the dirty window.
By Ophelia Keane Braedenabout a month ago in Fiction
Berganashio - Chapter 33
The darkness of night commenced as a blanket. In a tumultuous panic, the fairies flew from the giant's lumbering form. Obediently, the giant followed Whisper's command to go into the cave entrance. It was bedtime for the giant, so he began to lay down on the leather conveyer belt that was near the front part of the cave entrance. The three totters jumped down from the giant's shoulder who had already fallen asleep; he was oblivious to the world.
By Rowan Finley 2 months ago in Fiction
Berganashio - Chapter 32
Keenwai and Kunya had consoled Larkin and Villi to the best of their ability. They knew that that the time had come for them to leave though. Grinyella and Podder agreed that the best course of action was for them to return home to the burrowlands. They were concerned that there could be another raid from the vengeful sea-wolfs who had already attacked them once before. With the merfarie king and queen gone now, they especially did not feel any obligation to remain at the merfarie gardens. Before they left to return home, the merfaries sang several songs. The splendor of the vines and plants that sprang forth from the singing was mesmerizing to the meerbirds. There was a melancholy tilt to some of the singing because they were mourning the destruction of the throne room and the abduction of the merfarie king and queen. The meerbirds were most grateful to eat the luscious vines and colorful flowers that were produced by the singing of the merfaries in the courtyard. The song started with one merfarie warrior who was clearly grieving the loss of the merfarie king and queen. These were some of the words that he sang before the rest of the merfaries joined his solemn solo.
By Rowan Finley 2 months ago in Fiction
The Tuesday Hum
The sky began humming on a Tuesday. It wasn’t a loud sound, not at first. It was a low, mechanical vibration that settled over the neighborhood like background music no one had selected. It buzzed faintly in the teeth and rattled the window glass in the guest bedroom. By noon, the birds had stopped singing, and by dinner, the clouds had turned a stagnant, bruised purple that didn’t move with the wind.
By Emily Ann Rose2 months ago in Fiction
The Forest That Waits
She frowned at the ground around her. Surely there had been a trail just seconds ago; she had been following something to be this deep in the Forest. But now only sparse patches of dirt showed between thick tangles of weed and bracken, and she could neither find the path nor entirely remember if there had ever been one. A slow unease crept through her. She had come here for a reason. Hadn’t she? Everyone knew entering the Forest was a terrible idea. She was certain she had believed that once. Or had she? There had been a Before. She felt it faintly — lines carved into the ground, walls made of trees but not of trees, voices carried on wind instead of leaves. Something important hovered just out of reach. She gasped. “Ezra!” The name struck like lightning. She ran. Branches scraped her arms as she pushed forward, heart pounding, breath tearing from her chest. No need for a trail now. She remembered the child running — small footsteps disappearing into green shadow, laughter turning to silence. “Ezra!” The word burned in her throat. Not the first time she had shouted it. Her aching legs told her she had run for miles. Her drifting thoughts suggested she had been running longer than a day. The Forest did not answer. A clearing opened before her, sudden and perfect. She stumbled into it and fell to her knees, gasping. The air felt different here — too still, too calm. She sat where she had fallen, trying to gather fragments of memory. A town. A home. Raised voices. The child running. Running into the Forest. She squeezed her eyes shut. In stories, clearings brought answers. She wanted very badly to leave this one. When she opened her eyes again, the space felt almost rehearsed. The clearing was perfectly round. Sunlight fell in deliberate shafts through the canopy above, illuminating jewel-bright birds darting after insects. Wildflowers spread in careful arcs, drawing butterflies in flashes of impossible colour. Everything was beautiful. Everything was wrong. Sweat beaded on her skin despite the gentle breeze. Ezra was not there. But a narrow trail broke through the bushes at the far edge of the clearing. Hope surged through her — sharp and painful. She moved toward it. Then she saw the light. Off to one side, beyond the trees, a brightness shone — harsher than the clearing’s glow, like early morning breaking through fog. The edge of the Forest. Her breath caught. If she stepped toward it, she could leave. She felt it — freedom waiting just beyond the trees. Had Ezra already escaped? Was the child waiting there, safe? Or had Ezra gone deeper instead? The clearing held its silence. The same birdcall rang out — clear, identical, as if repeating a note long practiced. She hesitated. If she left now, she might never return. But if Ezra waited beyond the trees… She bit her lip, gazing toward the light. Then she turned back toward the trail. A few steps beyond the clearing she stopped again. Footprints marked the mud. She crouched. They overlapped each other — worn deep into the earth, not one path but many, layered together as if walked again and again. Her breath faltered. Slowly, she placed her foot into one of the prints. It fit perfectly. They were hers. And they were old. A cold understanding brushed against her mind — something vast and terrible and almost clear — but it slipped away before she could grasp it. The trail stretched ahead, waiting. She swallowed and stepped forward. The trees closed behind her with quiet patience. Moments later she paused again, uncertain. She frowned at the ground around her. Surely there had been a trail just seconds ago… Somewhere deeper in the Forest, the same birdcall echoed once more — unchanged, unhurried. And the Forest waited.
By Mina Carey2 months ago in Fiction
