Fan Fiction
How to Conquer an Interdimensiomal Time Demon
So, you've decided to wake up and be a human being again! Our felicitations to you for your astoundingly good investment. Here at Lawrence Enterprises, we appreciate your patronage, and we hope to assist you in the set-up and use of your new (or refurbished) life.
By A. S. Lawrenceabout a month ago in Fiction
~Tinkerbell's Letter to Cousin Shee!~
07/07/0001 Dear Cousin Shee, Hi, It's ME, your favoritesss cousin 2nd cousin twice removed Tinkerbell, Here I am writing back to you! I am so excited about having this opportunity as I had gone pretty far in giving up hope that I would ever see or hear back from anyone there back at home in Tinker Town! I want to start with saying THANK-YOU cousin Shee for NEVER GIVING UP on me, and finding where it is that I might be, and Thank-you for then going ahead and sending a MAP to HELP ME FIND MY WAY BACK to Tinker Town!
By Jennifer Cooleyabout a month ago in Fiction
Guttersnipe
My grandmother kept pigeons on the roof of our row house in Baltimore. Not the fancy kind—just city birds, gray and purple and blue, with eyes like drops of oil. She called them her “sky-rats.” Every morning she’d climb the pull-down ladder in the hallway, the one with the missing third rung, and I’d hear the scrape of the aluminum door, the flutter, her low murmuring in Polish.
By Nwama Godspromise about a month ago in Fiction
Halloween. Content Warning.
What was the ancient evil that infected Corey Cunningham and caused him to go psycho? It was an ancient demon known as Belial. It was the thing known as The Shape. Michael was The Shape. That was what everyone thought. Michael was the shape to Haddonfield. Belial was Michael’s Shape. He was the entity that showed himself to Michael when Karen interrupted him. It was the silent alarm waiting to trigger Michael.
By DJ Robbinsabout a month ago in Fiction
The Last Letter on the Shelf
I never meant to leave it there. The old wooden shelf in the corner of the living room, stacked with books that smelled faintly of dust and sunlight, had always been my mother’s domain. She used it like a shrine—little trinkets, half-finished novels, pressed flowers, and, most importantly, letters. So many letters. Some she’d kept from decades ago, tied with ribbon, their paper edges soft and worn. Others were more recent, hastily scribbled notes of gratitude, apology, or love.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Fiction
What Walter Never Reads
If you are reading this, it means Walter trusted you enough to let you step inside the broom closet. Or maybe he did not notice at all. Either way, welcome. My name is Holly, and this notebook is not meant for me anymore. It is meant for you.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Fiction
