Short Story
The Library of Lost Souls . AI-Generated.
In the heart of a mystical forest, hidden from mortal eyes, stood an ancient library. Its walls were crafted from a strange, glowing stone that seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy. The library's name was whispered in awe by those who knew of its existence: the Library of Lost Souls.
By Pooja Vishwakarma2 years ago in Fiction
Senorita
Chapter 1: The Voice in the Dark In a small beautiful town of Unalaska in Alaska, where the landscape stretched endlessly into snow-covered horizons, there lived a girl named Senorita. At nineteen, she was different from most young women her age. Born into a conservative family, Senorita had spent her life wrapped in the comforting embrace of familiar routines. Her world was one of silence and shadow, as she had been blind since birth. Yet, in her darkness, her heart was an open field, eager to bloom with the fragrance of dreams and desires.
By Mustary Islam2 years ago in Fiction
The Spirit of Kofi
In the sun-kissed town of Akropong, nestled in the rolling hills of Ghana's Eastern Region, a young boy named Kofi Mensah was born with an unyielding spirit. His early years were marked by laughter, curiosity, and an insatiable thirst for adventure.
By Tales by J.J.2 years ago in Fiction
Bloody Virgins
I am annoyed. My eyeballs, I am sure, glint with it. Shining in this handsome face. It is not arrogance, no, only fact. I have not seen it in many years, (shaving is tricky) but I am popular with the ladies, am I not? Good genes. Good skin. Good cheekbones. Charisma. I open my mouth wide, like so— —and I lick these long fangs. I poke one nail in and pick them clean. I am fastidious about this. One must floss. Very important. It is habit now, a thoughtful semi-colon. The bed: crumpled, empty. Tattered remains of the curtains billow into the room. Knowing what I will see, I stalk to the balcony and peer over, talons beating an irritated rhythm on the railing. Far below, her rather pretty form moves steadily down the rock face. She has fashioned a rope from torn and knotted curtains. What is wrong with the door?
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
Night Walk
Unable to fall asleep due to a sense of unease, I decide to slip from my warm bed and back into my street clothes to go for a late-night walk and clear my head. Breathing deeply of the cool, damp air, I head off in the general direction of the slumbering village’s garden.
By Mother Combs2 years ago in Fiction
Three Can Keep a Secret if Two of Them are Dead. . Top Story - November 2024. Content Warning.
Mother taught me once a word was spoken it could never be unsaid. “If you gossip behind people’s backs, a little bird will tell them. If you tell even one friend your secret, the secret’s out, Cupcake.”
By Holly Pheni2 years ago in Fiction
After Dark
There is a story I like to tell late at night — when I have people over and we have all had a bit to drink. I like my place on the cool side, and on winter days I am happy to make do with a small portable space heater at my feet. But when I have company, I make a fire in the wood-stove that sits on a large fieldstone at the very center of the house. The glass door opens to the main seating area of my living room and there is plenty of space for several people to sit comfortably. I turn off electric lights in favor of candles around the room. We eat leek soup with buttered crusty bread. And when we are done with that, we open the first bottle. We like to start with Jim Beam as a warm up. And the night usually concludes with Yukon Jack.
By Content Misfit2 years ago in Fiction
Checkmate
Everything about her was a lie. From her birth certificate to her breast implants, Sarah Tyson was a total fabrication. It had to be. The assignment she was taking on was dangerous. It was the only way to be sure she wouldn't be found out. Sarah Tyson had been groomed for the past two years. Nothing was left for granted. She was absolutely the best person to pull it off. Her identity was "custom made" for the job.
By Scott A. Gese2 years ago in Fiction
Picks' Folly
Sheriff John Stone stepped out from the cool shade of his office into the heat of the noonday sun. Reaching his fingers into the small watch pocket of his vest he deftly fished out a wooden match. With the flick of his wrist he scratched the match on a nearby post and it instantly burst into flame. He held it to the tip of the smoke he had just rolled and inhaled deeply. As easily as he had lit the match, he flicked it to the ground, smothering the flame in the dust of the street.Good tobacco and a quiet afternoon. Just the way Sheriff Stone liked it. Unfortunately, the day was not over yet, and little did he know, his quiet afternoon was soon to be disrupted.
By Scott A. Gese2 years ago in Fiction
