Karl Jackson
Bio
My name is Karl Jackson and I am a marketing professional. In my free time, I enjoy spending time doing something creative and fulfilling. I particularly enjoy painting and find it to be a great way to de-stress and express myself.
Stories (334)
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š Snowfall, Strangers, and the Holiday They Never Planned
Introduction Some holidays creep up softly, without fireworks or grand expectations. They slip through the season like shy guests, waiting to see if youāll notice them. And sometimes, the universe nudges two unlikely souls into sharing a day neither intended to share.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
šµ The Last Warm Cup
The kettle clicked on with a sound that cut through the quiet apartment like a whispered reminder. Oliver stood barefoot on the cold kitchen tiles, staring at the stainless steel pot as if it held the answer to a question heād been afraid to ask for years. Steam began wisping upward in slow swirls, rising as silently as the memories heād tried to bury beneath the noise of everyday life.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
š The Room That Remembers You
The room is unfamiliar. I donāt know how I got here. The first thought slides through my mind like a notification popping up during a livestream you absolutely didnāt ask for. One second Iām blinking at a cracked ceiling tile, the next Iām sitting upright on a narrow bed with sheets so white they feel suspicious. Sterile white. Dream-sequence white. āYouāre-about-to-make-a-bad-decisionā white.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
āØ The Echoes Beneath the Bridge
Maya could trace the old river bridge in her sleep. That weathered blue span had been the backdrop for every childhood memory, every whispered story from her dad, every quiet hour she spent sitting on its railing with her feet dangling and her thoughts wandering. The bridge meant home and history and comfort. But most of all, it meant truth.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
Shades of the Unspoken š
The world had been stripped of colour for so long that most people couldnāt even describe what the loss meant anymore. Kids grew up knowing only greyscale skies and ash-washed streets. Elders told stories that sounded like bedtime lies, whispering of hues so wild and vibrant they felt like spells. A red that burned. A blue that breathed. A green that soothed. Everyone nodded politely, the way you do when someone swears they once met a celebrity or survived a tornado. Cute story. No proof.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
š The Thing I Shouldnāt Have Forgotten
The night was shaped like a sigh, long and pulled thin across the sky, the sort of dusk that made streetlights blink awake before their time. Rowan stepped off the last bus with that weird half-present feeling, the one you get after staring out a window too long. His head buzzed with leftover daydreams, the kind that stick to your clothes. He slung his backpack over one shoulder, shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and started toward his apartment as the bus rumbled away behind him.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
š©ļø The Day the World Took a Breath
Nobody warns you about the days that start out painfully average. The ones where your slippers are hiding under the couch, your coffee maker sputters like itās filing for retirement, and you step outside already feeling like someone hit the ālow batteryā icon on your forehead. Those days? Theyāre sneaky. They pretend to be nothingā¦ right until the universe decides to throw a plot twist straight at your face.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
š THE WINDOW THAT WOULDNāT LOOK AWAY
Jessa Lane pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the train window, watching the town she grew up in shrink into a watercolor smear. The early morning light was soft enough to feel merciful, turning the passing trees into ink strokes and the roads into silver ribbons disappearing behind her. She hadnāt meant to leave this soon. She hadnāt meant to leave like this at all. But here she was at six forty-three in the morning, fleeing before she could second-guess herself.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
THE BEST LAID PLANS
The morning started with that jittery kind of hope that feels like a soft drumline under your ribs. You know the vibe. A fresh sunrise bleeding orange over the neighborhood roofs. Birds chirping like they finally decided to unionize and commit to overtime. And in the middle of it all stood Jessa, clutching her planner like it was a holy relic.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
THE TROUBLE WE CARRY
The night had that soft purple haze that makes everything look slightly out of focus, like the world hasnāt quite made up its mind about itself. Juno Reyes stood under the flickering streetlamp outside the closed pharmacy, her breath fogging in front of her in quick, uneven bursts. She kept checking the time on her cracked phone screen, even though she already knew what it said. Midnight. Too late. Much too late.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
The Doorway You Walk Past Every Day šŖāØ
Every town has one. Every neighborhood has one. Every person has walked past one and never realized what they were missing. A portal. A doorway. A thin slice of the world where reality feels just a little too quietā¦ a little too heavyā¦ a little too charged, like the air itself is holding its breath.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
Ink-Stained Souls
The cabin didnāt look like much at first. Just a weathered A-frame tucked against a line of whispering pines, its roof heavy with old leaves that clung on the way memories cling to people who havenāt figured out how to heal yet. But everyone at the Cedar Ridge Writing Retreat swore it had magic in its bones. Or at least thatās what the brochure said, right under a photo of a smiling woman holding a pen like it was a wand.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
