Short Story

The Digital Bloodhound. Content Warning.
Where every keystroke left a trace and every screen glowed with secrets, Ezra Kane was a ghost in the machine. Known online as "Bloodhound," he was a detective who hunted murderers not in alleyways but in data streams, forums, and encrypted chats. His office was a cluttered apartment in Chicago, lined with monitors, cooling fans humming like a chorus of mechanical monks. Ezra didn’t carry a badge or a gun—just a keyboard, a knack for patterns, and an obsession with justice.
By TheNaethabout a year ago in Fiction
Will It Go Round In Circles?
Introduction This is for Gabriel Huizenga's "Beginning-Endings" Challenge that you can find out about here: Will It Go Round In Circles?
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
The Birth of Folklore
When we ask how folklore is formed, it can be formed among groups of people who speak the same language in a small group or in a society. Thus, it seems that folklore has a certain collective birth. What people think and desire as a group is represented by folklore. That is, it shows a representation of the collective thinking of man. A person living in society follows a certain behavior because it is true according to the common thinking of the society. Something that someone presents in a way that suits the collective thinking is accepted by everyone. The stories, poems, dances, etc. that we experience today have survived to this day because they were born collectively at some point.
By Rohitha Lankaabout a year ago in Fiction
2:47
Cerise couldn’t sleep. The clock on her nightstand screamed 2:47 at her. A.M. She had tried not to look in its direction because knowing exactly how much sleep she’d already missed would be disturbing. Calculating how much more she’d miss if sleep didn’t arrive soon made her anxious. And anxiety always robbed her of sleep.
By Marie McGrathabout a year ago in Fiction
The Roar and the Heart
In a vast land, where the savanna stretched endlessly under a burning sun, there existed a village at the edge of the jungle. The people lived simple lives, relying on the forest for food, shelter, and the occasional danger that accompanied the wild creatures that roamed the land. Among these creatures, the lion was both a symbol of strength and a creature of terror. Legends spoke of a great lion, larger than any other, whose roar could be heard across miles of the jungle. His name was Kavi, and he was the king of the jungle.
By Ihtisham ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Crow and the Sparrow
In the heart of an ancient forest, where the trees whispered old stories and the breeze carried secrets from afar, lived a sparrow named Sia. She was small, cheerful, and curious—always hopping from branch to branch, exploring the world with wide eyes and an even wider heart.
By Ihtisham ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
María
Through the window of her house, a warm light entered, caressing her cheek. With the melody of dawn as a soundtrack, the young girl timidly opened her eyelids, as if fearful of leaving the realm of dreams. Bathed in light, her green eyes glistened, moist after a long night of vivid imagination.
By Writing For Meabout a year ago in Fiction
When We Meet Again
The cold breeze swept across the old train station, rustling the yellowed leaves that danced around Claire's feet. She pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders and stared down the empty tracks. Ten years. It had been ten long years since she had last stood here — the day she left behind everything she loved, including him.
By Muhammad Ibrarabout a year ago in Fiction
Timeless Hearts
The ticking of the antique clock echoed through the museum’s empty hall as Evelyn traced her fingers over the glass. It was old — Victorian era, probably — with golden gears and an inscription that read:
By Muhammad Ibrarabout a year ago in Fiction
Light Out
The light in her got brighter and brighter. So bright that people couldn't stand it. They needed protection from her light, so they started to shade her.
By L.I.Eabout a year ago in Fiction
cold lick. Content Warning.
⚠️Trigger Warning: This story contains disturbing imagery involving children, ice cream trucks, and elements of horror. Reader discretion is advised. The ice cream truck came at dusk. Its chimes were broken—notes out of tune, like a lullaby hummed by something that had never been a child. The truck itself looked ancient, something pulled from a dream no one wanted to remember. Rust flaked from its sides like dead skin, its pastel colors faded to a funeral blush, and the windows were too dark to see inside. But the kids of Harlow Street ran for it every time. Every time… except for Claire. She hadn’t eaten ice cream since last summer. Not since her sister Lily vanished. One moment, Lily had been skipping down the sidewalk, a purple popsicle in hand, her laughter trailing in sunbeams. The next—gone. No scream. No sign of struggle. Just the empty stick, still wet, lying on the concrete like an offering. Everyone said she ran away. Claire knew better. The ice cream truck had come that evening, too. No one believed her—not the cops, not her parents, not even the therapist who scribbled in his leather notebook like he could trap her grief with ink. “Trauma does strange things,” they said, mouths too soft to speak the truth. But Claire remembered. The way the truck had idled at the edge of the street like it was waiting. The way Lily had stared into the window, smiling—not scared, not confused, just… drawn. She’d walked forward like she was sleepwalking. Tonight, the truck rolled in again. Claire stood on her porch barefoot, arms folded tight against the cool breeze, heart rattling in her chest like a bird desperate to fly. The other kids swarmed it—laughing, waving wrinkled bills, calling out for rocket pops and fudge bars. The chimes played their broken song, skipping notes like cracked porcelain teeth. Then the truck stopped. Right in front of Claire’s house. The laughter dulled. Kids turned. Still chewing, still grinning—but too still. The serving window creaked open. No driver. Just a void behind the glass. Then a hand emerged—long and pale as bone, the skin translucent, almost wet-looking. It held a cone. One scoop. Swirled in black and bruised-purple, mist rising in tendrils that didn’t evaporate but clung to the air. The ice cream shimmered like oil in a puddle. “Claire,” it said. Not the man. The cone. She froze. The voice came from inside the scoop. Warped and distant, like a memory trapped under ice. “Claire, I’m cold…” Her breath caught. Lily. Without knowing why, Claire stepped off the porch. Her feet kissed the pavement, still warm from the day but growing colder with every step. The other kids stood motionless now. Popsicles halfway to their mouths, eyes wide and unblinking. They looked like mannequins left in a forgotten store window. No breath. No sound. The cone extended further. “Come with me. I miss you.” It was Lily. That soft lilt warped by frost, by something unspeakable. Claire’s throat tightened. Her hand reached out, fingers trembling, aching to touch, to believe. Then the scoop blinked. A milky eye opened just beneath the surface. Childlike. Wrong. And then a mouth split across the side of the cone, toothless and smiling. “Don’t keep her waiting,” it gurgled. Claire jerked back. The door behind the window creaked open and a wave of rot spilled out—sweet and rancid, like melted candy over corpses. Inside, the air shimmered with cold. She saw flashes—tiny shoes, pink hair ties, fingernails frozen into metal walls. Something stirred within. A silhouette with too many joints. Its breath was a hiss, its teeth clicked like hailstones skittering across a coffin lid. Claire turned and ran. She didn’t scream. Didn’t look back. The truck didn’t follow. It didn’t need to. That night, her sleep was broken by twisted dreams—ice cream melting into soil, cones with hollow voices, and Lily’s face behind glass, mouth frozen open in silent pleading. “Hurry,” her sister whispered, her tongue stuck to a frosted wall. “It’s getting colder.” Claire woke with a gasp. A knock came at her window. She turned. There it was. The cone. Sitting on her sill. Dripping. Smiling.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Lilith's Blessing 18
18. “You show yourself now? You let your son die. But you saved that?” Akor pointed his white sword at Memet. Xia’s eyes widened, her mana sufficient for her to perceive Memet’s true form. She glared like she saw right through him. Long, dark dread hung from his cheeks, down to his stomach. Dark black skin, his greying beard covered most of his face. But his cold eyes, visible, stared back at the couple.
By Travis J. H. about a year ago in Fiction