Fable
The Sound of Rain That Never Falls. AI-Generated.
No one in Hollowbridge could remember the last time it had rained. The clouds gathered every evening, dark and heavy, but no drop ever touched the ground. People called it The Dry Storm, a strange curse that made thunder echo but never bless the soil.
By shakir hamid4 months ago in Fiction
UPDATE: The hotel laundry that runs itself after midnight
Hey everyone, It’s been about a week since my last post. I honestly didn’t plan on updating — I thought maybe I’d just scared myself too much, or imagined half of it. But things have gotten worse. Way worse.
By V-Ink Stories4 months ago in Fiction
[FOUND FOOTAGE UPDATE] About that hotel laundry post… the one that ran itself after midnight
Hey, I didn’t think I’d ever post here, but this feels important. I work at the same [REDACTED] Inn the last guy posted about — the one with the laundry that supposedly “runs itself after midnight.”
By V-Ink Stories4 months ago in Fiction
A Knock at the Door - The Ones Who Came to Utopia
The night was still until the knock came. It wasn’t the kind of knock you hear on a wooden door. This one rang out metallic, hollow, like iron struck from inside. Adam froze where he stood, his friends gathered around the empty building near the parking lot.
By Mingling with the Moon 4 months ago in Fiction
The Lighthouse Keeper’s Secret
The lighthouse stood at the edge of the jagged cliff, battered by relentless waves and crowned with a steady beam that cut through the darkness. To anyone passing by, it was a lonely sentinel, but to Thomas, it was home—a home of solitude, salt, and the rhythm of the sea.
By Zahoor khan4 months ago in Fiction
Snakes on a Pole
2004: We split. You take our knowledge, I take our desire. The brain and heart metaphor is somewhat apt. Other parts remain neutral or retain sovereignty, and reluctantly aid us both. The separation seeming both involuntary and undesirable (particularly on my end), our spirits long for unfractionation, and tug on each other.
By A. S. Lawrence4 months ago in Fiction
The House with Two Kitchens
In one kitchen, she crushed cloves with the flat of a knife, their papery skins drifting to the floor like snow. Steam rose from the pot in a silver ribbon as the storm outside pressed its brow against the windows. She hummed to keep the roux from burning. Her father used to hum that tune, a stubborn little melody that said we are alive in spite of it. The bulb flickered in the ceiling, stabilized, and the soup grew fragrant enough to leave fingerprints on the air.
By Alain SUPPINI4 months ago in Fiction
