Young Adult

The Throne Room
The smoke hung heavy in the air, overtaking the sweet and savory smells that permeated the festival. The wooden poles that held the steel grates over the roaring flames were overturned, and the meats were ravaged by the beasts that hunted with the red-eyed shifter.
By KA Stefana 8 months ago in Fiction
TCoE: Climb
A scoff erupted from above. "You'll never make it," a man's ragged voice sneered. A twelve-year-old boy with messy dark hair and tan skin pulled his brown eyes from the parchment in his shaking hands. The sharp, resentful words cut his heart, leaving it frozen and gradually draining. The skinny lad was a bit taken aback by the stranger's harshness, but he mentally fought hard to brush it off. After a few moments, the bitter man who taunted the boy removed the hood of his cloak to reveal a scarred face. The man had wrinkly, tanned skin and long, dark hair.
By Mel E. Furnish8 months ago in Fiction
Calamity "Callie" Shortfuse. Content Warning.
So, Miss Shortfuse... Neat name. Very nice to meet you. May I call you Calamity? Callie, if it's all the same to ya. You only call me "Calamity," when you're beggin' for your life. So Callie is just fine.
By Maddy Newt8 months ago in Fiction
The Lovely Lute
I am the lovely Lute. Silver eyes, pale skin, golden hair—I am the picture of youth, despite my old age. All over my body are trace amounts of feathers. You'll find them living in my hair, across my shoulders and up and down my back.
By Maddy Newt8 months ago in Fiction
Syndra of the Silver Void
The Flint and Steel My parents were Sinaht and Rubarae, astral elves many looked up to. My mother, Rubarae, was a gifted healer while my father, Sinaht, was a studied philosopher, his gaze always fixated on the stars. Always.
By Maddy Newt8 months ago in Fiction
Pastel Nightmare
The Johnsons were the quintessential suburban family. Laura, her husband Mark, and their two kids, Ellie and Ben, loved going all out for the holidays. Easter was no exception. Pastel-colored eggs, garlands, and bunny decorations adorned their home every year, but this time, Laura wanted to make it extra special.
By V-Ink Stories8 months ago in Fiction
The Burrow
The Thompsons had planned their Easter weekend months in advance. A family camping trip seemed like the perfect escape from the monotony of suburbia, a chance to bond over s’mores and nature hikes. The secluded Maplewood Campground, nestled deep in the woods, promised tranquility and picturesque views. They had no idea what awaited them beneath the ground.
By V-Ink Stories8 months ago in Fiction
My Dead Father Sent Me a Voice Message at 2:13 AM — And It Exposed the Darkest Secret of Digital Immortality
The last message arrived at 2:13 AM. Not a notification. Not a call. A voice note. From my father. My hands froze. My father had been dead for three years.
By Omid khan8 months ago in Fiction
No Signal
The first thing Lorelei noticed was the sound. Not silence — she had expected silence — but a roaring, ceaseless, all-consuming noise. The surf. It came from every direction, a white static that swallowed everything else, and for a long, disoriented moment she thought she had gone deaf and the world had filled the gap with its own voice.
By Parsley Rose 8 months ago in Fiction
The Lantern in the Fog
The fog settled over the village like a blanket soaked in silence. At first it was gentle, wrapping the streets in a quiet hush. But as night deepened, it thickened into something heavier, almost alive, crawling along the cobblestones and slipping into the cracks of every home. It was not the kind of fog that simply blurred the edges of things. This fog carried a chill that touched the marrow, a weight that pressed on the heart, and whispered doubts in voices that sounded eerily familiar.
By Failproof Flowers8 months ago in Fiction
The Burned Pot. AI-Generated.
"The clock has struck three, the coffee is cold, and the shadows are beginning to speak. Welcome back to the desk of The Night Writer, where the stories are brewed in the dark." “You’re home late.” “I know. Sorry.” “Where were you?” “Just…with friends.” “‘Just with friends’ doesn’t usually smell like stale cigarette smoke and desperation. And cheap cologne.” “Mom.” “Don’t ‘Mom’ me. Your clothes. And your eyes are red. Were you crying?” “No.” “Don’t lie to me, Michael. I see everything. You think I don’t? Because I’m working two jobs? Because I’m not always right here?” “I know you see things.” “Good. So, tell me. What’s going on?” “Nothing. Just a bad day.” “Bad day? Or bad choice of friends?” “They’re not bad.” “The ones who let you come home smelling like that? Like a dive bar? That’s not how I'm raising you.” “I didn’t do anything.” “Then why the tears? Why the hiding?” “I wasn’t hiding.” “You walked in like a cat trying to avoid a wet floor. What happened, son?” “It’s…it’s complicated.” “Life is complicated, Michael. You think I don’t know that? Raising you alone in this city? Trying to make sure we don’t lose this apartment? Complicated is my middle name. So, try again.” “Mom, I…I need to tell you something.” “Okay. I’m listening. My hands are full right now, but I’m listening. Just…speak up. The rice is boiling over.” “It’s about…about me.” “Everything’s about you at sixteen. That’s how it works. So what’s the big news? You failed a test? You got someone pregnant? Please, God, don’t tell me that.” “No! No, nothing like that.” “Then what? You want to drop out of school? Go chase some foolish dream in another state? I told you, Michael, college is the way out of this neighborhood.” “It’s not about college.” “Then what is it about? Just spit it out. You’re making my blood pressure rise. And I’m tired, Michael. So tired.” “I…I like someone.” “Oh. That’s… that’s good, son. Finally. Took you long enough. Who is she? Is she nice? Is she from a good family? Does she make you happy?” “It’s not a she, Mom.” “What? What do you mean ‘not a she’?” “I like…a boy.” “A…a boy?” “Yes. A boy.” “Michael. What are you saying?” “I’m saying…I think I’m gay.” “Gay.” “Yes, Mom. Gay.” “You…you can’t be. You’re…you’re my son. My only son. We’re…we’re not…this isn’t…” “It is, Mom. It’s me.” “No. No, it’s not. This is just…confusion. You’re young. You’re sixteen. You don’t know anything yet.” “I know this.” “You don’t. You spend too much time on that internet. Seeing things. Reading things. This city, it fills your head with…with ideas.” “It’s not an idea, Mom. It’s how I feel.” “How you feel? Feelings change, Michael. Like the weather. One minute it’s hot, the next it’s raining. This is just a phase. You’ll meet a nice girl. Get married. Have children. Give me grandchildren.” “I might not do any of that.” “You will. Because that’s what we do. That’s what our family does. You think your grandfather would understand this? Your aunties? They’d…they’d have a fit.” “I don’t care what they’d think.” “You will care when they stop calling. When they stop inviting us to Sunday dinner. When they look at you like… like you’re something broken.” “I’m not broken, Mom.” “Then what are you?” “I’m… me. And I just wanted you to know...do you think I'm broken, Mom?” "You're my son, broken or not...you're my son!" "Okay." “Well, I…I don’t know what to do with this, Michael. I just…I need to think.” “Okay.” “Just…don’t tell anyone. Not yet. Not your friends. Not your…not that boy. Promise me.” “Mom.” “Promise me, Michael! Please. Just give me some time.” “Okay. I promise.” “Good. Now, the rice is definitely burning. Can you get the pot off the stove? And open a window. It smells like…like something died in here.” “Sure, Mom.” “And…and tell me about this boy. Is he…is he nice to you?” “He is, Mom. Really nice.” “Hmm. We’ll see. Now, go. And maybe…maybe next time, don’t come home smelling like that.” “I won’t. I promise.” “Good. Now, pass me that dish towel. And don’t burn yourself.” Sometimes the most terrifying monsters aren't the ones in the closet, but the fears we carry in a quiet kitchen after a long shift. Michael and his mother are still standing—the air is a bit heavier, the rice is a bit scorched, but the truth is finally in the room. In the city of shadows, even a small light can feel blinding. "The sun is threatening to rise, and my ink is running dry. Until the next moonrise, keep your lights on and your secrets close. This has been The Night Writer."
By The Night Writer 🌙 8 months ago in Fiction
Eyes. Honorable Mention in Rituals of Affection Challenge.
I was seven years old the first time I got married. I remember the weight of the dress before I remember my own name. It was heavy and white and warm, like it had been waiting for me longer than I had been alive. The fabric pressed against my shoulders with a seriousness I did not yet understand. The room was filled with the aroma of flowers I couldn’t name, their scent thick and unfamiliar; and the walls seemed older than the building that held them as if the space itself had been borrowed for the occasion. There were people there. I remember that much. Their voices softened as I entered, the way voices do when something inevitable is about to happen. No one smiled too widely. No one whispered. They all seemed like a blurry memory; a background character of my story. I am even unsure of the season but I do know I wanted to hold onto the feeling and the intensity of the dream; and take it with me but I couldn’t remember everything once I woke up.
By Cadma8 months ago in Fiction