Fan Fiction
🧳 The Thing That Wasn’t in the Bag
Evan knew the exact moment it happened, even though it took him another ten minutes to admit it. The bus had already pulled away from the curb, tires sighing as if relieved to be done waiting. He stood in the aisle, one hand gripping the overhead rail, the other wrapped around his backpack strap. The city slid past the window in its usual indifference. Traffic lights blinked. A man jogged across the street with coffee sloshing dangerously close to regret ☕.
By Karl Jackson2 months ago in Fiction
The Bench That Never Moved
The bench had been there longer than anyone could remember. It sat beneath a wide banyan tree at the edge of the park, its wooden slats worn smooth by decades of waiting. Paint peeled from its iron legs, and one corner leaned slightly, as if tired but unwilling to fall. People passed it every day, yet few stopped long enough to notice it.
By ORM_Specialist3 months ago in Fiction
The Last Light in Apartment 407
Apartment 407 had been dark for weeks. Maya noticed it every night when she returned from work, climbing the narrow stairs of the old brick building with a tired sigh. Most windows glowed warmly by the time she reached the fourth floor—televisions flickering, lamps casting soft shadows—but 407 stayed empty and silent. No light. No sound. Just a closed door at the end of the hallway.
By ORM_Specialist3 months ago in Fiction
The Skull of Dracula
Lara Croft studied the map of the old cemetery under the light of the full moon. What she was looking for lay somewhere under her feet, somewhere under the 1000 graves was the key to opening the great tomb that lay halfway across the world on the southern tip of Australia. Despite the treasures she knew she could find; she never explored the cemeteries and tombs in this particular place for fear of what she might find; the living dead.
By Timothy E Jones3 months ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker of Chronos Lane
In the heart of a city that never stopped to breathe, there was a narrow alleyway known as Chronos Lane. It was so thin that two people could barely walk abreast, and at its very end sat a shop no larger than a garden shed. The sign above the door didn't say "Jeweler" or "Watch Repair." It simply bore the image of a single, unadorned brass gear.
By Asghar ali awan3 months ago in Fiction
