Kinda Funny Fantasy Critic Novels & Stories

“The man has been phoning it in for three years. He thinks his brooding good looks are a substitute for a decent guitar riff. Someone has to say it. And that someone is me.” And that someone is me. I repeated the phrase silently. Anya Sharma, The Critic. It was a persona I’d built meticulously, sharp-tongued, untouchable, the queen of the take-down. It paid the bills, and not just the small ones. The Spotlight was a wildfire, and I was the accelerant. But I hated it.

But they acted like excitable puppies stacked on top of each other. At least ten of them stood outside my door. All staring at me with hopeful, desperate, sparkling eyes. I blinked slowly. “This is a cult.” “No,” a young warrior said quickly. “We are enthusiastic supporters of your artistic gift.” I rubbed my temples. “It is not a gift. It is magic. Unstable magic. Potentially dangerous magic.” “We accept the risks,” someone said proudly. I blinked at him. “Your bravery is misplaced.” Another warrior stepped forward and clasped his hands dramatically. “Please, princess. My room looks like a sad barn.”

Nyra It took me two days—and way too much late-night scrolling—to find anything solid about Fantasies. Most of what I found online was vague, broken, or so cryptic it might as well have been written in Morse code. People online just kept repeating the same thing: It’s not for everyone. Which, of course, made me want it more. I was huddled in the break room, elbows on the table, completely absorbed in a thread called “What really happens at Fantasies,” when a voice cut through the silence.

It was loud and unrestrained, the kind of laugh you couldn’t stop even if you tried. “Are you serious right now?” I managed between bursts of laughter. “As much as I’d love to indulge your little fantasy—or should I say kink—you couldn’t be more wrong.” I wiped at the corner of my eye, still grinning. “Honestly, Nathaniel, you could write a bestselling novel with the nonsense you just spewed. Readers would eat it up because you’re that relatable in your delusions.”

Instead, I forced myself to concentrate on the absurdity of his words, determined to push aside the lingering thoughts of that smile and the unwelcome effect it had on me. “You’re still the strangest human I’ve ever known,” I remarked, a bemused smile trying to peek out. “You delve into paranormal smut with a mix of fascination and excitement, and after discovering that werewolves, vampires, angels, and demons walk among us, you somehow still cling to the hope that your fetish for dragons and fairies might one day come true.” I shook my head in disbelief, chuckling softly.

—a cloud of grey static that smelled of burnt paper. The man in the hoodie didn't retreat. He "Updated" his status. USER_VILLAIN: 'THE CRITIC'. ABILITY: 'PLOT HOLE CREATION'. He slammed his fist into the stone floor of the courtyard. The sapphire glass didn't crack; it "Unwove." A massive, bottomless pit appeared beneath Silas and Lyra—a "Plot Hole" that led directly to the "Draft Archive." "If you won't be 'Marketable'," the Critic hissed, "you can be 'Deleted'!"

Forever. On a chilled January afternoon, I’d shared this dream with my friend, Biswa and my elder brother Nisim. Biswa looked baffled. He had laughed at it and said it was all because of reading Alice in Wonderland over and over again? I was baffled too, because Biswa knew so much about fantasies and dreams and visions and he laughed. I was baffled because for me dreams, fantasies and vision were the same thing. Stories.

"You mind if I keep this for awhile and read it? I want to see what's driving your fantasy life." "Sure. I still have to finish this one, but don't get any crazy ideas. I'm not looking for some Tarzan to drop me in the jungle and have his way with me. It is a fantasy only, mister, fantasy only." "No problem."

He took slow steps towards the counter standing behind her. "And what do you suggest, Mr. Sanders? Are you a fan of fantasy?" Amara's voice carried a hint of curiosity, her eyes sparkling with interest. A nostalgic smile crept on the man’s face, his eyes twinkling. "Oh, indeed, my dear. Fantasy has been my constant companion throughout my years spent amidst these shelves of knowledge. There's simply nothing quite like the allure of a well-crafted tale, the intoxicating scent of old parchment, and the boundless worlds they conjure within our imaginations."

He teased me. “You know how to ruin a good fantasy.” I sighed, shaking my head. Well, that killed the mood as the fantasy went awry as somehow, in the fantasy, a stapler didn’t get knocked off the desk, and in the heat of passion, Clay stapled his hand, killing the mood. “Being practical, plus I bet I could make reality better.” He winked though I don’t know how much he believed that. Shit, maybe he does believe in karma or bad luck or whatever.