Fiction Stories Novels & Stories

Scenes where she called him her husband and begged to be used. In her stories, he had a name. Caleb. She whispered it while touching herself under the covers, her thighs slick and trembling as her fingers moved in rhythm with the words she’d written. She told herself it was harmless. That lots of people fantasized. That it was better this way. Safer. He didn’t know. He’d never know. Until the night they crossed paths at the corner store. It was raining. Mira’s hoodie clung to her neck, and her flip-flops slapped wet against the tile floor of the tiny market. She grabbed a can of soup, a bottle of wine, and turned toward the register—and froze.

If a nation’s culture survives, then so too does the nation. These were the words that passed through Celeste’s mind as she eagerly awaited the train. The underground was a strange place at this time, a place where the underclass crawled from their hidden tenements and stalked the night. Nobody knew her habit. By day Celeste was a pretty normal girl. She generally kept herself to herself, and didn’t ruffle any feathers. By night, she was Franny McCandle, graffiti artist and vandal.

The next story Laura Figures. The night I drag myself here, Fantasies is suffocating with bodies. The one night I need release after a week from hell, the place is pulsing with noise and sweat. Everywhere I turn, heat and perfume press in, laughter cutting through the bass. It is not just crowded; it is overwhelming—the kind of crush that makes me wonder if I have lost my mind thinking this is the cure for burnout.

“Then maybe that’s your answer.” Later that night, Ryan stood by his window. The streetlights blurred in the distance. His inbox pinged again a reply from L. Tansey, offering a call. He didn’t answer yet. Instead, he opened a blank page. And he typed: “A Story That Doesn’t Belong To You” by Ryan Calloway He stared at the title for a long moment. Then under it, he wrote: “This isn’t a story about revenge. It’s about reclaiming.” Two weeks later.

Every time I brought up another dark romance, another obscure vampire lore theory, another fantasy where the heroine begged to be drained while she came undone, they would groan and roll their eyes. “Elena, for fuck’s sake, you need to get properly fucked by a living, breathing man instead of jerking off to fictional undead dick,” my best friend had laughed the last time. But she didn’t understand. Nothing—no toy, no lover, no late-night fling—had ever come close to the aching, throbbing need that vampire fantasies stirred in me. The surrender. The possession. The exquisite terror of giving your blood, your body, and perhaps even your soul to something far older and more powerful than you.

Which was funny in itself. “I need some food,” I told Gracie, who was heading to the dodgems. “Catch you later,” she said as we parted ways. As I sat and ate my double cheeseburger and fries, I couldn’t help but overhear an argument from a nearby trailer. Someone has been sleeping with someone’s wife. I watch as a scuffle unfolds. “Who needs TV when you have entertainment like this?” a human boy says as he sits next to me. We watch in silence as a scuffle takes place in the tiny trailer and a man is thrown through the door. He is then fired. I snorted with laughter. It must have been the fair owner’s wife he was sleeping with.

Updates for this series will be twice or thrice a week, with a full upload of a story, not chapter-by-chapter updates, depending on my school schedules. What fantasy do you have? Comment on it, and you might be lucky enough to get your story chosen.

Darwin’s theory of evolution is a borderline case where the fundamentalists still feel there might be some hope of retaining the myth, but the straw to which they cling is rapidly pulling away from the soil. I want to argue therefore that there are at least two fundamentally different kinds of stories about the world that we human beings tell one another: the variety that are based on evidence and open to disproof (notice I have said disproof and not proof), and the variety that are based on faith or non-rational belief of one kind or another and are not. There are also of course consciously created stories of the kind that you find on writers’ sites like this one, but these (generally speak

She wanted to try something she'd never done before. She stretched her legs wide open, one hand resting on the floor to support her weight. Bernard finally opened his eyes and straightened his back at that point, and his eyes widened when he saw her. "M-Monette..." he exclaimed, stunned. She smiled seductively at him while tracing the sperm he had spurted on her hair. She pressed her two stains with his juice fingers together. "Watch me," she said seductively. And without taking her gaze away from him, she inserted her two semen-coated fingers into her wet pussy. And as his fingers entered her womanhood, she exclaimed and looked up. She began moaning as soon as she moved her fingers. Inside

The stories she had shared with Theo melded with the narratives of the dream realm, creating a kaleidoscope of tales that danced before her in a mesmerizing display. As she wandered through this fantastical land, Mama Hazel encountered creatures of myth and magic, each one a guardian of stories untold, a keeper of secrets waiting to be revealed. The characters she met whispered of forgotten tales, of hidden truths, and of the transformative power of storytelling that bound their fates together in an intricate dance of destiny.