Fan Fiction
"What We Leave for Each Other”
They did not speak anymore, but every morning the porch between their doors was used. By seven, one of them would place something there—a mug, a folded note, a piece of fruit set carefully on a napkin. Nothing was announced. Nothing was explained. The object was never the same twice, but it always appeared in the same place, aligned with the seam between the boards as if that line still mattered.
By Jeannie Dawn Coffmanabout 13 hours ago in Fiction
THE SEA RAIDERS
Until the strange events at Sidmouth, the deep-sea creature known as Haploteuthis ferox was barely understood by science. Only fragments—tentacles found near the Azores and a decaying body discovered off Land’s End—hinted at its existence. Like most deep-sea cephalopods, it lived beyond the reach of nets and observation, known only through rare accidents. Zoologists could not explain how or why such creatures ever reached shallow waters.
By Faisal Khana day ago in Fiction
The City That Remembered Your Name
On a cold November evening, Elena boarded a train that did not appear on any timetable. She had spent the whole day wandering through the old central station of Valmere, a quiet European city tucked between mountains and sea. The station itself looked like a relic of another century—arched ceilings of stained glass, brass clocks ticking too loudly, and walls layered with the ghosts of old travel posters advertising destinations that no longer existed. Elena was not searching for adventure. She was running from it. Three weeks earlier, her brother Luca had vanished without explanation. No goodbye. No message. Just an abandoned apartment and a phone that rang into silence. The police had closed the case with careful words and tired eyes: People leave sometimes. But Elena knew Luca. He never left without telling her where he was going. That evening, while sitting on a wooden bench near Platform 9, she noticed a flicker of movement at the far end of the station. A train had arrived without sound. Its carriages were painted a deep, midnight blue, and its windows glowed faintly from within. Above it, a single sign blinked: Destination: NOMEVIA Elena had never heard of such a place. Neither had her phone. Before she could think, she stood up and walked toward the train. Something in her chest tightened, as if the air itself were calling her name. The doors slid open. Inside, the train was nearly empty. A single conductor stood near the entrance, dressed in an old-fashioned uniform with silver buttons and a hat tilted low over his eyes. “Ticket?” he asked. “I don’t have one,” Elena said. The conductor studied her face for a long moment, then reached into his pocket and handed her a thin paper slip. “You already paid,” he replied. “You just don’t remember when.” The doors closed. The train began to move. Subtitle 2: The City Without Maps Nomevia did not appear on any map. When the train stopped, Elena stepped into a city made of pale stone and soft light. Streets curved in impossible directions, and buildings seemed to lean inward, as if listening. The air smelled of rain and old books. People walked calmly through the streets, but something was strange about them. When Elena passed, they looked at her with recognition. “Welcome back,” a woman whispered. A child pointed at her. “That’s her.” Elena’s heart pounded. “Back from where?” She followed a narrow street into a wide square dominated by a clock tower. Its hands did not show time but names—thousands of names, engraved in gold, circling endlessly. At the base of the tower, someone stood waiting. “Luca,” Elena breathed. Her brother looked thinner, his hair longer, but his eyes were the same. Alive. Real. “You found it,” he said softly. “I hoped you would.” “Where are we?” she demanded. “Why did you disappear?” Luca glanced at the tower. “This is Nomevia. The city that remembers people the world forgets.” Elena stared at him. “That makes no sense.” “It does,” Luca said. “Think about it. Refugees with no papers. Artists whose work was burned. People erased by war, history, or fear. When no one speaks your name anymore, Nomevia does.” Elena felt cold. “And you?” “I wasn’t forgotten,” Luca said. “Not yet. But I was close.” Subtitle 3: The Price of Being Remembered They walked through streets lined with libraries instead of shops. Inside each building were shelves filled not with books, but with lives—photographs, letters, recordings of voices speaking in dozens of languages. “This is where names go when no one says them anymore,” Luca explained. Elena touched a dusty photograph of a young soldier. Beneath it was written: Marek Nowak, 1916–1939. Remembered by no one. Her chest tightened. “Why did you come here?” she asked. Luca hesitated. “I started hearing it in my dreams. The city. It called me. I thought… maybe I could help.” “Help how?” “By leaving the real world and staying here,” he said. “If I stay, someone else can return. Nomevia trades memory for presence.” Elena stopped walking. “You’re saying… you replace someone?” Luca nodded. “Someone who no longer has anyone left to remember them.” Elena’s voice trembled. “And if I take you back?” “Then someone else disappears into silence.” The tower chimed. A new name appeared on its face. ELENA MORO Her breath caught. “Why is my name there?” Luca’s face paled. “Because you found the city. It has noticed you.” Subtitle 4: The Choice The conductor appeared beside them, silent as a shadow. “Time is limited,” he said. “One of you must stay.” Elena felt her knees weaken. “That’s not a choice. That’s cruelty.” “Memory is never fair,” the conductor replied. “But it is necessary.” Elena looked at Luca. Her brother. The only family she had left. “You were going to give up your life for strangers,” she said. Luca smiled sadly. “Aren’t strangers just people waiting to be known?” Elena thought of the tower. The names. The forgotten faces. She made her decision. “I will stay,” she said. Luca grabbed her arm. “No.” “You brought me here,” she whispered. “So you could leave. I see it now. You wanted someone to remember you enough to replace you.” Luca’s eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t mean for it to be you.” “But it is,” Elena said. She turned to the conductor. “Take him home.” The conductor nodded. The city trembled. Light rose from the tower and wrapped around Luca. His voice echoed once: “I’ll remember you.” Then he was gone. Subtitle 5: The City That Knows Her Name Years passed in Nomevia. Elena became a keeper of names. She recorded stories, preserved memories, and whispered them into the tower at night so they would never vanish. Sometimes, trains arrived with new travelers. Some returned. Some stayed. And in the real world, Luca told people about a strange city that saved his life. He wrote about it. He spoke Elena’s name to anyone who would listen. Because of him, Elena’s name never disappeared from the tower. And because of her, thousands of forgotten lives were spoken again. In a city that remembered everyone, she learned the most powerful truth: As long as someone says your name, you are never truly lost.
By Iazaz hussaina day ago in Fiction
“Procedures for the Retention of Personal Effects”
1.1 All personal effects must be surrendered upon intake. Items will be collected prior to assignment and reviewed for compliance with current retention standards. Effects discovered after intake will be processed retroactively without notice.
By Jeannie Dawn Coffman4 days ago in Fiction
Travis Kelce Jokes Taylor Swift is 'Gonna Kill Me' After Viral Podcast Mishap
Travis Kelce recently suffered a hilarious podcast mishap, and the NFL star jokingly fears the wrath of his fiancée. During a recent recording of the New Heights podcast, things took a chaotic turn, prompting Kelce to quip that Taylor Swift is "gonna kill me."
By Ann D. Burch4 days ago in Fiction
“180 Rupees That Killed a Man”. AI-Generated.
Nobody knew exactly when Master Ilyas came to this neighborhood and when he rented this room, but everyone knew that Master Ilyas was a migrant and belonged to an area in Ambala because he spoke the dialect that is spoken in Ambala. Master Ilyas lived in a rented room and the neighborhood boys would come to him to learn counting, recite multiplication tables, and write on slates. He had a pair of partridges and a purebred rooster. The partridges remained in cages, but the purebred rooster would stand a little distance from the door of his room. Master Ilyas had put a brass anklet on one leg of the rooster and tied a strong string to it, and tied the other end of the string to a nail hammered into the threshold of his room. All the people of the neighborhood respected Master Ilyas and would pass by his door saying 'Assalam-o-Alaikum'. Master Ji also did some other work, but nobody knew what it was. Perhaps he worked as a clerk in the vegetable market, or set up a stall in a distant neighborhood, or worked as a daily wage laborer painting and varnishing in a factory. Nobody knew about him very well, but everyone knew that Master Ilyas's livelihood was just barely sufficient. Actually, Master Sahib was a simple man and did not know how to keep up with the times. For some reason, his face was such that seeing it did not generate a feeling of love or sympathy in people's hearts, and for some reason, his conversation style was such that nobody would believe him. He did not lie. He did not cheat. He did not exaggerate. He did not boast. He did not scare anyone. Because of this People did not believe him. His conversation contained many grammatical and rhetorical errors, and the listener would get frustrated and leave his company. He was so simple and innocent that he didn't seem human. He seemed like a burden on the whole neighborhood and society, and since no one liked to associate with such people, he had no friends. That is why the neighbors respected him and would say "peace be upon you" as they passed his door. One winter evening, the landlord scolded Master Ilyas in harsh words and threatened that if he did not pay the past six months' rent of 180 rupees within three days, he would throw his belongings out. Master Ji was struck dumb with fear because he did not have one hundred and eighty rupees in a lump sum. He only had forty rupees, which he had made fifty by stringing a ten-rupee note with them. Earlier, the landlord used to take forty or fifty rupees and give a future date, but this time he became stubborn and threw the fifty rupees strung on a thread in front of the purebred rooster and said, "Go away! I will not take it. Give me the full one hundred and eighty." When he said this and left, Master Ilyas picked up the fifty rupees from the floor and put them in his waistcoat pocket. Then he went into his room, sat sadly on the cot, and due to severe grief, his voice was choked, and this was the first time someone's voice was choked without crying! Ghagha (choked voice) also means loss of voice in the throat. As promised, the landlord threw his belongings out. He placed Master Sahib's cot behind the two transformer poles and arranged the rest of his belongings around it. He put a new Chinese padlock on the room and rode his scooter home. His house was quite far from this neighborhood, and he used to come monthly to collect the rent for his rooms.
By Muhammad Haris khan 5 days ago in Fiction
The Last Howl of Silver Paw
Subtitle: A Wild Story About Loyalty, Freedom, and the Voice That Refused to Die The forest of North Ridge had a voice. At night, when the moon climbed high and the world grew silent, that voice echoed through the trees—a long, haunting howl that made the wind pause and the stars listen. The animals called it Silver Paw.
By Rahman Khan5 days ago in Fiction
