Fable

The Town That Forgets You
The Story The Town That Forgets You The first thing I noticed about Willow’s End was how quiet it was. No cars passed along the single main street. The air was heavy, still, as if the whole town held its breath. A few shops lined the street—a bakery, a general store, a post office—but none had signs that looked newer than a decade old.
By waseem khan8 months ago in Fiction
The Forest of the Forgotten
A gentle breeze brushes along the leaves of the neighboring trees. I'm lying in the grass, tall and overgrown as far as the eye can see, making it almost impossible for me to see. The sound the wind makes had always brought a smile to my face, especially here.
By Parsley Rose 8 months ago in Fiction
The Last Train
Rain whispered against the station roof, a soft rhythm beneath the stillness of Platform 7. Anaya sat alone—though not quite alone—on a worn wooden bench, her fingers tracing the edge of a train ticket like it might vanish if she stopped holding on.
By meerjanan8 months ago in Fiction
She Called Me-Two Years After I Buried Her
I wasn’t supposed to hear her voice again. Not after the funeral. Not after the dirt hit the coffin and we all stood there in silence, trying to believe she was really gone.
By ETS_Story8 months ago in Fiction
You Will Die At Daylight.
You Will Die At Daylight. The message was clear. Did I believe it? Not really. The promise of a sweet $1m was all the incentive I needed to prove the urban legend wrong and get my inheritance.
By Paul Stewart8 months ago in Fiction
The Hunt
A young woman stumbles down a rocky incline in the woods, scraping her leg raw, the gash exposing raw pink tissue but barely any blood. Wide-eyed, startled in spurts, appears in danger to any nearby wilderness witness. She hears voices loud enough that the source can be directly in front of her, but she knows almost exactly how far they are and which direction they’re coming from. She knows when the group separates and when they come together, footsteps stomping & fading in sporadic rhythms. Despite the cacophony in her head, and the natural (and only source of) light engulfed by the horizon, her vision sharpens, senses heighten. She has plenty of time to climb a tree for a bird’s eye view, guided by twilight & protected by the moon – a cursed servant of the moon, like her grandmother & great-grandmother.
By Kayla Bud8 months ago in Fiction
The Headless Horseman
Sometime ago, up the mountain between Toas and Mora, there lived a family of sheepherders. They were a typical family of the time, three generations and a dozen children all living on the ranch, taking turns at the various chores from tending sheep to tilling the field and felling trees.
By Judah LoVato8 months ago in Fiction
The night I killed Leonardo Da Vinci
The candle in my Roman studio sputtered, casting long, dancing shadows that twisted my unfinished sculptures into monstrous shapes. Outside, the city slept, but I was awake, haunted by a block of Carrara marble that refused to speak to me. It was in these moments of silent frustration that my thoughts often drifted to him. Leonardo.
By F.R. Gautvik8 months ago in Fiction
A Guide to Surviving Late-Stage Fairy Tales
First, you must accept a simple truth: we’ve passed the golden age of magic. The castles still stand, but only because the Tourism Board decided they were “heritage properties” too expensive to demolish. They’ve been retrofitted with escalators, Wi-Fi, and a gift shop at every turret. The moats are chlorinated now, “for hygiene and brand image.” The guards wear armor in the style of the old days, but it’s made of lightweight plastic for comfort, and the swords are strictly for photo opportunities.
By Alain SUPPINI8 months ago in Fiction
Every Stranger in My Dreams Knows My Name
Story I’ve been dreaming of strangers for as long as I can remember. Faces I’ve never seen, voices I’ve never heard, but always — somehow — they know me. They call my name. Whisper it. Shout it. And I answer.
By waseem khan8 months ago in Fiction
Letters My Future Self Forgot to Send
Story Letters My Future Self Forgot to Send The first letter arrived on a Tuesday. It was tucked neatly between a credit card bill and a grocery flyer, its envelope yellowed at the edges, the paper thick and almost too formal for the times. My name was written in looping handwriting I didn’t recognize, but the strangest part was the postmark: March 14, 2045.
By waseem khan8 months ago in Fiction
The Woman Who Spoke in Weather
Story The Woman Who Spoke in Weather Harold Linton had been the city’s morning weatherman for nineteen years. He was steady, reliable, and rarely surprised — the kind of man who could read a sky like a favorite book. His office sat on the eleventh floor of a squat, concrete building downtown, where he had a perfect view of Ashbury Street.
By waseem khan8 months ago in Fiction