Short Story
The House Seller
I don't really want to sell my house but I have to I am told because my ex wife says that now that my new wife is dead or passed away as they call it she gets half of everything again and she wants half of this house and I don't know about Solomon or anything but half a house? Let me show you some of the peculiarities of the place, cause it's a house until it gets differenter from every one's else's house, and then it's a home. I'm 73, or at least that's what my doctor told me.
By Jason Edwards2 years ago in Fiction
The hidden door. AI-Generated.
Start writing...Alex, a boy who lived a seemingly normal life, was in the middle of a thorough cleaning of his home—a task he often undertook a few times a year. On this particular day, he started by cleaning the bedroom, then the kitchen, and finally the living room. The house also had a guest room, which he rarely opened. Since he was cleaning the entire house, he decided he should clean the guest room as well.
By Zainab Bula2 years ago in Fiction
The Real Book Thief
There are not many things more satisfying than sitting down to read a good book. With interesting characters, we love and loathe, conflicts and resolutions, twists and turns. From the start we are engrossed through the middle to the end. The end that brings everything to a nice, or not so nice conclusion.
By Paul Stewart2 years ago in Fiction
Just Like New
Maggie's business, “Pan Revival,” had become a local sensation. Customers flocked to her with their old, battered baking sheets and muffin tins, hoping for a miracle. Maggie, bless her, delivered on her incredible promise, "just like new!" Some customers were just eco-conscious, unwilling to send yet more items to landfill. Others were deeply sentimental, wanting to hang on to cookware from their mothers or grandparents. Each morning, Maggie would unlock the door to her shop, making sure the counter was well-stocked with Bicarbonate of soda (her "secret, miracle ingredient"). She’d greet her customers with a warm, sincere smile. They’d hand over their tarnished, grubby-looking, bits-burnt-on pans, and she’d assure them that in a few days, they’d be as good as new. What her customers didn’t know was this: instead of painstakingly restoring each one, she replaced them with brand new ones. She had a supplier who provided her with high-quality, identical replacements at a fraction of the cost. She’d always dreamed of being the kind of clever person who could upcycle and restore old, worn out furniture. Kitchenware had seemed like a good place to start, requiring less storage space. After several failed attempts at actually refurbishing the pans, she realized it was much easier (and more efficient, at least from her point of view, if not for the planet as a whole) to just replace them. "This belonged to my grandmother,” one woman said, in a voice tinged with nostalgia. “I used to bake with her every Sunday.” Maggie tooke the tin with an air of tenderness,, even reverence. “I’ll take good care of it,” she promised solemnly. Once the customer was gone, she found a suitable replacement from her stock, and then, quite unceremoniously, threw the beloved tin in the bin. Two days later, the customer returned, eyes alight at the sight of the precious memory restored. Perhaps this (actually brand spanking new) muffin tin was all they had left of their dear old Gran. “It’s perfect,” she said, tears welling up. “Just like I remember.” Maggie smiled. “I’m so glad you're pleased with the result." As the latest satisfied customer left, Maggie thought about the boxes of Betty Crocker she'd got in the pantry, and considered opening a bakery.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
A macabre mistake
Once upon a time, in a small town, a group of four friends decided to play with an Ouija board for fun. They didn't believe in the supernatural and thought it would be a harmless game. Little did they know, they were about to unleash a curse that would haunt them for the next five years.
By Ninfa Galeano2 years ago in Fiction
Give A Helping Hand
We were all standing at the bus stop, eagerly expecting the arrival of the 5 o’clock bus, just like we did every day after work or school, in the crisp September air. The warm breeze carried a hint of coolness, hinting at the transition from summer to fall. Yes, some schools’ day ends around 4:15 - 4:25, just as the afternoon sun casts long shadows.
By Wayne Ince2 years ago in Fiction
Margola's guilt
“Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” According to Victorian Flower Language, asphodel is a type of lily, meaning ‘My regrets follow you to the grave’ and wormwood means ‘absence’ and also typically symbolized bitter sorrow.
By Antoni De'Leon2 years ago in Fiction
This is Why They Number Channels Sequentially. Content Warning.
Theseus had been walking for seemed like hours, and at first he was tense, walking slowly, shield up and sword at the ready. But after a while of nothing happening, of twisting corridors, left turns and right turns and seemingly endless miles of wall, he had become a little less vigilant. Now he walked with plodding steps, head almost hanging, sword dragging. His shield was gone---he'd set it down to take a leak, and then forgotten it. The truth was he was bored, just so damn bored. Actually, taking a whiz on a random wall had been the most exciting thing that had happened in the last 60 minutes.
By Jason Edwards2 years ago in Fiction
Near death . Content Warning.
A necklace made her see the thing standing beside her. * It was an eldritch school year for Visty, she never experience hunger or so she thought. Everything and every assignment meant more to her than the health of her body and mind, but this pernicious pattern will cause her to experience things that will make anyone stutter.
By Caitlin Charlton2 years ago in Fiction
