Short Story
The Storykeeper's Haven
The Storykeeper's Haven A Tapestry of Words and Kindness In a town where time seemed to have forgotten its hurry, nestled between sagging rooftops and whispering oaks, stood Elias Cole’s sanctuary—a humble library with a sign that sang, “Cole’s Haven.” Its walls, lined with books of every kind, from yellowed fairy tales to crisp poetry collections, were a testament to one man’s devotion. Elias, with his silver-streaked hair and hands worn by the weight of countless pages, was no ordinary librarian. He was a weaver of dreams, a keeper of stories, driven by a love for books that burned brighter than any fire.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
I Tried Lenso.ai, Google Images, and TinEye to Uncover My Husband’s Truth — Here’s What I Found
A Heart in Doubt in Willow Creek I’m Liora Fenwyn, a 32-year-old graphic designer from the cozy town of Willow Creek, USA, where I spend my days creating vibrant logos and sipping chamomile tea by my window. Life was peaceful until a nagging suspicion shook my world: I feared my husband, Ethan, was cheating on me. At 35, he’d been acting distant—late nights at “work,” secretive phone glances, and vague excuses. My gut told me he was on dating apps, possibly hiding secret social media accounts. Determined to uncover the truth, I turned to reverse image search tools like Lenso.ai, Google Images, TinEye, and Social Catfish. While Lenso.ai, Google Images, and TinEye are free and decent for basic searches, they fell short when it came to exposing Ethan’s dating app activity. Social Catfish, with its $5 reverse image search, delivered the detailed results I needed to confront him. Here’s my journey and why Social Catfish is the clear winner for catching cheaters compared to Lenso.ai, Google Images, and TinEye.
By Liora Fenwynabout a year ago in Fiction
I Found Out Today That My Partner Was on eHarmony — Planning to Propose to Another Woman
A Freelancer’s Life in Pine Hollow I’m Everleigh, a 28-year-old freelancer from the quaint town of Pine Hollow, USA, where I spend my days doing online data entry work, sipping coffee, and dreaming of a life filled with love and stability. My little home office is my sanctuary, but my heart has always been restless, tethered to a high school crush who became my boyfriend—Harry Brook. Back in school, Harry was the guy every girl noticed: handsome, popular, and effortlessly charming. Too shy to confess my feelings then, I kept my crush a secret. Years later, we reconnected on Instagram, started chatting, and soon began dating. For a while, it felt like a fairy tale. But as our relationship hit rocky patches, doubts crept in. At 30, Harry seemed distant, dodging my calls and avoiding talks about our future. Fearing he was seeking a serious relationship elsewhere—possibly marriage—I turned to tools like Spokeo and Social Catfish to find out if he was on eHarmony, a platform known for fostering long-term commitments. Here’s how I uncovered the painful truth about my cheating boyfriend and how you can use these tools to check if someone is on eHarmony.
By Liora Fenwynabout a year ago in Fiction
Under the Crimson Sky
By Nadeem Shah The sky bled red the evening I returned to Raven Hollow. I hadn’t been back in twelve years—not since the night everything I believed in was shattered. The roads felt narrower, the trees darker, like the whole town was holding its breath, waiting for me to remember what I’d tried so hard to forget.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Fiction
You Stayed. Honorable Mention in Leave the Light On Challenge. Content Warning.
Tay tests the popcorn in her mouth for flavor; just enough salt and melted butter. Two mugs of blueberry hibiscus tea with extra honey sit steaming nearby. Now she just needs to wait for Alexis to get back with the pizza before the teas get cold. The crisp autumn breeze outside makes for the perfect evening in.
By Melissa Wongabout a year ago in Fiction
Cicada Year. Runner-Up in The Summer That Wasn’t Challenge.
The cicadas started screaming the day after they dropped him off. They hadn’t even pulled back onto the highway before the noise hit, a dense, buzzing, everywhere. Like the earth was trying to talk but didn’t know how to speak.
By Aspen Nobleabout a year ago in Fiction
Boar
Ugh. Walking into that flat was like stepping back in time, and not in a good way. I knocked, politely, and got no answer. He's an old guy by now, so maybe he didn't hear me? I knocked louder, and raised my voice. Why did I do that? I was telling myself, it won't be him, anyway, but I must have thought it might be, to keep trying. Guess I have to think that every time, right? Or there's no point. So there was nothing special about this one. Crummy little flat, older guy, living on his own, by the seems of it. Could be him, right? Could be my Da. I wanted it to be him. I wanted some part of my search to be over. I wanted success. Wanted to talk about Ma. Be a step closer to finding my baby brother. I didn't want it to be him. Didn't want to have come from... this. Bang, bang, bang, on the door, determined to get this over with. Get an answer one way or another... "Bloody well come in, will you, you stupid woman!" This yelling, halfway between peevish and gruff, came from the bowels of the place. And "bowels" is the right word because it was shitty. The door was grubby and peeling. There was a faint stink of fried fish, with an overlay of damp, and hints of piss. Right as I was curling up my nose at the smell, the memory of that fat social worker slammed into my mind. The judgement dripping off her, the way she wrinkled her nose. I ironed the expression off my face and raised my fist to knock again. A stumping and muttering told me my host was coming to the door. Little chains rattled, singing his paranoia. As if anyone would want to get in there. As if the stench didn't do a fine job of keeping people away. Belligerent, he threw the door wide and stood there glaring at me. His eyes looked watery and blank, and his vest was saggy and stained. "Well?" he demanded. "Aren't you going to come in, then?" I stepped over the threshold, and the smell and gloom hit me full force. The decades shrivelled away like a crisp packet in the microwave. Leaving me freshly exposed like a peeled shrimp. I could have been a skinny little kid again. Always hungry, always sick. "You should be a woman," the old man grumbled. I wasn't sure what to say to that. We sat in the kitchen and I tried to explain why I was there, but he just stared at me as if he was waiting for something. Or he got angry. I couldn't figure out what he was angry about. I think he was saying some things only in his head, so I was missing chunks of it. He didn't offer me anything. I remembered all the people who had offered me tea or juice. The kind woman with the dented tin of biscuits. He sat there, on a rickety chair, as if he was a king on a throne. I felt as if he expected me to serve him. I wondered if I should, if it might make him warm up to me and answer my questions. Or would it just offend him more? When he muttered about "queers" I held my temper this time. Remembering that young man in the pub, who could have been my brother... and now I'd never know. "Would you mind if if I used your bathroom? " I asked. He shrugged and grunted, and made no move from his chair. I didn't go to the bathroom. With a furtive step, I nosed into the place he probably spent most of his waking time. Threadbare carpet and armchair, both green. The sort that fades easily to a dull brown in the memory. An ancient TV, a mantelpiece over an ancient gas fire. My heart quickened when I saw the pictures on the mantel. This was it. This was him. That was me. Us. Ma. He was so vague and forgetful, I didn't even go into the bathroom and pull the flush. I walked right back into the kitchen, determined, now, to make him recognise me. "Da?" I said, "Da, I know it's you. I need to talk to you. It's important." He "humphed " again, a bit of spit flying from his lip, his eyes pale and cold. "Don't be daft, boy," he said. "I'm not... I haven't got..." He trailed off into muttering for a few moments, and then raised his voice, whiny like a child. "Am I minding him, am I? Oh, shit, and I don't know where he is..." I was put in mind of a radio being tuned in and out, landing on different stations, or giving static. "D'you think that Shona will know where he is? Skinny lad. Dark hair. Mammy's boy. But I can't lose him! Oh, she'll be so mad..." "Da!" I said it a little louder this time, put my hands on his shoulders. "Da! Look at me. It's me. Isaiah. Your boy. I'm here." "What? Who..." His face was slack for a moment - static again - and then he roared to life, knocking my arms away and shouting. Face flushed, eyes bulging. "You try that inside!" he was yelling, "You'll learn!" His shirt sleeves slipped up his wrists, and I glimpsed the tattoos there. Maybe I should leave and come back another day? I'll make a plan. Avoid setting him off. Get him to remember me. Somehow. My resolve crumbled. Does he even know he has another son? How can he even tell me anything about him at all? His yelling had dissolved into a sneer. "Wipe your face," he told me. "Bunch of pansies," he added. The front door slammed behind me.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Wild Tribe
The plane was moving smoothly when it suddenly started to sway in the air. All the passengers were scared. Some started screaming loudly. Some passengers started praying. The pilot was unable to control the plane at all. He could not even communicate with the control room. The plane was falling rapidly towards the ground. All the passengers were crying in fear.
By Echoes of Lifeabout a year ago in Fiction
The Five-Minute Butler. Top Story - August 2025.
As he looked in the rearview mirror, Daryl saw that his bow-tie was crooked. He quickly fixed it, and when he saw that the rest of his appearance was satisfactory, Daryl nodded before he left his car. This was his first shift after all. He had to make a great impression.
By Rebecca Pattonabout a year ago in Fiction
Aestas Futilis
Oliver slung his backpack over his shoulders and headed down the stairs. He had it all planned out. He’d sit at the coffee shop for a few hours and read, write, sketch, and listen to whatever music he would be vibing with in the moment. It was, for lack of a more literary term, going to be a chill morning. Afterwards, he might actually get lunch at a restaurant and have an afternoon beer.
By Aaron Morrisonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Gilded Frame
The girl in the photo on her wall blinked. Ava froze mid-step, sloshing tea across the carpet. Her eyes locked on the frame. The image looked the same: rusted gold trim, a colourful yet faded garden, a swing dangling from nowhere. And the girl, maybe eight, with porcelain skin, green eyes, a dirty pinkish-red dress, and corkscrew curls.
By Heather Littleabout a year ago in Fiction
