A woman grieves over a lost companion who left them. The friend did not notice what hit them until the very end.

For ten years, the calendar had a shadow. Once a month, like a dark lunar cycle, I would fall asleep and wakeup in the same house. The architecture was never quite clear, a blur of beige hallways and heavy oak doors but the atmosphere was razor sharp. It was the scent of cold floor wax and the crushing weight of pure, primal terror.

Donald J. Trump announced on a cold January night, not from a ballroom, but from a factory floor in Ohio. The cameras caught steel dust in the air and a row of tired faces behind him. He did not talk about himself. He talked about price tags. Gas. Groceries. Rent. He talked about borders and ballots in the same breath. He talked about the quiet people who had learned to stop arguing online and start voting early.

Emma had read about girls falling into other worlds before. She liked the genre even. Where the female lead would find herself either beloved or hated-she liked the villainess ones especially- and they would triumph over someone trying to take them out. Maybe fall in love while they're at it and gain the respect of all those around them. That's not what happens to her...

Episode One: The Birth of the Damned Cormac Blackfeather inherits the Carnival from his mother, the infamous Mother Carnage, whose final ritual promised eternal life and fortune for the midway. Before the horrified guests, lightning strikes her form—she vanishes into smoke, leaving only silence. The performers scatter, abandoning the cursed circus. Desperate to rebuild, Blackfeather wanders into desolation, chasing whispers of new talent. There he finds the Twins of Carnage—Grin and Grimace, clowns whose laughter masks something darker. Their casting ceremony binds them to the midway, sealing their fate. Together, they set out toward the next town, the Carnival’s hunger pulling them onward.

Five Years After I've Passed (This is a fictional story I created about what might happen if I were to pass away.) I've written two POVs; this one is the longer version.

A puppet sat on a shelf, it gaped at Holland. The puppet could not stop watching Holland and his every move.

A missing fifteen-year-old girl finds herself in a parallel universe similar to her family's home, and something feels off about it. Everything doesn't seem to be normal, for she comes to realization that she is not in her home. Enduring terrors and exploring the depths of her dread, she comes to accept a grueling truth. Will she escape from her pain to find her way back home, or will she remain in her new home in the dark.

The part 2 Writing the same story still like to write then i will get bored ok so pack with me just a fairy tale like story

Illusion feels warm, Illusion feels warm — until the light fades. Truth waits quietly, just beyond the glow.

🔥 He opened one email… and the entire building exploded. Read Chapter 1: “Another Day in Paradise” now 👉 https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FPDQCRGL

Ravishing berries were found in a jar of jelly in a cupboard. That jam tasted so good it smacked and now it fell and cracked.

So... as the story goes... this little fellow just walked in the front door... he just walked in the front door and took his place..

The first few weeks at 113 Blackwood Lane were defined by the subtle dread that clung to the air like dust. It was the scent of old wood, mothballs and something metallic, something rotten. I quickly learned the house and two main inhabitants besides myself.

With her husband in jail being alone is hard. Luckily for her, she has some outside help from someone who has been watching but has never spoke up. This is a book of fiction and nothing in it is real.

Excerpt from The Everything Zone There’s a place beyond categories a world where creativity, curiosity, and connection collide. It’s not a channel, not a brand, not a single art form. It’s a pulse that lives inside anyone bold enough to build from every part of themselves. That’s The Everything Zone. Here, there are no wrong lanes. The gamer can be a poet. The designer can be a philosopher. The dreamer can be a teacher, a builder, a voice for something bigger. In the Zone, every identity feeds the next because creation isn’t about choosing one thing, it’s about weaving everything into a single rhythm that feels true. Success here isn’t measured in numbers, but in moments: the small ones where you forget to check the time because you’re fully alive in the work. The Everything Zone teaches you that perfection is an illusion, failure is feedback, and authenticity is your greatest algorithm. When you stop chasing validation and start chasing evolution, something shifts.

Aries raises his arms to toss me a can of tomato soup like a softball when I feel a familiar paralyzing fear wash over me. I no longer see my loving husband’s face, his long brown hair, and his unkempt goatee and septum ring, but that of my ex-husband’s, with his features twisted in rage. The only move I make is to throw my arms up over my face to ward off the coming blow of the baseball he threw at my face.

Slowly, carefully, I lifted my gaze from the magazine toward the doorway. The door was wide open, revealing a stretch of dark hallway. And she was standing there.

A wistful little haiku about friends on this full moon Moonday (Monday) As usual, the summary is required to be longer than the poem itself. And it is sticking on a title that is not the title I have here in the form. It is only my second day here...

The first time I heard rice krispy eyes I was 6 years old. A six year old just trying to make friends and finding out people are not so nice to those who are " difftent".