20 Mascots are trapped inside a school in the middle of the universe, and forced to play a death game by the Easter freak of nature, Zipper! Will Pikachu and his "classmates" survive or fall into dispear? And is this just another Killing Game, or is there something else going on?

The ocean wind tangled in her hair as she walked barefoot along the empty beach. The sun was dipping low, painting the sky in deep gold and soft violet. Moments like this were why she kept moving—new places, new horizons, a new version of herself waiting somewhere ahead. She smiled to herself, unaware of how close the darkness had come only moments before. Far beyond the line of palms, hidden in the lengthening shadows, something watched her. It had followed her across oceans and jungles, through crowded cities and silent mountains. Always just far enough away to remain unseen. When danger stepped too close, it moved. When fate turned the wrong direction, it gently pushed it back. She called it luck. But luck had nothing to do with it. Because wherever she went, something walked quietly behind her… making sure she survived the journey she believed she was taking alone.

She lays there late into the night thinking what if her life were different? Would she still be the person she was or be different? Would she be rich or poor?

A famous bard has lost their voice- not to illness, but to a “sound thief.” In a world where music is literally power, this is the ultimate crime. The investigation reveals that the voice is being used to control a small, unsuspecting village.

To whoever finds this message, they erased us. This is all that remains. Remember us, please. They want us to be sold.

A story that mainly features a young adult girl who gets a addiction to a dark weird action. She later begins to write about it in her diary, a undergoing cop then begins to expect her and soon later finds and reads her diary.

A presence that has never spoken finds a way to press meaning directly into the narrator’s mind — not words, not sound, but something far more intimate. By the time the clock trembles again, the narrator realizes the truth: They’re no longer just being watched. They’re being answered.

After the clock reached 3:12, the world began to answer in ways that were almost polite — a series of small, deliberate replies that felt like someone learning how to speak through objects.

Keep going, keep pushing, you have to do more. To be the best means you never rest until death.. Enjoy!

A serialized descent into the spaces between thought and ritual. Part occult notebook, part stream‑of‑consciousness confession, this story follows a narrator who begins noticing patterns in their own mind — symbols, whispers, and intrusions that feel too deliberate to ignore. Each entry is a fragment, a clue, a moment of unraveling.

The engine died,leaving only waves and breath.Star slid into the cold water first,rifle sealed to tight, eyes locked on the dark shoreline ahead. The island felt alive—watching, waiting Each stroke seemed slower than the last , distance stretching unnaturally. Behind her the team followed in silence. No powers. No safety net. Just training. Just will. Star touched the sand and froze. The air shifted. Someone else was already there. And they'd been expecting them.

Why do certain thoughts only appear when it’s dark and quiet? In this note, I’m sharing the honest, unfiltered feelings that hit me when everyone else is asleep.

Dystopian! For all those who love to see a dark world but a spark of hope arise. A Prologue for a story that I'm beginning to write. Enjoy. 😉

Into the voice of nothingness. This is where souls meet when greeted by spirits/souls when we collide with love, passion, or death.

SECOND WAVE The second incident started on a screen, not in a freezer. Agent Erin Sato watched it unfold in a clipped video that looked like a thousand other clips. A shaky camera. A breathless voice. A man in a hoodie walking fast through a parking garage, carrying a hard-sided cooler with a biohazard sticker that filled the frame. The caption did the work the video didn’t.

The first alert came in as a nuisance. A single red square on a dashboard nobody checked after midnight. At 02:13, the sensor in Corridor C of the Huxley Biomedical Annex flagged a pressure drift. Not a full failure. Not a screaming alarm. Just a quiet deviation from baseline that lasted thirty seconds and corrected itself. Thirty seconds was enough.

The first packet left the building dressed as a safety report. It rode an encrypted tunnel that had existed for years, approved by lawyers, blessed by auditors, and ignored by everyone who trusted paperwork more than physics. At 02:21, the Huxley Biomedical Annex sent a file to a “secure partner repository.” It looked like a routine compliance upload. It even carried the right keywords. Incident. Containment. Exposure. The words that made people flinch.

The first alarm sounded like a mistake. It came through as a soft chime on the night shift consoles, then a flashing yellow box that no one trusted at 02:17. The lab ran alarms all the time. Doors. Freezers. Humidity. Pressure. A sealed building was a living thing. It complained when the wind shifted. But this one wasn’t wind. Mara Vance stared at the screen until her eyes focused. She wore a gray lab coat over a hoodie, hair pinned back, face washed pale by fluorescent light. She worked in the containment wing because she didn’t like surprises. Containment reduced chaos to numbers. Pressure. Flow. Temperature. Time.

This is a short poem about a discovery I made in the woods when I was young. It was frightening and stuck with me. I remember it as clear as the afternoon I came upon it. Not knowing what to do with the memory, I decided to turn it into a poem. To this day, I think about going back to find it again. Although that is many miles from where I live now.

The town of Maplewood sat nestled between rolling hills, where the sun kissed the earth with golden light each morning. To an outsider, it seemed like a place where dreams could bloom and where the air carried the scent of wildflowers.