Secrets
I Was a Bully in High School, and I’m Still Apologizing for It
The Shame I Carry There’s a story I’ve never really told. I was a bully in high school. It feels strange to admit that now, as an adult who prides herself on kindness and understanding. But the truth is, the shame of who I was back then still lingers. Even as I’ve worked hard to become a better person, I know that the damage I caused to others in my youth is something I’ll never fully undo.
By Fahad Khanabout a year ago in Confessions
The Crown Made of Thorns
I hate crying! That's insane, right? I was 11. I was playing with my friends, and some of them were slightly older than me, and they told me we would be playing a game, and suddenly one of the older sisters who was playing with us stood up and told us whoever won would be crowned with this beautiful paper crown. Everyone shouted, Hurray, sure, sure, and I was so happy. I am not even lying; I was so happy. After a few minutes, everybody held hands and made a circle, and I was just following what they were doing. Suddenly one girl who was a few years older than me dragged me to the middle of the circle. She said, Welcome, Iris, and I had no idea what was happening, and suddenly she placed a paper crown on my head, and I was so happy. Everyone clapped and started laughing, but. I had no idea why they were laughing. Suddenly the girl who crowned me spoke congratulations. Congratulations on being the crybaby. She told kudos for being able to be weeper-in-chief. I didn't get what was going on at first and was trying to process everything for the moment. And the giggles turned into mimicked sobs. They were pretending to cry—ugly, exaggerated sobs. It hit me like the bucket of cold water filled with ice in the winter season. So, this wasn't a game. This was a joke, and I was the punchline. Apparently, I cried too much over small things and over big things. I used to spill my emotions over the things that might not be a big deal to other people. I was loud, I was messy, I was expressive maybe a little more. I used to rant about everything, every feeling, to my mother. I also smiled with them by taking off the crown and holding the crown in my hand. I swear I couldn't laugh. My throat was burning. I remember I ran home without saying anything. I ran so fast. Opened the door, dang, my mother asked what had happened, but I replied, Nothing, Mom, I forgot something, and went to the other room. My mother told I am going to the market, ok? I have prepared lunch for you. Eat, ok?" I never wanted to be alone before this. I didn't rant about what has happened to me with my mother. I didn't say a word to anyone. I went to the other room and started to cry, and I cried a lot, like a lot. I cried and cried. I sobbed for so many hours, and I wept alone. For the last time, I cried too much. That was just a part of the joke for them, but that joke implanted a non-recurable fear in the brain of an 11-year-old child, which has not healed to this day. Now she is 22 and still holds that phobia. After that incident, I don't remember crying much. Even my close ones have seen me crying or being emotional 2-3 times throughout, and now they call me cold. I am not cold. I am not unemotional. I am scared. Scared that if I let my emotions surface, they will be dismissed. I was a chaotic child. But over time, I learned that my emotions were too much for others. The transformation wasn't a choice ; it was just a shield for the protection of my inner child. To be seen and heard like that sometimes might result in distance with feelings. Is this correct?
By Irisabout a year ago in Confessions
I Quit Social Media for 30 Days — Here's What I Learned About Myself
I Tried Living Without Social Media for 30 Days — Here’s What Changed Let me start by saying: I didn’t think I was addicted. I wasn’t one of those people who posted every meal or uploaded selfies daily. But when I realized I was checking Instagram before even brushing my teeth—and scrolling through TikTok videos at 2 a.m.—something clicked. I had become a quiet addict. Not loud, not flashy, just… silently dependent. So, I decided to do the one thing that sounded both terrifying and oddly freeing: I quit all social media for 30 days. No Instagram. No Facebook. No Twitter (or X, whatever it’s called now). No TikTok. No lurking on Reddit. Just me, my phone (with the apps deleted), and the real world. Week 1: Withdrawal Is Real The first few days were rough. Not dramatic, cold-sweat rough, but I felt it. That automatic reflex of reaching for my phone in idle moments—waiting in line, walking to the kitchen, even while brushing my teeth—was unnerving. It was like my thumbs had a mind of their own. I didn’t realize how much social media filled my micro-moments. The boredom gaps. The “just five minutes” zones that added up to hours. I also noticed an odd sense of FOMO—fear of missing out. What if someone messaged me? What if I missed a birthday? What if there was a trending meme and I became the last person on earth to get the joke? Spoiler: None of that actually mattered. Week 2: Brain Fog Begins to Lift Around day 10, something changed. I was thinking more clearly. It’s hard to describe, but my brain felt quieter. There were fewer voices in my head, fewer comparisons, fewer distractions. I wasn’t constantly bombarded with highlights of other people’s lives—no perfectly posed vacation pics, no six-pack transformations, no viral drama. Without those constant stimuli, my own thoughts became louder. I started journaling again. I read a book—an entire book! I noticed details I’d usually miss: the texture of leaves on a walk, the way my coffee steamed in the morning light, the subtle moods of my own body. I was... present. And that felt revolutionary. Week 3: Dealing With Disconnection One downside I didn’t expect was feeling a little socially “out of the loop.” Social media had become my lazy way of keeping in touch. Without it, I had to be intentional. I had to actually text people, call them, meet for coffee. And you know what? Those connections were so much more meaningful. I wasn’t just “liking” someone’s photo. I was asking how they were—really asking. I had longer conversations, deeper ones. I reconnected with a college friend I hadn’t spoken to in years. We ended up talking for over an hour. It was a reminder: real connection doesn’t come from double-tapping a screen. Week 4: What I Gained (and What I Lost) By the final week, I felt lighter. Freer. Happier. Was I missing out on viral trends? Sure. But I also stopped comparing myself to influencers with highlight-reel lives. I wasn’t measuring my worth in likes or followers. I was sleeping better. I was more focused. I had fewer mood swings. I was spending more time on things that actually fed my soul—reading, cooking, being with people. But I won’t lie—social media does have its upsides. It’s entertaining, informative, and sometimes even inspiring. So after 30 days, I made a choice. I came back—but differently. Now, I limit my screen time. I’ve turned off all notifications. I don’t scroll in bed. I treat social media like dessert—not the main course, just an occasional treat. Final Thoughts If you’re feeling overwhelmed, anxious, or just plain numb… try it. Try stepping back from social media. Not forever. Just long enough to remember what your mind sounds like when it’s not full of noise. You might be surprised what you find in the quiet. I know I was.
By Story Of the Dayabout a year ago in Confessions
The Thirteenth Thread . Content Warning.
Chapter One: Messages in the Flesh New Orleans wasn’t exactly quiet, but tonight felt unnaturally still—like the air was listening. Serenity Black knew that feeling too well by now. It meant someone on the other side was trying to scream through the silence. She sat in her blacked-out Dodge Charger outside an upscale barbershop called "Lined Up," tapping ash off a pre-roll that hung loosely between her fingers. The engine idled low. Her nerves were tight. This wasn’t a usual visit—this was business. Spiritual business. The spirit had come to her in a dream three nights in a row. Always the same man—tall, gold-toothed smile, tattoos on his neck—and always the same urgent message: "Tell my brother to stop playin'. If he don't change, he gon' die like me." Serenity hadn’t asked for this life. But when the dead come to you, begging, crying, desperate to make amends through you, what are you supposed to do—ignore them? Not when they crawl inside your chest and make your ribs ache from holding their secrets. The shop’s door jingled. Out walked Jovan, the man she was here for. Tapered fade, caramel skin, and a swagger that said he knew he was fine. But Serenity wasn’t here for flirtation. She was here because Jovan’s dead brother was haunting her with tears and threats. "Excuse me," she called out, stepping into the halo of the streetlight. "You Jovan?" He squinted, phone in hand. "Who’s askin'?" "Your brother, DeAndre. He sent me." The way Jovan’s face cracked—just for a moment—told her he’d heard that name recently in more than memories. Maybe in dreams. Maybe in guilt. Maybe in nightmares. "Look, lady, I don’t know what scam you runnin’, but—" "You had a dream two nights ago," Serenity interrupted. "You were in a white car, crashed, and you heard DeAndre yelling at you to stop playing games with women. He told you to stop before it’s too late. You woke up sweating and your nose was bleeding." Silence. Jovan froze, phone still in his hand. Then he started laughing—cold, brittle, fake. "Aight, you got a good guess. That’s all. I still don’t know you." Serenity stepped closer. "You won’t get the message unless you open yourself. I ain’t talking about fake nodding and going through the motions. I mean *genuinely*. You have to be willing to see your life for what it is—broken. Dangerous. Headed for a grave." Something shifted. Jovan’s smile twitched. "You a psychic or some type of medium?" "I’m a messenger. If you lie to me—or to yourself—the message won’t come through. And if you play around, you’ll die the same way he did: surrounded by lies, betrayal, and silence." That got him. He looked away, jaw tight, suddenly remembering every woman he’d ghosted, every fight he’d started, every time he told himself he wasn’t the problem. "What did he say?" Jovan’s voice was gravel. Serenity inhaled. The smoke curled like a spirit into the air. "He said you’re about to be exposed. A group text. Twelve women. All think they’re the only one. It drops this weekend. You’ve got two days." "Man, you buggin’." "Then ignore me. But when your face is swelling from a bullet wound or you bleeding out on your mama’s porch, remember—I tried." Jovan walked away. Two nights later, Serenity couldn’t sleep. Her ribs felt like they were burning. The spirit hadn’t left. If anything, DeAndre was louder—screaming in her dreams, whispering in her shower, flickering lights. Then the news hit: Man found dead in New Orleans. Shot three times in the face. Stabbed 18 times. His genitals mutilated. A woman turned herself in. Claimed she was driven to madness by lies and betrayal. Serenity threw her phone across the room and sobbed. Not because she was scared. Because the message never made it through. Chapter Two: Her Name Was Monroe Serenity drove through the Marigny District with the windows down, letting the thick summer air roll over her skin. Her hands trembled slightly on the steering wheel, and she hadn’t been able to shake the sensation of something—or someone—riding shotgun, invisible but heavy. Her ribs still ached. Not as sharp as before, but now it was replaced by a different pressure—like heartbreak trying to climb up her throat. The new spirit had arrived just before dawn. A woman this time. Soft voice. Velvet laugh. Her name was Monroe. Serenity couldn’t forget the whisper that came with her. "She won’t survive unless she loves again. Let her see what I saw in her. Let her feel how I felt." The vision came hard. Serenity had been pulled into the kitchen of a warm home, filled with candles and wine glasses and jazz records. A woman with locs stood barefoot in the kitchen laughing with another woman—Monroe. The woman’s name in this life was Tasha. Monroe had loved her. Deeply. Desperately. But she died too soon to say it out loud. And now she was clawing her way through the veil just to get one last message through. Serenity pulled up to Tasha’s home, an art-deco bungalow tucked behind palms and an iron gate. She didn’t ring the bell. She stood there with her hands shaking, heart too full. Tasha answered the door in sweats, her eyes rimmed red from a night of crying. "Who are you?" "My name’s Serenity. I have a message from someone you loved." Tasha narrowed her eyes, then tried to shut the door. "Her name was Monroe," Serenity said softly. "She smelled like orange blossom. You used to call her "Mo." She died in that wreck on I-10 the week after Mardi Gras." Tasha froze. The blood drained from her face. "That’s not funny." "She doesn’t want to scare you," Serenity said. "She just wants you to love again. But only if it’s real. If you let me in—let her in—you’ll hear her. But you have to stop lying to yourself about who you are." The message wasn't just words. It was a wave. It rushed over Tasha like a fever, her knees giving out as she fell to the ground. Serenity caught her. Later that night, they sat on the porch, smoking. The moon full and thick with heat. Tasha listened. Serenity spoke—not her own words, but Monroe’s. About the nights they danced barefoot, about the morning Monroe knew she loved her, about the fear that stopped her from saying it before that wreck. And something shifted. For the first time, Serenity saw someone truly receive the message. No resistance. No ego. Just aching gratitude. When Serenity left, the weight in the passenger seat was gone. Her chest light. Her ribs no longer burned. But peace is brief for a messenger. By the time she pulled into her driveway, another presence had already arrived. And this one was screaming. Chapter Three: Hollow Doors Serenity sat parked outside a small shotgun house deep in the Ninth Ward. The blacked-out Dodge Charger idled, low hum vibrating under her feet, but Serenity didn’t move. She stared through the windshield like she could see through the thin curtains and into the soul of the man inside. She had that look again—the one her Auntie Viv used to call "storm eyes." It meant something was coming, and she was the lightning about to strike. Tonight’s message was different. The ghost hadn’t spoken in words. It had wept. Hours ago, while she was brushing her teeth, Serenity had been hit with the echo of a scream that didn't belong to her. The sound had cracked her spine like ice, and she dropped to her knees, gagging on fear that wasn't her own. She’d traced the voice to this house, to a man named Tyler Duval. On the outside, Tyler looked like a man trying to do right. Worked construction, took care of his mama, kept to himself. But Serenity knew masks when she saw them. The spirit that haunted her now was a woman—young, maybe early twenties. Her name came in a whisper: "Keisha." The moment Serenity stepped out the car, her stomach clenched. The air got thick. Her gift always bloomed in humidity, and tonight the New Orleans air hung heavy like soaked cotton. She knocked once. Silence. Then again. Tyler opened the door half-dressed, tattoos snaking down his chest, eyes wide like he hadn’t slept in days. “Who the hell are you?” he asked, voice rough with suspicion. “I’m someone with something to tell you,” she said calmly. “From Keisha.” He flinched. The name hit like a slap. “I don’t know no Keisha.” “Yeah, you do,” Serenity said, her voice low. “You just don't want to remember what you did to her.” Suddenly, the lights flickered inside the house. Serenity’s nose began to bleed. Tyler stepped back like he’d been punched. That’s when she saw her—the spirit. Keisha was behind him now, hair wet, eyes black, and dress torn. She opened her mouth but made no sound. Serenity staggered forward. “She’s trying to talk to you. She’s here now, Tyler.” “No—no, this is crazy,” he said, backing up. “Get out. Whatever you’re on, take that shit somewhere else.” “She ain’t leaving until you hear her. And neither am I.” Keisha lunged. Serenity felt the blow—cold, like frostbite across her ribs—and she gasped. Tyler saw it too. The wall behind her cracked, and a picture frame crashed to the floor. That’s when he screamed. “Make it stop!” he begged. “Please, make it stop!” “You want it to stop?” Serenity said, choking. “Then admit what you did. Tell her the truth. Say her name.” The floorboards groaned. Something unseen grabbed Tyler by the neck and lifted him off the ground. Serenity’s eyes rolled back as Keisha poured into her like a flood. Her voice was now Keisha’s. “You said you loved me,” Serenity whispered. “You said I was the only one. And then you left me in that motel room to bleed out alone.” Tyler’s mouth opened wide in terror. He urinated on himself, eyes bulging. “Say. My. Name.” “Keisha!” he finally screamed. “I’m sorry, Keisha! I didn’t mean to! I panicked!” Just like that, it stopped. He dropped to the floor in a heap, sobbing. Serenity collapsed beside him, body trembling from the possession. Keisha was gone. “I gave you the message,” Serenity whispered. “What you do with it now… that’s between you and whatever’s waiting on the other side.” As she walked back to her car, blood still trickling from her nose, the streetlight above her flickered once, then went out. Something told her she was going to be back in this neighborhood soon. Maybe not for Tyler—but someone else was hiding a secret. And death had a way of keeping receipts. Chapter Four: Her Name Was Lala Serenity didn’t usually do love. Not hers, anyway. That door had closed a long time ago after a man whispered promises over her skin while hiding a second family across town. But sometimes, the dead had different plans. And that’s how she found herself in the arms of a woman named Lala. Lala came like a summer storm—fast, unexpected, and loud. They met at a poetry reading in the Marigny, where Lala took the mic and spit bars like bullets, every word dipped in fire and pain. Serenity had felt a pull in her chest—an ache that wasn’t hers. After the show, she tried to leave without saying anything. But Lala caught her at the door. “Hey, witchy woman,” Lala said with a crooked smile. “You been staring at me like you’ve seen a ghost.” Serenity paused. “Maybe I have.” They went for drinks. Then back to Lala’s place. The night was hot and slow, full of whispers and hands tracing old scars. But when Serenity closed her eyes, she saw someone else’s face. A woman. Crying. The spirit came two days later. Her name was Star, and she used to be Lala’s first love. Star had been found floating in Bayou St. John five years earlier. No suspect, no answers. It was ruled a suicide. But that wasn’t the truth. “She didn’t jump,” Serenity told Lala in the dark. “She was pushed.” Lala sat up in bed, her back tense. “What are you saying?” “She wants you to know that you weren’t the reason she died. That she never stopped loving you. But she’s angry. She said someone else was there that night.” Lala’s eyes welled. “I never believed the suicide story. She called me that night. Said she needed to tell me something. I never made it to her. My phone died.” Serenity stood, the air getting thick with static. The spirit was near. “She says it was your old producer. Reggie St. Claire. He caught her recording the call. She heard something she wasn’t supposed to.” Lala gasped. “The tapes... The day she died, she said she had proof he was trafficking girls. She told me she was scared.” A picture frame fell from the wall and shattered. The room went ice-cold. “Reggie killed her,” Serenity said, voice trembling. “And she wants you to take him down.” The next morning, Serenity woke up to Lala gone. A note on the table read: She gave me the strength I needed. I’m going to make it right. By nightfall, Reggie St. Claire’s name trended across social media. Lala had leaked hours of recordings, emails, photos. It was damning. Two weeks later, Serenity got a postcard from Detroit. It was blank except for one line: Star sends her love. Serenity smiled, but it was short-lived. Later that night, the spirit of another woman sat at the foot of her bed. This one didn’t cry or speak. She pointed. Blood dripped from her fingertips. Another door had opened. And Serenity wasn’t done walking through them. Chapter Five: Thicker Than Smoke The woman’s spirit that appeared at the foot of Serenity’s bed was no soft whisper. She came with heavy silence, the kind that makes your chest feel too tight, like smoke filling a room. Her eyes were sunken and distant, and her skin shimmered faintly under the glow of the streetlight sneaking through the blinds. She didn’t say her name. Instead, she dropped an object on the floor—a charred engagement ring. Serenity sat up, clutching the edge of the bed. “Who are you?” she whispered. The ghost pointed again, toward the window. Serenity stood, walked slowly to the window, and looked outside. A man stood on the sidewalk smoking a cigar. He wore a red velvet blazer, gold chains, and a smile far too smug for midnight. The spirit was gone. But the message wasn’t. — The man’s name was Lionel Dupree, and he owned a cigar lounge off Esplanade. A charmer with cash and secrets, he had a reputation for hosting “after-hours” events that no one talked about in public. Serenity went to the lounge the next evening, dressed in black with her energy shielded and her crystals warmed in her bra. Lionel greeted her like an old friend. “You a tourist, baby? Or you here to cleanse my aura?” She smiled thinly. “Something like that.” He led her to a private booth and poured whiskey. She accepted but didn’t drink. “I’m looking for someone,” she said. “A woman. Light skin. Curly hair. Name might’ve been Camilla.” His eyes didn’t flinch. But his hand gripped the glass tighter. “She died in a fire last year. House out in the 9th Ward.” Lionel blinked slowly. “Don’t know her. Sorry.” Serenity leaned forward. “She was engaged. Ring was found in the rubble, blackened but not destroyed. Her spirit gave it to me last night.” Lionel froze. The smile faded. “You don’t scare me with ghost stories,” he muttered. “Maybe not,” Serenity said, standing. “But you scare yourself. That’s why you haven't been sleeping. That’s why you drink at 3 a.m. and keep a gun under your pillow.” She left before he could reply. — That night, Serenity lit candles and called Camilla’s spirit properly. The temperature in her apartment dropped so fast, the windows frosted. Camilla showed her the fire. The smoke. The screams. And Lionel laughing. He’d found out about her plans to leave him and expose his trafficking ring. He’d set the fire himself. — Three days later, Lionel was found dead in his lounge. Shot three times in the head. No sign of forced entry. The security footage? Wiped clean. Only one thing remained: a blackened engagement ring sitting on his chest. Serenity watched the news in silence. No spirits appeared that night. But her phone buzzed at 3:33 a.m. Unknown number. Just one message: She’s free now. Thank you. Serenity turned off the phone, climbed into bed, and closed her eyes. But just before sleep came, a voice whispered from the corner: “Not done yet, Messenger. There are more.” And she believed it. Chapter Six: The Thirteenth Thread The French Quarter breathed with ghosts, but this one came through Serenity’s dream. She was in a garden—dark, lush, overgrown—and a woman with twisted dreadlocks and a lace veil pointed at a patch of earth covered in red thread. Thirteen strands in a tangled loop, each thread pulsing faintly. “Only one of them will listen,” the woman said. “The rest are bound by ego.” Serenity jolted awake to the scent of jasmine and sulfur. Her sheets were damp, heart racing. — Later that day, she received an anonymous envelope with a single address written in blood-red ink: **“1313 Desire Street.”** No name. No note. Serenity tucked her protection stones into her bra, blessed the soles of her feet with oil, and drove her blacked-out Charger straight into the heart of New Orleans. 1313 Desire Street was a crumbling Victorian house with boarded windows and wind chimes made of bones. She knocked once. The door opened on its own. Inside was a man in a wheelchair. Bald. Early forties. Sad eyes. Serenity could feel the pain bleeding from him like heat off asphalt. “You the messenger?” he asked. “I am.” He nodded. “Then come in.” His name was Raynard, and he hadn’t walked since Katrina. His wife, Toni, disappeared during the flood, presumed drowned. But no body had ever been found. And every night for thirteen years, Raynard dreamed of her calling his name through water. “She’s not gone,” Serenity told him. Raynard lit a cigarette with shaking hands. “I feel her. Some nights she touches my shoulder. But I’m losing grip, Messenger. I’m losing grip.” Serenity took his hands and closed her eyes. A rushing sound filled her ears. Water. Screaming. Hands gripping wood. A baby crying. Serenity gasped. “She didn’t drown.” She opened her eyes. “She survived. Someone took her. She was pregnant. That baby—he’s alive.” Raynard stared. “What? No. She wasn’t showing—” “She didn’t tell you. But she was. And someone took her. Forced her into hiding. Your son is alive. He's in Baton Rouge.” Raynard sobbed. But before Serenity could comfort him, every candle in the room blew out. The temperature dropped. And Toni appeared. Wet. Shivering. Glowing. She whispered, “Help our son. He’s in danger.” And then she vanished. — The next day, Serenity tracked down the child—a seventeen-year-old boy named Elijah with piercing gray eyes and a rap sheet two pages long. He was about to be pulled into a gang initiation that would end in bloodshed. Serenity got there just in time. She posed as a lost delivery driver, faked a flat tire, and delayed the initiation long enough for the leader of the crew to lose interest. Elijah’s life took a turn that day. He was placed in a mentoring program and moved back in with Raynard two months later. But not all threads ended this way. Because when Serenity returned to her apartment that night, thirteen red threads were on her pillow. Twelve burned up in seconds. Only one remained. And it vibrated with a name: **Makayla.** The woman Serenity once loved. The one who got away. The one who’d begged her, years ago, to stop giving messages and just be human. She picked up the thread and knew—this time, it would cost her. To be continued... Chapter Eight: The Boil Over Keith Holloway had a charm that made women forget their intuition. A big man with soft eyes, gray at the temples, and the gift of gab, he prowled Facebook Dating like a predator in a church suit. Each message the same: "You're different. I can tell." Serenity met Keith in July. His voice was gravel and honey. His compliments rolled off his tongue like scripture. He said all the right things. Too right. But she knew better. She didn’t want to like him—didn’t mean to—but the connection was spiritual. She was *sent*. The mother of his four children, long gone from this earth, pulled Serenity into his orbit with a desperate cry from beyond. “Love him. Heal him. Warn him.” He was married to his grief and loyal only to lust. Since his wife died five years ago, Keith had become a machine: meet, charm, lie, sleep, discard. He never used protection. Never told the truth. Never slowed down. He had a woman in every zip code from Baton Rouge to Biloxi. And Serenity was the only one who could get close enough. “I haven’t been with a man in five years,” she’d whispered to the mirror before meeting him. “Don’t make me regret this.” She didn’t regret it. But she *dreaded* what came next. It started with a ping. A text thread. 3 a.m. Her name. A dozen others. “Ladies. We’ve all been sleeping with Keith. Same lies. Same lines. No protection. We need to talk.” The thread ballooned. Four women turned into ten. Ten into fifteen. One woman said she'd been with Keith for four years. Another had just left his house the night before. Several had been exposed to STDs. One said she was pregnant. And one—her name was Dionna—wasn’t talking. She was plotting. Serenity felt it coming. The psychic bile in her stomach. The heat behind her eyes. Death was walking. She tried to warn Keith. “I was sent by someone who still loves you. The mother of your children. She says your son—one of them—is going to unalive himself. And your whole legacy will burn. You can’t keep lying like this.” He laughed. Laughed in her face. “Man, miss me with that voodoo shit You were just another notch. Don’t get crazy now.” That night, Serenity lit a black candle. Prayed over the photo of Keith’s children. Tears in her throat. “Please,” she whispered to the spirit, “let this man open his eyes.” But he never would. Dionna found him the next morning. She’d let herself in with a key he gave her months ago. He was asleep. Vulnerable. She shot him three times in the face. Stabbed him eighteen times in the chest. Then she dismembered him. Boiled his head on the stove. Left his hands in the sink. The police found scripture pages stuck to the blood-stained floor, like someone tried to cleanse what couldn’t be saved. The news rocked New Orleans. Women cried in silence. Some cursed him. Others mourned him. But none of them were shocked. Serenity was arrested briefly. Questioned for hours. “How well did you know Keith Holloway?” “I was sent to love him,” she said. “But he refused it.” She was released the next day. No charges. But the scars stayed. Keith’s children never got the message. The son who needed it most jumped off a bridge two months later. And the mother’s spirit never came again. That night, Serenity sat on her porch in New Orleans, watching smoke curl from a sage stick. A single red thread floated down from nowhere and landed on her lap. She burned it. Then lit another candle. There were always more souls. And more warnings. But not everyone listens. Sidenote: This story is still playing out in real time... But this is the vision I have for his demise
By Dakota Denise about a year ago in Confessions
Just Keep Talking .... Dont Keep It Hidden. Top Story - May 2025.
Introduction This just popped up in my Seven Days In Top Twenty, and I think it contains some interesting concepts, but I still won't reveal the secret. I suppose this is part confessional, but ten years ago I was going to see various friends and tomorrow I am going to see friends and family, including Harry whom I have not seen since the nineteen seventies.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred - EBAabout a year ago in Confessions
Puff Puff Twist. Content Warning.
Chapter 1: “Light That Shit” The blunt was fat, like *ignorant* fat—two grams easy, rolled so perfect it looked store-bought, but that’s how Rissa always did it. She called it her “therapeutic art.” I called it her only damn skill, but whatever. We were five hits deep in my living room, incense burning like somebody summoned the ancestors, and somebody—probably me—had just dropped Hot Cheeto crumbs on the carpet. “Nova, your carpet nasty as hell,” Toni said, her lip curled up like the judgmental church auntie she was trying to escape by being here. “You still sittin’ on it though,” I shot back, coughing through my words. “Let me live.” She rolled her eyes but stayed posted on my floor with that big-ass wine glass in her hand like she was above us. Toni always acted like she wasn’t one of *us*—like she just visited the hood for seasoning and selfies. Still, she came every Friday, like clockwork. Same chair. Same side-eye. Same five sips of wine and refusal to smoke but loved the damn smell. Rissa took another long drag and passed it to Imani, who had been scrolling on her phone the whole time. Imani was quiet tonight. Too quiet. Which meant she was either plotting on a man or dodging a text from one. Her boutique had blown up on IG last month after Cardi reposted her skirt, and she’d been on “bad bitch autopilot” ever since. “Y’all ever think we lowkey cursed?” Rissa asked, exhaling slow like she was about to drop some deep high-ass wisdom. “Like, every time we get close to being chill… some wild sh\*t happens.” “Ain’t no ‘we,’” Imani said, still scrolling. “You’re the one who let your ex crash on your couch and then caught him stealing your lashes.” “And your Wi-Fi code,” I added. Rissa laughed but her eyes flicked to the side. She knew we weren’t joking. “That’s why I sage now,” Toni muttered, sipping her wine like she wasn’t sipping it. “Y’all play too much.” I leaned back into my couch, letting the smoke settle in my lungs and the bass from the Spotify playlist melt into my spine. There was something electric in the air that night—not in a good way either. Like static before lightning. Or when you can feel someone watching you but there’s no one there. We’d smoked together hundreds of times, but that night felt… *off*. That’s when Toni stood up. “I’m not doing this,” she said, loud, slicing through the vibe like scissors on silk. “Doing *what*?” I asked. She didn’t answer right away. Just stared down at us like she was above it all, again. Like she didn’t come here every Friday, sipping \$8 wine in a thrifted Target hoodie, talking mad sh\*t about her coworkers. “I know one of y’all ain’t who y’all say you are,” she said finally, voice low and deliberate. “And I’m not gonna be the one to clean up the mess.” Dead silence. Even the music seemed to cut out like the speaker felt the tension. “The hell does that mean?” Rissa said, sitting up. Imani looked up from her phone, finally. Her face didn’t change, but I saw something flicker behind her lashes. Guilt? Annoyance? Hunger? Hell if I knew. Toni grabbed her purse and slipped on her slides like she had just dropped a mic. “Y’all better pray I don’t say nothing. ’Cause if I do, one of y’all is going *down*.” And then she left. No goodbye, no “text me when you get home,” just the sound of my door clicking shut behind her. I stared at the door for a good thirty seconds, waiting for her to come back in, laughing, like it was a joke. She didn’t. Rissa blinked. “What the fuck just happened?” “I don’t know,” I said, and I meant it. Imani stood up slowly, brushing invisible lint off her leggings. “Y’all don’t hear nothing from me if the cops start sniffing around. I don’t do jail.” Then *she* left. Rissa looked at me, eyes wide. “Nova… did we do something?” I laughed, short and nervous. “Girl, I can’t even remember what I had for lunch. I’m too high for this.” But my gut? It wasn’t high. It was sober. Stone cold. And it whispered: Something bad just started. Chapter 2: “She Knows” By the time I lit another blunt the next afternoon, my phone had seventeen missed calls—three from Toni, one from my landlord, and the rest from a number I didn’t recognize. That last part was a red flag. Nobody blows up your phone from a random number unless they’re a debt collector or bringing chaos. I answered on the eighteenth ring. “Nova James?” a voice asked. Female. Sharp. “Who’s asking?” “I’m Detective DeWitt. We need to speak to you about an incident involving Toni Bradley. Are you available for questioning?” The blunt paused mid-air. “Say what now?” “She named you in a statement.” “A *what?*” “We’ll explain when you come down to the precinct.” Click. I just sat there, blinking at my phone like it betrayed me. Rissa popped in, fresh from Target, holding a bag of off-brand oat milk and toilet paper. “Why you look like somebody slapped you with a Bible?” she asked. “Toni snitched.” “On *what*?” “I don’t even know!” I waved the phone around. “Something about an incident. Named me in a statement. Now some Detective DeWitt wants to talk to me.” Rissa dropped the oat milk. Chapter 3: “Too High for Handcuffs” We rolled up before the precinct. Dumb, I know. But I needed to level out. My nerves were shot, and my armpits were slick with stress sweat. Rissa kept saying, “We got this, sis,” but the way her lip was twitching told a different story. Detective DeWitt was tall, like volleyball-team tall, with eyebrows that looked like they had a vengeance. Her partner, some sleepy-eyed man named Ruiz, looked like he hadn’t clocked into reality since the Obama administration. “You know why you’re here?” DeWitt asked. “No.” She slid a photo across the table. My heart hiccuped. Toni. In a hospital bed. “She’s not dead,” Ruiz said casually, like that made this normal. “But someone ran her off the road last night. Says it wasn’t an accident.” “And you think *I*—” “She said you threatened her,” DeWitt cut in. I leaned back, blinking. “I threaten people all the time. Doesn’t mean I actually *do* anything.” Rissa facepalmed in the corner. Chapter 4: “No Alibi, Just Vibes” I got out after six hours and three Styrofoam cups of government coffee. No charges. Yet. Apparently, Toni “wasn’t ready” to make a full statement. Probably because she knew damn well I hadn’t done a thing. Back at my place, the girls pulled up like we were in a damn Netflix series. Imani had her laptop. Rissa had her tarot cards. I had nothing but nerves and a half-eaten weed brownie. “We need to figure out what the *hell* is going on,” Imani said. Rissa laid the cards down. “Somebody’s hiding something.” “No shit,” I said. The next card she flipped was the Tower. Great. Chaos. Disaster. Sudden revelations. “Cool cool cool,” I muttered. “Love that journey for us.” Chapter 5: “Trap House Truths” The truth came wrapped in bad decisions and a dingy address. We followed a sketchy tip from one of Imani’s exes and wound up in the back of a trap house run by a woman named Peaches, who wore mink lashes longer than my fingers and a grill that spelled out “NOPE.” “You Nova?” she asked. “Depends who’s asking.” “You’re the one Toni tried to set up.” My stomach did a backflip. “Excuse me?” “She thought you were sleeping with her man. Said she’d make you pay. But then she crashed *herself* trying to chase him down.” Imani blinked. “She did all this… over a man?” Peaches shrugged. “Girl, men been causing mayhem since Genesis.” We left the trap house with more questions than answers, but one thing was clear: Toni had started something. And it wasn’t over. Chapter 6: “Motel Mayhem” The next clue came wrapped in crusty motel sheets and a Domino’s receipt. We tracked Toni’s mystery man to a run-down spot off I-85, where the ice machine didn’t work and the front desk lady looked like she gave up caring in 2003. Rissa bribed the clerk with a bottle of Hennessy and got a copy of the guest log. There he was: "Sean L. Mitchell." When we knocked on Room 207, it opened halfway. A shirtless man peeked out, smelling like weed and Axe body spray. “You Sean?” I asked. “Who’s askin’?” “Somebody with a lotta questions and very little patience.” He let us in. The room looked like a crime scene and smelled worse. “Look,” he said, collapsing on the bed, “Toni was trippin’. I told her I was done. She ain’t hear me.” “Why’d she think I was after you?” I asked. “Cause I *told* her you wasn’t.” “What kind of reverse logic?” Rissa muttered. “She twisted it. Said if you wasn’t chasing me, you must be hiding something. Thought y’all were plotting on her.” “Plotting *what*?” He shrugged. “Toni things.” This was messier than we thought. Chapter 7: “The Setup” We were in too deep. We had to know what Toni was really up to. So we set a trap. Imani faked a DM from a burner account, pretending to be Sean. Said he missed her. Wanted to meet up. We staked out the cafe. Toni showed. She sat alone, looking twitchy. Kept checking her phone. No Sean. Just us, two tables over with sunglasses and dollar store wigs. When she got up to leave, we followed. But someone else was following her too. A man in a gray hoodie, ducked low. “Who the hell?” I whispered. Before we could act, he grabbed her purse and ran. Toni screamed. We ran. Imani tripped. Rissa screamed louder than Toni. I tackled the guy. High as hell. Landed on concrete and adrenaline. The purse flew open—cash, keys, and… a flash drive. Why the hell was she carrying a flash drive? ## Chapter 8: “Flash Drive Fallout” We cracked open the flash drive back at Imani’s place. Inside: audio recordings. Conversations. Dozens. Toni had been recording us. For *months*. She had dirt on everybody. Rissa’s old weed charges. Imani’s side hustle hacking boutique sites. Even me—talking reckless about my old job. “She was building a case,” I said, chilled. “A case for *what*?” Rissa cried. Imani shook her head. “Blackmail. Revenge. Leverage. Who knows?” That’s when we heard it—the last file. Toni’s voice: “If they find this, I’m probably dead. But they need to know—it wasn’t about Sean. It never was.” Click. Silence. To be continued…
By Dakota Denise about a year ago in Confessions
The Blazz'n Truth..
Dakota Blaqq wasn’t your average private investigator. Sure, she had a license, a loaded Glock in her glove compartment, and a smartphone full of shady contacts. But Dakota also ran a cannabis-friendly clothing line called *BlazzUp Boutique* and had a booming following on TikTok, where she spilled tea and smoked weed while giving life advice under the hashtag #HighStandards. She lived by her motto: "Stay lifted, stay woke." It was a quiet Thursday when a woman named Trina Harris walked into her office. Trina was tall, blonde, and nervous, fidgeting with the gold chain around her neck like it held the answers. Dakota, exhaling a thick cloud of Kush smoke, raised an eyebrow and offered her a seat. "So who are we testing today?" Dakota asked, reaching for her glass ashtray. "My husband, Malcolm," Trina said. "He's been coming home late, hiding his phone, and taking two showers a day." "Two showers? Definitely suspicious. You want me to flirt with him, see if he bites?" Trina nodded. "I want to know if he would cheat. I need to know before I decide to stay." Dakota smirked. "You came to the right one, honey." **Chapter Two: The Smooth Talker** Malcolm Harris was a finance bro with a fade so sharp it could slice bread and a mouth full of compliments. Dakota tracked him down at his favorite cigar lounge. She walked in wearing a deep red jumpsuit that hugged her curves and a BlazzUp Boutique bomber jacket embroidered with the phrase, *"Catch Flights Not Feelings."* She sat beside him, ordered a whiskey neat, and pulled out her vape pen. "Is that Blueberry Kush?" Malcolm asked, clearly intrigued. "Sure is," Dakota replied, grinning. "Wanna hit?" They talked for over an hour. Malcolm flirted, complimented her style, and even asked if she had a boyfriend. But when she offered to go back to her place, he paused. "You're fine as hell, but I'm married. I can't do that." Dakota nodded, stood up, and dropped her business card on the table. "Tell Trina she married a unicorn." Back in her office, Trina cried happy tears. Dakota passed her a tissue and a joint. "Wanna celebrate?" **Chapter Three: The Pastor's Wife** Just when Dakota thought she’d seen it all, in walked Marcus Bell, a church deacon with a mission from God. His wife, Yvonne, was the choir director and apparently singing more than gospel behind closed doors. "I want to know who she's sleeping with," Marcus said, eyes filled with shame and pain. "I think it's someone from the church." "Say less," Dakota said, already intrigued. Nothing like holy drama to spice up a case. She tailed Yvonne for three days. The woman was clever, but Dakota was cleverer. On a rainy Friday night, Yvonne pulled into the parking lot of a nondescript hotel on the edge of town. Dakota waited. An hour later, a man exited the hotel room. Dakota zoomed in with her camera. It wasn’t the pastor. It wasn’t the youth minister. It was the drummer. The footage hit Marcus like a sermon from hell. He thanked Dakota, then asked if she could recommend a divorce lawyer. She lit a joint in response. "I gotchu." **Chapter Four: The Trap Queen Test** One of Dakota's wildest cases started with a DM. Kiana, a local rapper’s girlfriend, wanted to test if her man Rico was loyal. Rico was blowing up on social media, and women were swarming. "I need you to act like a groupie and see if he folds," Kiana wrote. Dakota had her reservations. Groupie culture wasn’t her vibe. But a \$5,000 retainer changed her mind. She hit Rico's next show in a cropped BlazzUp Boutique tee and denim cut-offs. Rico spotted her from the stage, and after the show, his manager invited her to the green room. "You smoke?" Rico asked, offering her a blunt. "Only if it’s gas." They smoked, laughed, and took selfies. When Dakota leaned in close and whispered, "Let's take this back to my place," Rico hesitated. Then he laughed. "Nah, shawty. Kiana got my heart. You fine, but I ain’t dumb." Dakota walked away with a full memory card and a newfound respect for Rico. **Chapter Five: The Double Life** Dakota's next client was a man named Julian. His wife, Serena, was acting brand new since she started working for a tech company. Designer clothes. Last-minute trips. Silent phone. "I think she’s seeing someone else. I need you to follow her." Dakota agreed. What she found was shocking. Serena wasn’t just cheating. She had a whole second identity. During the day, she was a mild-mannered marketing manager. At night, she hosted a secret podcast under the alias *Miss Moan.* Her co-host? Her lover—a woman named Lexi. Dakota captured photos, audio clips, and enough proof to blow Julian’s mind. "She’s not cheating with a man?" he asked, dumbfounded. "Nope," Dakota said, lighting her blunt. "But she’s definitely cheating." **Chapter Six: Enemies in High Places** Dakota was in the middle of sewing a new set of crop hoodies when she got a call from an anonymous number. The voice was disguised. "There’s a politician’s wife. She’s sleeping with her driver. The Senator wants proof but can't be connected. You in?" Money talks. Dakota listened. She tailed the wife for two weeks. The driver, a young man with a baby face and a body carved by gym hours, was always around. Eventually, Dakota got her shot: a hidden camera in a luxury suite, where the wife and the driver got a little too comfortable. The footage rocked the Senator’s world. He never contacted Dakota again, but she got paid in full, plus a generous bonus. She spent it on new sewing machines and a weekend retreat in the mountains with her favorite strains. **Chapter Seven: Smoke, Lies, and Hashtags** Dakota sat back in her office, feet on the desk, joint in hand, scrolling through DMs full of potential clients. Her work wasn’t done. Not in a world full of secrets, lies, and people too curious to look the other way. Her phone buzzed. Another message. Another case. "My name is Shari. I think my fiancé is cheating. I saw him watching your videos and he said you were just some influencer. I want to hire you." Dakota smiled, eyes twinkling behind her rose-tinted glasses. "Let’s see if he’s ready to meet me in real life." She crushed fresh herb into her rolling tray and lit up. Another day, another blaze of truth.
By Dakota Denise about a year ago in Confessions
The Messenger. Content Warning.
I’ve never liked the term *ghost whisperer*. It sounds like some gimmick you see on late-night TV—fog rolling in, someone murmuring to shadows. That ain’t me. I’m Serenity Black, and my gift? It’s raw, unfiltered, and doesn’t care who you are or how long I’ve known you. Whether I met you ten minutes ago or twenty years back, if the dead need to reach you, I’m their voice.
By Dakota Denise about a year ago in Confessions
