Love
The Lantern That Learned Your Name
The town of Greywick learned early not to ask questions at night. By day it was ordinary—brick storefronts, a river that pretended not to remember what it had carried downstream, houses with porches that sagged the way old men sigh. But when dusk arrived, the town changed its rules. Lamps flickered on in windows. Doors closed. Dogs went quiet. And if you were smart, you did not linger where the streetlights thinned and the dark began to feel… deliberate.
By Edward Smith8 months ago in Fiction
The Bloom and the Bullet
The dust doesn’t just coat your boots on Persephone Station; it gets into your soul. It’s the colour of dried blood and old regrets, and it swirls in the thin, recycled air like a ghost that won’t leave you alone. I’m Marshal Silas Rook, and my job is to keep the peace in this tin can hanging in the void between nowhere and oblivion. My peace is usually kept with a six-shooter named Widowmaker and a sawed-off shotgun called Final Argument.
By Edward Smith8 months ago in Fiction
The Saloon Murders
It’s late in the evening. The cowboys and cowgirls are all in bed. A woman is sitting in the dark again. She is at her desk typing details in a letter. She doesn’t need the light to see what is being typed. She’s got it down to a science. She types it urgently as if it’s a matter between life and death. The typewriter dings with each return. She is frantic and determined to fix what this woman has done to the man she loves. In mid-sentence, the phone rings causing her to jump. She answers it.
By Meredith McLarty8 months ago in Fiction
Lavender Orphan Love Spell
Bertie The children at Chandler Home Orphanage were not allowed to talk to the gypsies. It had been over a year since the last time they set up their caravan at Anson's Rock in the woods south of the Chandler Home campus. That was the spring of 1922.
By John R. Godwin8 months ago in Fiction
Too Death to us Part.
This is a love story- or is it a ghost story? Liv and Adam had this beautiful relationship; They had the most cliché relationship. They met in pre- kindergarten and became best friends. By their senior year of high school, they finally became the cutest couple. Graduating as high school sweethearts.
By Jen Phillips8 months ago in Fiction
A Love Forboding. Top Story - January 2026.
The chipped stone slope caused unbearable footing. I slid, skirting on my heels. I cast my shield, relinquishing my guard to stay upright. Left with my double-edge and a prayer to the maker, I skated toward my objective. The earthly stubble gave way to solid ground. I found myself restored, a trail of dust in my wake.
By James U. Rizzi8 months ago in Fiction
The Burned Pot. AI-Generated.
"The clock has struck three, the coffee is cold, and the shadows are beginning to speak. Welcome back to the desk of The Night Writer, where the stories are brewed in the dark." “You’re home late.” “I know. Sorry.” “Where were you?” “Just…with friends.” “‘Just with friends’ doesn’t usually smell like stale cigarette smoke and desperation. And cheap cologne.” “Mom.” “Don’t ‘Mom’ me. Your clothes. And your eyes are red. Were you crying?” “No.” “Don’t lie to me, Michael. I see everything. You think I don’t? Because I’m working two jobs? Because I’m not always right here?” “I know you see things.” “Good. So, tell me. What’s going on?” “Nothing. Just a bad day.” “Bad day? Or bad choice of friends?” “They’re not bad.” “The ones who let you come home smelling like that? Like a dive bar? That’s not how I'm raising you.” “I didn’t do anything.” “Then why the tears? Why the hiding?” “I wasn’t hiding.” “You walked in like a cat trying to avoid a wet floor. What happened, son?” “It’s…it’s complicated.” “Life is complicated, Michael. You think I don’t know that? Raising you alone in this city? Trying to make sure we don’t lose this apartment? Complicated is my middle name. So, try again.” “Mom, I…I need to tell you something.” “Okay. I’m listening. My hands are full right now, but I’m listening. Just…speak up. The rice is boiling over.” “It’s about…about me.” “Everything’s about you at sixteen. That’s how it works. So what’s the big news? You failed a test? You got someone pregnant? Please, God, don’t tell me that.” “No! No, nothing like that.” “Then what? You want to drop out of school? Go chase some foolish dream in another state? I told you, Michael, college is the way out of this neighborhood.” “It’s not about college.” “Then what is it about? Just spit it out. You’re making my blood pressure rise. And I’m tired, Michael. So tired.” “I…I like someone.” “Oh. That’s… that’s good, son. Finally. Took you long enough. Who is she? Is she nice? Is she from a good family? Does she make you happy?” “It’s not a she, Mom.” “What? What do you mean ‘not a she’?” “I like…a boy.” “A…a boy?” “Yes. A boy.” “Michael. What are you saying?” “I’m saying…I think I’m gay.” “Gay.” “Yes, Mom. Gay.” “You…you can’t be. You’re…you’re my son. My only son. We’re…we’re not…this isn’t…” “It is, Mom. It’s me.” “No. No, it’s not. This is just…confusion. You’re young. You’re sixteen. You don’t know anything yet.” “I know this.” “You don’t. You spend too much time on that internet. Seeing things. Reading things. This city, it fills your head with…with ideas.” “It’s not an idea, Mom. It’s how I feel.” “How you feel? Feelings change, Michael. Like the weather. One minute it’s hot, the next it’s raining. This is just a phase. You’ll meet a nice girl. Get married. Have children. Give me grandchildren.” “I might not do any of that.” “You will. Because that’s what we do. That’s what our family does. You think your grandfather would understand this? Your aunties? They’d…they’d have a fit.” “I don’t care what they’d think.” “You will care when they stop calling. When they stop inviting us to Sunday dinner. When they look at you like… like you’re something broken.” “I’m not broken, Mom.” “Then what are you?” “I’m… me. And I just wanted you to know...do you think I'm broken, Mom?” "You're my son, broken or not...you're my son!" "Okay." “Well, I…I don’t know what to do with this, Michael. I just…I need to think.” “Okay.” “Just…don’t tell anyone. Not yet. Not your friends. Not your…not that boy. Promise me.” “Mom.” “Promise me, Michael! Please. Just give me some time.” “Okay. I promise.” “Good. Now, the rice is definitely burning. Can you get the pot off the stove? And open a window. It smells like…like something died in here.” “Sure, Mom.” “And…and tell me about this boy. Is he…is he nice to you?” “He is, Mom. Really nice.” “Hmm. We’ll see. Now, go. And maybe…maybe next time, don’t come home smelling like that.” “I won’t. I promise.” “Good. Now, pass me that dish towel. And don’t burn yourself.” Sometimes the most terrifying monsters aren't the ones in the closet, but the fears we carry in a quiet kitchen after a long shift. Michael and his mother are still standing—the air is a bit heavier, the rice is a bit scorched, but the truth is finally in the room. In the city of shadows, even a small light can feel blinding. "The sun is threatening to rise, and my ink is running dry. Until the next moonrise, keep your lights on and your secrets close. This has been The Night Writer."
By The Night Writer 🌙 8 months ago in Fiction
