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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The Longest Heatwave
It was the hottest day of the year, the kind of heat that made the asphalt shimmer and the horizon bend like a mirage. Cicadas screamed from the oak trees, and even the wind refused to move. The people of Willow Creek were used to southern summers, but this one felt angry — like the sun had a personal grudge against the town.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
The Smoke That Whispers Back
No one in Riven Hollow talks about the fire anymore. They rebuilt, repainted, pretended. The smell of smoke still lingers when the wind comes down from the ridge, but folks just say it’s pine sap or woodstoves. They don’t mention the other smell that rides with it — something sweet and wrong, like burned sugar and blood.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
The House That Remembers Me
The first time I saw the house, it wasn’t really there. I mean, it was there—white porch, cracked shutters, those big oaks that lean like tired old guards—but it felt like a memory pretending to be solid. Like déjà vu wearing fresh paint.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
Out of the Woods
The night the storm hit, Mara didn’t plan on driving into the woods. She’d only meant to leave the city—to breathe, to escape the heavy silence of her apartment that still smelled like her ex’s cologne. But somewhere between her grief and the winding backroads, she took a wrong turn, and the road took her somewhere it shouldn’t have.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
The View from the Top
The city looked smaller from up here — all glitter and glass, like someone had scattered diamonds across black velvet. I stood on the balcony of my penthouse, the one I used to dream about when I was sleeping on a friend’s couch ten years ago. A champagne flute dangled from my fingers, bubbles rising like tiny ghosts. My phone buzzed every few seconds — messages from people congratulating me on the sale.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
The Ritual That Ate the Morning
Introduction 🌑 At first glance, rituals seem harmless—even beautiful. A cup of coffee before sunrise, journaling before bed, lighting a candle to focus the mind. But what happens when the line between a calming habit and an obsessive compulsion begins to blur? This article explores that quiet transformation through the lens of a character who clings so tightly to their ritual that it becomes a cage of their own making.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
Whispers Among the Apple Trees
The orchard had a way of holding its breath at dawn. The air shimmered with dew and promise, the grass soft beneath a mist that carried the scent of ripening apples. Each tree stood like an old friend, its branches twisted with stories of rain, sun, and the passage of time.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
The House That Remembered
The room breathed in whispers of smoke and age. The only light came from the flickering fireplace, its flames licking at the air with restless hunger. Shadows climbed the walls like living things, stretching and shrinking with every sputter of the firewood. The old clock on the mantel had stopped years ago, frozen at 11:47 — a time no one bothered to fix, and perhaps, a time that didn’t want to be changed.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
The North Star Promise
The desert stretched out before him — endless, whispering, alive in its silence. Elias March pressed his hand against the warm metal of his compass, though it had long stopped spinning true. The storm three days ago had swallowed everything — his gear, his maps, his sense of direction — and left him with only the stars above and the faint taste of dust clinging to his lips.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
The Sound of Someone Else
1. The Familiar Tune 🎵 Maya had always thought she knew Ethan down to the smallest detail—the kind of coffee he ordered (black, no sugar), the way he tilted his head before making a sarcastic comment, even the rhythm of his typing when he was deep in thought. They’d met during freshman year at the university radio station, bonded over indie rock, shared playlists, heartbreaks, and half-eaten bags of chips.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
