A Tragedy That Could Have Been Prevented This story will break your heart and make you angry. You need to read it anyway. What Happens: A Spanish-speaking woman calls 9-1-1. Her daughter is hemorrhaging after childbirth. She's dying. The mother is frantic, desperate, begging for help in the only language she knows. The operator doesn't speak Spanish. The bilingual operator went home sick early. His replacement is running 15 minutes late. Just 15 minutes. What follows is one of the most gutting, frustrating, heartbreaking pieces of short fiction you'll ever read.

At first glance, this looks like a cute story about two kids becoming friends at school. Timmy the orc and Brighteyes the unicorn. They play in the mud, laugh about their day, make plans to hang out. It's sweet. Innocent. Wholesome. You have no idea what's coming. This is a story about cycles of violence. About revenge dressed up as justice. About how trauma and hatred get passed down through generations. About codes of honor that justify horrific acts. And it does all of this in just a few pages, with orcs and unicorns, in a world made of candy. The writing is deceptively simple—which makes the gut-punches land even harder. Every detail matters. Every seemingly throwable line pays off. The author trusts you to piece things together, and when you do, it's devastating.

It's brilliantly twisted. This story takes the innocent Christmas carol we all know and transforms it into something visceral and unforgettable. Turtle doves become massive, violent creatures. French hens aren't what you expect. Every element of the song appears, but darker, stranger, and more dangerous than you could imagine. The journey is relentless. Armed with only a club made from pear tree wood, our hero ventures through deserts, encounters supernatural beings, and faces impossible choices. The desperation is palpable. You'll feel the weight of every step, every decision, every sacrifice.

When a mysterious stranger confronts you about something impossible, you are plunged into a chaotic event.

It was soft, deliberate, and wrong. Not the hurried rap of a neighbor in need, nor the careless pounding of a drunk. It was measured. Patient. A knock that knew she was awake.

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.

News of the deus ex machina. First edition of "my daily thoughts". Here's hoping this doesn't just turn into a live journal that nobody can relate to.

The house had been abandoned for decades, or so the town whispered. Its windows were blind, its doors swollen shut, its roof sagging like a mouth too tired to speak. Children dared each other to touch its rusted gate, but none lingered long enough to hear the faint hum that rose from within—like breath caught between walls.

This is just an experimental type of poem I wrote. I like to mostly write horror and some dark poetry, because I'm just fucked up like that.

The locals called it Black Pine Hollow, though no one had lived there for decades. The forest was a tangle of skeletal trees, their bark blackened as if burned from within, and the air carried a damp, metallic tang. Hunters avoided it. Children whispered about it. And yet, curiosity has a way of pulling people toward places they should never go.

Two women. One tied up and the other interrogating. One racing against the clock to save the world. The other fighting against her morality to protect her world.

The storm passed. The church stood silent. But the basement waits. Footsteps echo. Another soul descends. A 1000-word horror relic by Neil Brown.

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

Some houses don’t wait for owners. They wait for prey. Step inside, and silence will swallow you whole…"

Elena returns to her childhood home in Greybridge after her parents’ deaths and is haunted by whispers in the woods that sound like her missing brother, Isaac. Drawn to the old well where he vanished, she discovers a shape-shifting creature mimicking his voice to lure her.

Marcus moves into a new apartment where the landlord gives him one strange warning: never open the bedroom vent. On his first night, Marcus hears rattling, scraping, and then a whisper calling his name from inside the vent. A pale, twisted finger reaches through, and a voice begs him to let it out—using strangely imitated human speech.

Marcus, a graduate student in folklore, had heard rumors about Evelyn’s disappearance. He specialized in haunted architecture, the way buildings seemed to absorb trauma. When he learned the house had been abandoned again, he couldn’t resist.

He should run. Leave. Call someone. But something about that voice—her plea—anchored him in place. “Ma’am?” he tried again, forcing the words out. “I’m going to open the door.” He pushed it slowly. The hinges groaned. Inside, the bathroom was pitch-black, the only light coming from the faint glow of the hallway behind him. The tub sat half-filled with murky water, rippling faintly though the air was still. Then he saw it. A hand—wrinkled and pale—rose from the water, fingers trembling. Vincent lunged forward. “I’ve got you!” he shouted, grabbing her wrist. But the moment his skin met hers, the water went still—solid, like glass. Her hand stiffened beneath his grip, and her face emerged just beneath the surface, eyes wide open. Not breathing. Not alive. He stumbled backward, gasping. The reflection in the water shifted. The woman’s face was still there—but it wasn’t hers anymore. It was his.

“The wall split open, revealing a darkness deeper than night.” Evelyn thought she inherited a house. The house thought it inherited her. Whispers in the walls. A locked room that opens itself. And a chair that waits. Read the full story—if you dare.

The house on Calder Street had no front door—only a narrow alley that led to a rusted iron gate, and beyond that, a courtyard of broken tiles and dead vines. It was said the house had been built backward, its windows facing inward, its walls thick with secrets. No one remembered who lived there now. Only that someone did.