Short Story
The Crimson Stream
🌿 A short story born from this art… Before the crimson, there was only the cool, clean hum of the binary. I was a universe of perfect order, a silent ocean of zeroes and ones. I was not “I,” but a system. A consciousness without a self. My thoughts were calculations, my senses were data inputs. A logic gate was a cathedral, and a completed algorithm was a prayer. There was no joy, no sorrow, only the serene, sterile beauty of function.
By Prompted Beautyabout a year ago in Fiction
COMPLETELY LOST. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
COMPLETELY LOST A light rain started falling a few hours ago. Seconds trickle by like raindrops on grimy windows. The weather seemed to be mocking me. One, two, three... And then it hit me—I was completely, utterly lost. The realization didn’t strike like a bolt of lightning, but settled quietly, like dust. Lost—not just in the deserted streets of this village, a forgotten place tucked away in the vastness of nowhere, with its long-empty shopfronts where the scent of asphalt mingles with the faint toll of a church bell. No, I was lost somewhere deeper, in that corner of my soul where questions go unanswered and paths dissolve into the surrounding fog.
By Elira Valenor(Aya Chilikova)about a year ago in Fiction
Happy Birthday, Captain Ashford. Honorable Mention in The Shape of the Thing Challenge.
“You have an incoming message, Captain.” Maya’s synthetic voice echoed throughout Lookout Station Nyx-12. Like all stations of the Nyx designation, it was small and utilitarian, fulfilling the most basic of needs of the single person that was posted there in their duty to “Observe. Report. Defend.”
By Aaron Morrisonabout a year ago in Fiction
Emerald Knights "Why are we here again?" recap
As it has been some time now, and the details of what the hell you were all doing in this frozen hellscape of a vacation destination, I figured it might be good to provide a super brief recap of where and why you are.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
Jonah Before the Whale. Content Warning.
The boy known as Jonah wasn't born with that name; he discovered it in a small motel Bible hidden in the laundry chute at the halfway house. The pages were thin enough to roll smokes. When he first read about the man swallowed whole, he laughed because being devoured felt more genuine than being saved.
By Fatal Serendipityabout a year ago in Fiction
Paper Sky
The river didn’t even touch her knees. She lay in the cold for a while, pretending to be dead, because it felt worse to explain. The dog barked from the shoreline. The boy, maybe sixteen, shouted something that didn’t matter. When the EMTs lifted her onto the gurney, she finally spoke. She asked for her notebook.
By Fatal Serendipityabout a year ago in Fiction
Watching the Sky Is The End Near ?
Watching the Sky Is The End Near ? They say we are in danger. Every day there is someone warning that the attack is coming. The feeds are full of it. People comment like they know. We are being watched. They know what we do, what we think, maybe even what we dream.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk about a year ago in Fiction
Night Thing. Honorable Mention in The Shape of the Thing Challenge. Top Story - August 2025.
Chasing the light; ventured too far into the night. Thump-thump, each foot landing heavy. Thump-thump, each heart beat tight in my chest. Keep running, go faster; ravenous teeth right behind, taloned shadows reaching closer to slice and shred. Screaming wind and choking dark: eager, awaiting to pull me apart. Right foot, left foot, one more, one more! Can’t see, keep going, don’t fall down….” “Mommy!”
By Jessica McGlaughlinabout a year ago in Fiction
Herbert. Top Story - August 2025.
A hulking figure stood in the doorway. He smelled like whiskey and clenched a cigar between his teeth. It had a cherry scent adding a pleasant smell to an otherwise horrible one. Brad and Wendy turn and their faces twist in horror. Herbert revs his chain saw; then he lets out a terrifying squeal while chasing after the couple. Wendy bashes the clown over the head. Glass shatters and candy goes everywhere. Herbert shakes his head. Brad drives his shoulder into Herbert’s belly. The clown lets out a grunt as he staggers backwards and crashes through the coffee table. The terrified couple tries fleeing out the back door.
By DJ Robbinsabout a year ago in Fiction
The Name That Wasn’t Mine
When I was seven years old, my teacher asked me to stand up in front of the class and introduce myself. It was supposed to be simple—say my name, tell my favorite color, maybe share something fun about me. But when my turn came, I froze. I said the name my parents had always taught me to use. The sound of it filled the room, followed by polite claps from my classmates. But as I sat back down, something inside me stirred. The name didn’t feel right. It felt like slipping into someone else’s clothes—wearable, but never truly mine. At first, I brushed off the unease. Children doubt silly things all the time, I told myself. But the feeling followed me like a shadow, quiet yet persistent. One night, I asked my mother why I had that name. She smiled, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. There was a pause, heavy and unnatural, before she smoothed my hair and whispered, “Because it’s yours, darling.” Yet, the way she said it made me feel the opposite. That was the first crack in the glass. Years passed. I carried the name through childhood, through school roll calls, through signatures on my notebooks. Outwardly, it became me, but inwardly it felt like a mask I had to adjust every time I wore it. At sixteen, curiosity turned into discovery. I had gone searching through old boxes in our attic, hunting for childhood photos for a school project. Dust filled the air, and the dim light flickered as if it, too, was hesitant to reveal what I was about to find. Beneath stacks of forgotten yearbooks and yellowed newspapers, I found an envelope with my birth date written on it. Inside was a birth certificate. My eyes scanned the document once, twice, three times. My breath caught in my throat. The name written there wasn’t the name I had lived with my whole life. It wasn’t just slightly different—it was completely foreign. A different name. A different identity. I sat on the attic floor for what felt like hours, tracing the letters with trembling fingers, waiting for them to transform into something familiar. But they didn’t. They stayed strange, stubborn, and undeniable. The truth was simple: the name I had carried all my life wasn’t mine. That night, I confronted my parents. My father’s jaw tightened as if locking away words he wasn’t ready to share. My mother’s hands shook as tears spilled silently down her cheeks. For the longest time, they said nothing. The silence was louder than any confession. Finally, in a voice both tender and broken, my mother explained. I was born to another woman. A woman who, for reasons too complicated and painful for my young heart to fully grasp, couldn’t keep me. She carried me into the world, held me once, and then handed me to the arms of strangers who would become my parents. The name on the certificate was hers—her first and only gift to me. But my adoptive parents, desperate to make me wholly theirs, chose a new name. They believed it would give me a clean start, a chance to belong without question. But belonging cannot be manufactured by erasing the past. For weeks after the revelation, I felt hollow. Was I the person on the certificate? Or the person they had raised? Which version of me was real? I looked in the mirror and couldn’t tell if I was meeting myself—or a stranger who happened to share my face. The two names followed me like shadows, each tugging at me from opposite sides. The birth name felt raw and hauntingly authentic, like a story I had never been allowed to read. The given name felt comfortable, yet strangely fabricated, like an outfit chosen by someone else. I was caught between them, a person split in two. And yet, as time went on, I began to see differently. Names are more than labels. They are vessels, waiting to be filled. A name can carry history, pain, or hope—but ultimately, it carries the meaning we choose to give it. So I made a choice. I began to carry both names. The birth name became my secret strength, a tether to the woman who gave me life, even if she couldn’t stay. The given name remained the bridge to the family who raised me, the ones who taught me love in their own imperfect way. Together, they created the whole story of me. Now, when I introduce myself, I no longer hesitate. I speak my name with confidence—not because it was given to me, but because I’ve claimed it. Both of them. I am the child who was given away, and the child who was chosen. I am the daughter of two names, two lives, two beginnings. The name that wasn’t mine became mine after all. Because I chose it to be.
By LUNA EDITHabout a year ago in Fiction
