Humor
Hemlock
Mr. Perigo was dead. There was no doubt in this matter. It had been established by his mourning widow, the clergyman and the undertaker. He was as dead as an inanimate object could be. As dead as a cartwheel abandoned in a canal, as a flickering candle in a haunted mansion, as a penniless poet’s inkwell. Take your pick, he was defiantly a goner.
By N J Delmasabout 7 hours ago in Fiction
TCoE: Climb
A scoff erupted from above. "You'll never make it," a man's ragged voice sneered. A twelve-year-old boy with messy dark hair and tan skin pulled his brown eyes from the parchment in his shaking hands. The sharp, resentful words cut his heart, leaving it frozen and gradually draining. The skinny lad was a bit taken aback by the stranger's harshness, but he mentally fought hard to brush it off. After a few moments, the bitter man who taunted the boy removed the hood of his cloak to reveal a scarred face. The man had wrinkly, tanned skin and long, dark hair.
By Mel E. Furnishabout 15 hours ago in Fiction
Calamity "Callie" Shortfuse. Content Warning.
So, Miss Shortfuse... Neat name. Very nice to meet you. May I call you Calamity? Callie, if it's all the same to ya. You only call me "Calamity," when you're beggin' for your life. So Callie is just fine.
By Madison "Maddy" Newtonabout 16 hours ago in Fiction
The Ghost on the Map: My 2,000-Mile Journey to a Paris That Isn’t There
If you type "Paris" into Google Maps, the algorithm will dutifully drop a pin on the City of Light. It will show you the winding Seine, the star-shaped sprawl of the Place de l’Étoile, and enough crêperies to feed a small army.
By George Evana day ago in Fiction
9:52
by Leslie L. Stevens 9:52 PM. Jessica bounced into the kitchen like she owned it. Ponytail swinging, sneakers squeaking, still high off sixty bucks in tips and a full week of crushing it. Her tables were clean. Her section was empty. Her stomach was growling.
By Leslie L. Stevens Writer | Marfa, Texas2 days ago in Fiction
The Lantern in the Fog
The fog settled over the village like a blanket soaked in silence. At first it was gentle, wrapping the streets in a quiet hush. But as night deepened, it thickened into something heavier, almost alive, crawling along the cobblestones and slipping into the cracks of every home. It was not the kind of fog that simply blurred the edges of things. This fog carried a chill that touched the marrow, a weight that pressed on the heart, and whispered doubts in voices that sounded eerily familiar.
By Sound and Spirit3 days ago in Fiction
Lavender Orphan Love Spell
Bertie The children at Chandler Home Orphanage were not allowed to talk to the gypsies. It had been over a year since the last time they set up their caravan at Anson's Rock in the woods south of the Chandler Home campus. That was the spring of 1922.
By John R. Godwin3 days ago in Fiction
