Adventure
FruFru and Pootzygirl
Frufru was born in Yonkers, New York. Pootzygirl was born in Thonotosassa, Florida. Frufru was raised by European immigrants who were naturalized Americans. Pootzygirl was orphaned at a young age and grew up with guidance counselors and guardians. Frufru went to Fashion and Design school and was the Personal Apprentice of Cruella Deville. Pootzygirl took classes at many different schools learning from many teachers and considered herself a philanthropist and an entrepreneur. Frufru wears the most expensive name-brand garments, drives the most expensive cars, always has her hair, make-up, fingernails, and outfit, worn to perfection. Pootzygirl forgets she has hair, loves a good cape, and is happy when she has a comfortable pair of shoes that make her feet happy. Frufru likes gourmet restaurants and shopping at elite specialized boutiques. Pootzygirl likes art and beauty, and feels satisfied when she can accomplish fulfilling a need without complications or heartache. Frufru is scared of animals that are not pets like cats or dogs. Pootzygirl loves all animals and prefers being outdoors if the weather allows. Frufru thinks everything said or written is just nonsense. Pootzygirl thinks everything said or written is absolute truth. (In the comic book depictions of these two characters, Frufru is depicted as the "Villain" and Pootzygirl is depicted as the "Hero".) The writer does not think of them that way. The creator of these two characters is a "Bipolar" woman, who struggles with her own "Frufru" self, and her own "Pootzygirl" self, every day.
By Shanon Angermeyer Normanabout a year ago in Fiction
[UPDATE] I was the only one working the night shift… so who checked in Room 409?
Hey everyone, I didn’t expect my last post to blow up the way it did. I just needed to vent about something weird that happened at work, but apparently, it freaked a lot of people out.
By V-Ink Storiesabout a year ago in Fiction
“Sandokan — celebrating the 50th anniversary of Sandokan 1976”
I’m writing to the new generation here — to those who may have never heard of Sandokan (Kabir Bedi). Europeans, especially Italians, may be expecting with excitement the new series based on the eternally famous novels of Emilio Salgari. They tell the story of Sandokan, an Indian prince whose whole family was murdered by the colonial powers of the British Empire, who took their land and solidified their colony in Malaysia. Sandokan is saved by a servant and grows up to be a man who wants to right the wrongs and free his land from the British.
By Klári Geiszlerabout a year ago in Fiction
The Synthetic Garden
The air in the Eden Dome was perpetually spring. Dr. Aris Thorne walked her daily rounds, her footsteps silent on the polished path. Around her, the garden flourished in a symphony of engineered perfection. Sapphire-blue roses that never dropped a petal. Trees whose leaves shifted through a curated palette of sunset colours on a precise loop. Orchids that hummed a gentle, C-sharp melody to aid meditation. It was the pinnacle of botanical science, a haven of flawless beauty in a world where true wilderness was a toxic memory.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Coffee Cup. AI-Generated.
Every morning at exactly 7:10, Elias Mwangi opened the doors to his tiny café on River Street in Nairobi. The brass bell above the door jingled softly, echoing through the narrow shop that smelled of roasted beans, cinnamon, and rain-soaked wood.
By shakir hamidabout a year ago in Fiction
The Sound of Rain. AI-Generated.
It had been raining for three days straight in Lusaka, and the sound had become a kind of background music to Naomi’s thoughts. She sat by the window of her late father’s house, watching water run down the glass, tracing the same paths over and over again — like memories replaying themselves.
By shakir hamidabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Train to Miray. AI-Generated.
The train station of Miray hadn’t seen a real crowd in years. The walls were cracked, the benches splintered, and the ticket window covered in dust. Once, this place had been the heart of a small but thriving mining town. Now, it was only the heart of one old man who refused to let it die.
By shakir hamidabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Secret
In the heart of the old city, tucked between crumbling brick buildings, stood a shop that most people ignored. Its wooden sign, faded and creaking, simply read “Tide & Time.” Inside, the air smelled of cedar, oil, and something older, something almost alive. The walls were lined with clocks of every shape and size—grandfathers with pendulums like hearts, pocket watches in velvet cases, and small brass clocks that ticked in soft, hypnotic patterns. Every tick seemed to pulse with the weight of unseen moments.
By OWOYELE JEREMIAHabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lighthouse Keeper’s Letter. AI-Generated.
The wind howled along the cliffs of Cape Town, tearing at the edges of the lighthouse like it wanted to knock it into the ocean. Inside, an old man sat hunched over a wooden desk, pen in hand, paper worn and yellowed.
By shakir hamidabout a year ago in Fiction
