Short Story

Parlay and Desecration
As our lips danced and wrestled and our tongues formed the frontal assault into enemy territory, it felt as if we had been locked in a heated, passionate battle for hours. The cold, harsh reality that existed outside of her plump pinks and my smaller, firmer mouth was that it had merely been minutes.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
TUS NUA - ch 20
TUS NUA – ch 20 New Beginnings – Mia and Midnight (*)(*)(*) Mia hid her worry well. Everyone was enjoying the time spent as Neil and Alistar entertained them and the last thing Mia wanted to do was cast a shadow on their good times. Yet she worried. “What’s wrong with me? It’s as though my mind is losing its perseptive powers. I can’t see what’s about to happen. Can’t ‘feel’ anyone approaching. Has someone cast a spell on me to make me lose my powers? Once Neil leaves, I really need to speak with Aintin.”
By Margaret Brennanabout a year ago in Fiction
I Tested Reversely.ai’s Reverse Image Search — What’s Free and What’s Not
Disclosure: Some links, like Social Catfish, are tools I’ve personally used and found helpful. If you use them, I may receive a small commission at no extra cost to you. My recommendations are based on genuine experience.
By Kai Winslowabout a year ago in Fiction
I Woke Up as the Villain in Someone Else’s Life
I Woke Up as the Villain in Someone Else’s Life I thought I was the hero of my story until I saw the world through someone else's eyes, and realized I had become their nightmare.
By Farooq Hashmiabout a year ago in Fiction
I Tested Duplichecker’s Reverse Image Search — What You Get for Free
Disclosure: Some links, like Social Catfish, are tools I’ve personally used and found helpful. If you use them, I may receive a small commission at no extra cost to you. My recommendations are based on genuine experience.
By Kai Winslowabout a year ago in Fiction
I Tried Using PimEyes for Free — Here's What Really Happened
Disclosure: Some links, like Social Catfish, are tools I’ve personally used and found helpful. If you use them, I may receive a small commission at no extra cost to you. My recommendations are based on genuine experience.
By Kai Winslowabout a year ago in Fiction
Something Windy this way comes
It was cool being home schooled. I thought whatever I had learned would stay in my mind. Not leak into my dreams, like melted ice cream.
By Caitlin Charltonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Secret
A Strange Shop in a Forgotten Village In the heart of a fog-veiled village, nestled between a forgotten bakery and an abandoned tailor’s shop, stood a curious little storefront with a creaky wooden sign that read:
By Echoes by Shafi--about a year ago in Fiction
The Lost City of Zanira
A boy, age twelve, was named Salar Sikandar. He lived near the big hills. His mind was full of big thoughts & his heart knew no fear. He liked to look around, read old books, & hear his grandpa's tales. His top tale was one of lost towns & old myths.
By Mehran Amanabout a year ago in Fiction
Become A Millionaire
.1 Don't be rude in conversation. 2. Control your anger. 3. Do good to others. 4. Avoid pride. 5. Forgive others. 6. Speak softly.
By Tariq Pathan about a year ago in Fiction
The Last Song of Elaris. Content Warning.
In the mist-shrouded valley of Elaris, where the mountains hummed with forgotten magic, lived a young bard named Lyria. Her voice could weave spells, a gift inherited from her mother, who vanished when Lyria was a child. The villagers revered Lyria, but her heart ached for the mother she barely knew and the songs she could no longer sing—songs that once tamed storms and mended broken souls.
By Am@n Khan about a year ago in Fiction
"The Last Voicemail
M Mehran Not the dramatic, echoing kind you hear in movies. Just a regular bzzzt on Sarah’s phone, vibrating across the café table as she sipped her too-hot latte and stared at the blinking cursor on her laptop screen. One new voicemail. She frowned. No missed call. That was strange. Her thumb hovered over the voicemail icon. Something about it made her stomach flutter—intuition, maybe. Or dread. Or both. Click. > “Hey, baby. It’s me. Listen... I know I messed up. I know you probably don’t want to hear my voice right now, but just—just listen, okay?” Sarah’s breath caught. It was Jason. But Jason was dead. Two years ago. Motorcycle accident. Midnight ride. He wasn’t wearing his helmet. She hadn’t spoken to him that night, hadn’t answered his call. They’d been fighting. She was tired of the disappearances, the broken promises, the unspoken apologies. She hadn’t picked up. Not that time. > “I’m sorry I didn’t come home last night. I should’ve. I was gonna. I bought those stupid cinnamon rolls you like, from that gas station on 5th. Remember? The ones you said were ‘a heart attack wrapped in cellophane’? I was gonna make coffee and say sorry, the right way, this time.” She blinked hard. The coffee went cold between her fingers. > “But then I chickened out. I parked outside. I saw the lights on in the kitchen. You were playing that Bon Iver song—you always play it when you’re mad. So I sat there like a coward. I was gonna come up. I swear I was.” Her hands were shaking now. Her laptop dimmed into sleep. > “Then I got on the bike. Just... to think. I figured I’d drive a little. Get my head clear. But the thing is, Sarah...” The voice cracked. She hadn’t heard him cry in years. Not even at his mother’s funeral. > “The thing is, I never made it home.” A pause. She felt the world still. > “I don’t know how this is getting to you. Maybe it’s some glitch. Maybe it’s a miracle. But if you're hearing this... I love you. I always loved you. Even when I was too proud or too drunk to say it. I was stupid. But you were the best thing that ever happened to me.” Static flared. > “Forgive me, if you can.” Click. The message ended. Sarah sat frozen in the café, the sound of coffee cups and casual laughter crashing around her like a storm. She played it again. Same words. Same ache. She called the number back. Disconnected. She called her phone company. They had no record of any voicemail. The timestamp was blank. No metadata. Nothing. She wasn’t sure what she believed. Ghosts? Technology glitching out two years late? Some buried audio file reanimating from the ether? But that night, she dug out the shoebox under her bed. The one she hadn’t opened in months. Inside were memories—ticket stubs, Polaroids, one of his old flannel shirts that still smelled like pine and motor oil. And taped to the inside lid, a photo of them laughing on a beach in Santa Cruz. Her head thrown back. His arm around her. Sunlight like a halo. She whispered into the silence of her apartment, “I forgive you.” A breeze stirred the curtains. She never heard the message again. But every Sunday since, she walks to the gas station on 5th, buys a cinnamon roll, makes coffee, and plays that Bon Iver song. Just in case he’s listening.
By M Mehran about a year ago in Fiction