Fiction

Soul of Stone
SOUL OF STONE For when you are no longer here, I am forging a soul of stone, an awakening in the half-light, sheltering my fear in oblivion.
By Xinia Mariea day ago in Art
The Weasleys Didn't Waste 700 Galleons on Egypt
A Travel Voucher That Can't Be Cashed: The Weasleys' 700 Galleons In the upper left corner of an old Daily Prophet: "Enter now to win the grand prize, a one-night trip to Transylvania!" Another: "Win a weekend stay for two and experience 'Climbing Beasts' in the relaxing surroundings of Romania!" These newspapers, displayed at the Harry Potter Studio Tour in Tokyo, show what the contest actually offered. The grand prize was travel, not cash.
By Jin8 days ago in Art
Oh, What a Feeling!
Bump and grind, ohh pumping up and down steady as growing proceeds! ****** Bumping and grinding undulating movements meticulous vocalizations
By Mark Grahamabout a month ago in Art
When the Architect Burns His Own Cathedral
Inside the INTJ's mind, a Gothic cathedral stands by nature. Ni sketches the skyline's blueprint. Te lays every brick and buttress in its ordained place. In this architecture, every rose window must be symmetrical, every flying buttress must bear its load in perfect equilibrium. Control is the cathedral's only foundation.
By Jinabout a month ago in Art
I'm beginning to think
ingognito I go, equipt with a flail, oh my magical flail - that I must use to seperate myself from the man. Attitude, horror, brassiness, cockiness and more of. Though I see the man, I go without inside my head, my mind, my frontal. Let me go I squeak, the grasp that holds onto me so tight makes me squeal and speak in tounges that help me get let go.
By Aubrie Belle about a month ago in Art
She Paid for the Show. Then She Made Him Kiss Her 60 Times.
A fifty‑episode series. Over sixty kissing scenes. Every single one was written into the script. Not a single one served the story.
By Jinabout a month ago in Art
The Unpicked Pear
Before she stumbled into me, my eyes had been stuck on her neck. The petal had gotten there when we were picking prickly pears, halfway up the cliff. It was pinkish-white, edges slightly wilted, plastered motionless to a streak of sweat on the side of her neck. She hadn't noticed. I'd seen it when I looked up at the bush: the whole thing was green knots, flowers still clinging, not a single yellow one. I told her they weren't ready, sour and astringent, needed another month. She said, "You said they were edible. If you won't go, I will." I said, "Are you stupid? The flowers haven't even all fallen off." She said, "Push me from behind. I don't believe there isn't a single ripe one."
By Jinabout a month ago in Art
Winter
She sits there at the window with her kitty - and the birds, who flutter about a feeder that’s as empty as her words. She doesn’t care if the help shows up-
By Catherine Brooksabout a month ago in Art
Capsule 3
Mike stepped into the small white room. The door itself reminded him of a fridge door, and he couldn't see any other exits. The moment the door closed behind him, he lost the ground beneath his feet.
By K Raabout a month ago in Art
Capsule part 2
Mike wakes up. He is really sore all over and his mouth is dry and smells like nuclear. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet; they seem to be glued together. He discovers that he can raise his hands. He swipes over the face and removes the stickers on his eyelids. These are also the first things he sees, and ironically enough they have a roaring lion picture on them. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer is the first thing that goes through his head. He can clearly remember the roaring lion on the screen while he has been watching movies. “Well, that’s where I remember the lion from!” thinks Mike to himself, meanwhile making a disgusted grimace at the memory of the lion breaking his neck in two seconds. At least it didn’t hurt. Wait, but why does everything hurt now?
By K Ra2 months ago in Art
The Revenge That Broke the Avenger: What The Count of Monte Cristo Actually Takes From You
I The meal that Edmond Dantès was pulled away from at his engagement banquet—he never finished it. Alexandre Dumas opens the novel with extraordinary lightness. Someone knocks at the door. Military police are standing there. The young first mate of the Pharaon sets down his glass and rises. He probably knocked over his chair as he stood. Perhaps he even said, “Excuse me, wait for me.” He thought he was simply going to clear up a minor matter and would be back shortly—back to the laughter, back to the wine that was still warm.
By Jin2 months ago in Art
I Consulted for Content Creators Who Launched “Perfect” and “Imperfect” First Pieces. The Difference Was Brutal.
A few years back, I worked as a content consultant. I took on quite a few projects. Some were individual bloggers trying to grow their WeChat public accounts. Some were startup founders preparing their personal brand pieces. Others were funded companies wanting a "breakout" brand long-form article. The results? Some posts gained tens of thousands of followers overnight. Others took a month to write and got barely two thousand reads.
By Jin2 months ago in Art