"Oh, Mr. Prolongo. You are a better specimen than I was led to believe. Before you go, may I ask for a moment of your time? I promise to pay you in full for your services." "None of that funny business. Promise?" "Mr. Prolongo. I will keep my hands where you can see them at all times. Lola, the thurible, if you will. Mr. Prolongo, my niece will anoint you with the incense—it is merely a test. As you can see, the smoke is red, but if and only if it were to change to white. Well. Let's see." The young lady, Lola, came at me swinging the stinky can. It smelled like my evening tea of Earl Grey. She murmured a small incantation I could not decipher. The red smoke engulfed me and all eyes were on me. Then a smile like one of those cats that can disappear bloomed on her lips. The smoke was white.

In a primitive train station ruled by a tyrannical grizzly bear, a group of renegade caterpillars becomes the train station’s only hope in preventing the grizzly bear from causing unemployment.

Siblings don't always get along but they do have their moments where togetherness reigns supreme. Summer time is a test of will, strategy, and adventure for siblings Jaime and Evan Baxter.

The older I get, the more I realize that time doesn’t just pass — it lingers. It hides in the scent of browned butter and vanilla drifting through a warm kitchen. It glimmers in flour-dusted sunlight and in the soft clink of turquoise bracelets against a ceramic bowl.

You kneel, whisper sins you'll repeat by sunset, and call it confession—but God heard the lie before your lips moved, so tell me: is the confession for His forgiveness, or just your subscription to sin without the guilt?

a Japanese assassin organization know as ASSASSIN Kill League or A.K.L. for short. they have been around for centuries and have kill some of the world most powerful figures from every part of the globe. their no one they won't kill If you have the money or powers to often them. We follow the A.K.L as they are higher to kill highly powerful figures in the world. and the AKL story follow Gkoet a new comer as he rise in ranks and learn the A.K.L always and history and rules. Can Gkoet do it with out getting caught or kill.

A short tale from my youth. As I grew up in the country and kept friends in the city, I had many adventures at a time when digital technology was just surfacing in classrooms and entertainment. Yes, it was the 80's!

It’s so cool read it think it do it and I just can’t be thank ful enough god thank you for your help guide me

Hi 👋 there!? My comedy style short story is about my older sister named RENEE! This is also the title of my short story too! I dedicated this short story too my sister because I wanted her too know how special she is too me regardless of how other people may treat us differently in this world. It may make you think about your own kids and wether they may be treated differently too in this world by people?! You may also relate to my situation too and what I am outing about how people treat people differently sometimes regardless!? Do educated people get treated differently from the none educated people?! These are questions that you should think about?! Is my point of view right,wrong, or crazy?? Is there a point too what I wrote about????

Parental Screams: A scream that echoes in the thought chambers after a conversation with your offspring that you can't outwardly react too because you love them. (lol)

It has been a long 10 months. Here is a recap of some of the highs and lows, along with a few comments about the way things are going.

A stranger’s message appears from nowhere, claiming they didn’t mean to write it—but couldn’t stop. Suddenly, Alex is pulled back to the bookstore with a cryptic note, a familiar handwriting, and a warning that the story is just beginning. Who is “E,” and why do they know Alex so well?

A collection of messy thoughts, half-formed ideas, emotional spirals, and characters who showed up uninvited. These notes capture the behind-the-scenes chaos of writing where honesty beats perfection, feelings interrupt the plot, and the story slowly learns what it wants to be.

Hiya! My name is Red, Red Weissglocke. I'm an aspiring writer, and I hope I can capture y'alls attention and entertain you with the fumblefucks going on in my head. Yes I'm from Texas.

I then came across another Oshun painting. As large if not larger than the one earlier. Behind a glass case to protect it from the humidity and chemicals. It looked just like the previous painting but the subjects were different. It had a gold plate attached with the inscription: Aphrodite Oshun: Second Ascension. I must have had it twisted. The older of the two was now African and the “niece” was not. Maybe South African? The previous artpiece must have been Oshun the younger and now here she is, the older of the two. I walked around and got the lay of the land. Nothing else stood out but that feeling of not being alone. I looked up at those swirling eyes and figured I had enough of being stared at.

This is the noble art of doing nothing and calling it productivity Key points: self care and doing nothing I hope you enjoy!!!!!

This is a podcast episode for a show called Bob's Burgers. It is engaging, funny, entertaining, and very enjoable.

Time has a way of settling over things like dust. In the weeks and months after the throw, the world moved forward as it always did, carrying the echo of that singular moment along hidden currents. Newspapers reprinted screenshots. Documentaries aired clips slowed to surreal insistence. The hashtags faded, but the story didn’t. It became one of those inexplicable legends that people cited but never fully understood, like a cautionary tale whispered at family dinners or in the back rooms of small-town diners. The little man returned fully to Woodburn, to streets that remembered him but demanded nothing. No crowds, no cameras, no applause—just the rhythm of his own steps on cracked sidewalks. He walked past empty lots where leaves gathered in corners, past chain-link fences where forgotten potato sacks lay like relics of some absurd ritual. Sometimes, he paused and stared at them, half-expecting the russets to rise and fly again. They never did.

The first imitation attempt happened before the provisional ink dried. It was not sanctioned. It was not measured. It was filmed vertically on a phone with a cracked screen and uploaded with a caption that tried too hard to sound inevitable. The potato was undercooked. The distance was exaggerated. The target—a watermelon duct-taped to a fence—stood in for courage. Still, the clip spread faster than anyone expected, shared not because it was impressive, but because it felt adjacent to something that mattered. That was how it began.

The roar did not end so much as it transformed. What began as disbelief hardened into narrative almost immediately, as if forty-seven thousand people were racing to explain to themselves what they had just seen before someone else did it for them. Chants started and died mid-syllable. Flags waved with no clear allegiance. Strangers hugged, then pulled apart, embarrassed by their own sudden intimacy. On the field, officials moved with the stiff precision of people who understood that every step was now evidence. Clipboards appeared. Radios crackled. A man in a blazer jogged, then slowed himself to a walk, remembering too late that jogging suggested panic.