Fiction

Fence Portrait Of The Northern Lights
Fence Portrait of The Northern Lights A flurry of red, green and blue lights weaved around a garden fence Freshy vibrant. Brand-spanking-new Lit up in the evening – freshly charged from the sun synched with the tranquillity of the moon and the stars Looks like a side portrait of The Northern lights illustrated on a fence The colours bring a mystical sparkle whenever they glow bright Be it Christmas, Halloween … late summer parties in the garden They toasts us with their eternal presence A promise of magic and hidden dimensions Then one stormy day, a solitary light fades away Somehow the others glow dimmer in its absence yet they still manage to burn as brightly as they can manage Though sweeter times are now meshed with salty wounds Then one by one they all gradually begin to fade Their bulb heads bowed down like the elderly in a nursing home Until all that is left is the empty shackle of a stringy bead On an unextraordinary fence – as if the magic had never happened
By Rio Harpsa day ago in Art
Southwest of the Setting Sun
SOUTHWEST OF THE SETTING SUN A POLYNESIAN STORY By Tanika Wheatley (aka Te Kahutaniko Donna Smith) @ 2026 “But…who are you, and…what are you?”
By TANIKA SMITH WHEATLEY9 days ago in Art
New Babies, No More Marlboros & Quilts.... Top Story - October 2026.
The following microfiction piece that I wrote entitled "New Babies, No More Marlboros, and Quilts!" was inspired by uber-talented visual artist Annie Lee's fab-tastic painting titled Grandma's Hands .
By Tiffany Gordon19 days ago in Art
The Face Beneath the Painting
When Elena saw the face for the first time, she thought it was a flaw in the canvas. It was a November morning, and the museum was still empty. The vast rooms smelled of wood, dust, and varnish—the particular scent she had learned to love over the years.
By Silvia Felaco25 days ago in Art
You’re Not Broken: You’re Just Trapped in the Feeling of Suffering
At 2:17 a.m., the phone screen was still lit. Scrolling down the Douban topic page: 1,359 posts, 1.764 million views. The water glass sat at the corner of the desk, a ring of tea stain at the bottom. Thumb swiping past. Someone wrote: “Cambridge: ‘Don’t give off an air of hardship.’” Someone wrote: “One year of work, take-home pay 10k a month, spent it all every month.” Someone wrote: “Dad is about to lose his job.” Someone wrote: “My boyfriend’s parents say a woman has no value if she doesn’t have kids.” Someone wrote: “Almost raped by a university student, will keep updating on the progress.” Someone wrote: “Why is Douban so negative now?”
By Jinabout a month ago in Art
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 Marieabout a month 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 Jin2 months 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 Graham2 months 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 Jin2 months 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 3 months 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 Jin3 months 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 Jin3 months ago in Art