Eli lives fast and parties hard, but heroin pulls him down a dark path of isolation, shame, and regret.

Forensic archaeology merges modern science with historical inquiry to uncover hidden truths, solve cold cases, and dismantle long-standing myths about the past.

6 years old and alone. Tradgic hit her families home and now she is forced to stay with her aunt....

6 year old trying to stay a float whie living with her auntie after a tradgic fell on her own home...

part two of the little girl who had a tradgedy strike her house and it will forever change her life.

6 years old and left alone. Tradgedy strikes at a 6 year old. She has to figure out how to cope and move forward with her life.

ok so the poem is about a bloody rose in which the bloody rose resembles a love, the poem is a mix of mystery crime and romance

This is a snippet of the full backstory of my OC, Noa/Nickolas. The part you'll be reading is new at the end of his backstory, which I do have typed out and am willing to share if you so please.

Buckle up, Saran — here's a chaotic, unfiltered list of 200 funny names that toe the line between dad joke, chaotic neutral, and internet nonsense. Use ‘em for characters, usernames, alter egos, or that secret second life you’ve always dreamed of.

As she looked at her sister’s lifeless body only one thing went through her mind. She would not let this happen to anyone else. She decided right there that she would make the ones who did this to her sister pay no matter what it took.

There’s a death worse than the one that stops your heart—it’s the kind that kills your trust, your peace, your hope. I was raised in the Nation, where colors and codes were supposed to mean unity, brotherhood, survival. But somewhere between loyalty and bloodshed, the lines blurred. My closest friend became a stranger, my own family turned into an enemy, and the same principles we swore by became twisted by greed and betrayal. I walked away from the life to build a better one—for my wife, for my kids. But the past never lets you go quietly. It haunts. It hunts. And one day, it found me… in the most sacred place I let my guard down. What followed was not just an execution—it was a betrayal so deep, it tore through every bond I thought unbreakable. Family. Brotherhood. Nation. All shattered in the name of revenge and broken pride. This isn’t just a story of gang violence. It’s a story of love, loss, survival, and the haunting silence of a man dying with his eyes open…

Claudia crouched, her fingers brushing dust away from the warped slat in the corner of the studio. Something had caught her eye—a jagged break in the floor, almost imperceptible beneath the edge of an empty canvas frame. She pried the board loose with a palette knife. The smell hit her first. Old paper. Damp wood. Time. Inside the narrow crawlspace was a wrapped bundle. She pulled it free, unwrapping layers of brittle cloth to reveal a leather-bound notebook—Elise’s. The first page was blank, but the second wasn’t. Claudia read the faded writing aloud, her voice barely above a whisper: “Something followed me back from the marsh.” “I didn’t paint it. It painted itself.” “Claudia can’t see this. Not yet.”

The studio was too quiet. Not empty—Elise’s presence still lived in every brushstroke, every canvas left leaning like witnesses—but still, it felt abandoned. Not in the sense of someone leaving, but of something being taken. Claudia stood at the center of the room, surrounded by Elise’s final work. The air was heavy with turpentine and something else—acrid, faintly metallic, like a breath held too long. Then she saw it.

Claudia hadn’t cried. Not when Rourke called. Not when she told Jordan to pause the show. Not even when she packed away the painting—Elise’s last gift, smeared red like a warning—and folded it between sweaters like it was something sacred. But now, as the train pulled through the damp woods of coastal Maine, and the gray of Boston gave way to autumn's fire, something twisted in her chest. Not grief exactly. Not yet. It was suspicion.

In a quiet coastal town in Maine, renowned painter Elise Marlowe is found dead in her studio, an apparent suicide. The local police closed the case quickly, citing a note and no signs of forced entry. But Elise’s estranged sister, Claudia—a skeptical true-crime podcaster from Boston—refuses to believe it. Elise was on the verge of a career resurgence, preparing for a major gallery opening. Why would she end her life now?

When Kathrine finds that she actually can feel love in her heart, she wants more. And for once, she gets what she wants…but everything has a price.

Agent Teodoro Abhay is the greatest spy in his country of Knosk. Van Jara is the most dangerous criminal in Knosk. The two are sent on a mission to take a doctor doing some 'questionable' medical practises. How will this end?

She didn’t burn the system down—she held up a mirror and watched it implode. Lyra Voss vanished from bureaucracy into legend, exposing sins dressed as policy and corruption disguised as care. With no manifesto, no gun, only truth sharp enough to skin illusions, she sent black envelopes to the powerful. Inside: their own words, their own guilt. One by one, they broke. Confessions spilled like blood. Society didn’t crumble. It shed. And somewhere in the silence that followed, her reflection still lingers—watching, waiting, daring us to face what we’ve buried.

They built their love like a fortress—cold, impenetrable, and carved from ambition. Ethan whispered promises between wire transfers; Marissa kissed him with lips that had negotiated billion-dollar frauds. But love, like crime, demands loyalty. And when Ethan fell for the intern with soft eyes and clean hands, the empire cracked. The moment he planned to run, Marissa made her own plans—quieter, deadlier. When they found his body, it wasn’t the blood that shocked them. It was the ring missing from his finger. In love and crime, there are no survivors—only the ones smart enough to disappear.

*Not "Horror" but more like "Thriller"* The pizza boy did not deserve what I did to him. Neither did the maid at the far end of the building who had been smoking a cigarette. I can still smell the scent of Camels...