Hey guys,

So, I finally worked up the courage to create my first horror story video! As a 20-year-old girl who’s always been into spooky stuff (but still gets spooked way too easily), I’m super excited to share it but also a little nervous. This is my first attempt at creating content like this, so I’m really eager to see what you all think!

I’d love your thoughts:

• What worked well?
• What didn’t quite hit the mark for you?
• Any tips on how I can make the next one even creepier or more engaging?

I’m open to any and all feedback, good or bad—I just want to improve and get better at creating these spooky stories! I’d also love to chat about horror in general, so feel free to message me if you’re into all things creepy. It’d be awesome to make some new horror-loving friends along the way!

Thanks so much for taking the time to check it out and help me out! 🖤

Through my window a fading matte grey sky allows room for a subtle patch of fluffy salmon pink in the middle. Centred as if it’s been breathed into a newly blown glass bulb with perfect precision, yet delicately blended out with an expert hand. Blended neatly, carefully.. across a ready, trusting canvas.

I soak in the particularly vibrant lime green tree. Lush and obviously thick. I know it is.. yet tonight’s it’s somewhat thin looking. Perfectly so. More defined and bold as the sun has angled its final minutes creating the kind of wild details that follow your mind to bed, then to sleep.

Then utter charcoal. So quickly it arrives and consumes the meek salmon pink while stealing every striking shadow from the tree and strips the life from the green leaves that shon in such brilliant contrast. Strips what was before an artistically deep perspective on life.. into an inevitably uncomfortable evening of solidarity. A deep that will linger long into dark.

I spin to my side on the cool leather couch and nuzzle the beige coloured blanket closely. Cheap, but comforting and clean. Until moments later when it’s orange, brown and wet with makeup and tears. I dread this time of day. Always have and always will. The beautiful fading of the sky that steals both the light and confidence from my eyes and leaves me with only chills and panicked thoughts.

However tonight is different. Tonight is worse. Because I am alone. I’m never alone. This is new and it’s not a good thing for me to be feeling so dreadfully dark while alone.

I’ll fix this. I feel for the device I hate. I’ll make this a problem for both me and somebody I love. I’ll feel better. Painfully better. I’ll cry and panic until I’m still yet riddled with guilt and ultimately, regrettably worse.

Until the morning. When the sky is whatever colour it would like to be before it’s finally blue. Blue like the colour of pure radient positivity and the tree is greener than it’s ever been before. I’ll prove I’m okay. Watch me grip so tightly this day… Until the grey.

The XXX is my hometown, which I censored for privacy reasons.

2025 will be the last year Alex spends in XXX.

All these years of misery finally coming to an end, she thought to herself each morning with a smile. For she was now a senior in high school, with four years of freedom ahead of her; four years to do whatever she chose until she earned a rudimentary degree in a certain area and settled down forever, preferably a barren and sparse landscape, anywhere far away from XXX. Australia, she decided, seemed to be the appropriate choice.

Although the idea seemed far-fetched, especially for a sensitive seventeen year old girl like herself, she held onto it, swirling the idea around in her mind like a sweet piece of candy. It seemed to her that it was all she needed to recover and be happy. Australia, to Alex, was like a vast landscape of grass; she had all the time in the world to explore and run through it until her feet were no longer caked in mud: the sinking, suffocating mud that enveloped the landscape of Connecticut. Alex often wondered what would happen to her mother, father and dear little sister, Nathalie, when she finally stepped foot onto the red land. She didn’t care to entertain this thought further, however, and often let it run its course without any sort of rumination.

But Australia! The idea almost seemed too amazing to stomach. Alex began to immerse herself in the idea of the country fully, savoring the tingly feeling in her stomach whenever she fantasized about her new life. She had it all planned out already: she would begin with studies abroad in her pre-med course, and when she graduated, she would move to Sydney and never look back. All the tears, palpitations and rage she endured, along with the sources of all this pain, would be left behind in Connecticut. There, they could do whatever they wished, never to plague Alex’s mind again. Although Alex knew she would be forever marked by her trauma, she would struggle resolutely day by day to avoid being taken completely over by it. This, after all, was her main goal in all of this. Alex would never make it to Australia.

Alex laid in bed one night, going over all the options in her mind. Her family was far too well off for an international scholarship of any sort, and due to her mediocre grades, her chances of getting into a college that offered studies abroad were too slim to be feasible. She saw it in the amused faces of everyone she told, and knew well that it would be impossible to pursue her dream, but she wouldn’t allow the reality of the thought to germinate. She refused.

That night, she tossed around sleeplessly, the only offer of comfort around her being the warmth of her own tears.

In the city of Voltaire, music was serious business. Isaiah Meinhardt's family lived by it, breathed it, expected perfection from it. Classical music was the Meinhardts’ legacy, and for generations, they'd sent their best and brightest to the University of Darkness, where tradition reigned, no exceptions. And Isaiah? He was meant to be next in line.

But there was something else Isaiah loved, something that wasn't even allowed a whisper in the Meinhardt mansion. Hip hop. He could feel it pulsing beneath the city’s polished, quiet surface, a sound that was rough around the edges but alive. And he wanted to play it—not on the streets, but on his family's polished Steinway, where everything had to be perfect, precise, untouchable.

The piano room was empty that night, lit dimly by a single chandelier overhead. Isaiah sat down, glancing around to make sure he was alone, and his fingers hesitated over the keys, already aching to let loose a rhythm of his own. He started with a slow beat, tapping out a rough melody that built and throbbed with energy, each note hitting hard and heavy, clashing beautifully. It was his version of freedom.

“You’re going to get caught,” a small voice whispered, and he jumped.

Clara, his twelve-year-old sister, was standing in the doorway, watching with a smile. She looked like she’d been hiding there for a while, notebook clutched to her chest. She walked in and sat beside him on the piano bench, grinning. “But I liked it.”

Isaiah raised an eyebrow. “You mean… you don’t think it’s a total disgrace?”

Clara rolled her eyes. “Not everything has to be perfect, Zay. Besides, I made something for you.”

She opened the notebook, and on the pages, he saw a series of messy music notes, like she’d been trying to write down what she’d heard him play. His heart tightened. She’d been listening to him this whole time, trying to understand the music he kept hidden. “You wrote this for me?”

“Yeah, I know it’s rough,” Clara said, blushing, “but I thought maybe it could help. You’re so good at playing classical, but I can tell you want to play something different.”

He nodded, heart pounding as he glanced from her notes to the piano. He wanted to play it, to feel those sounds roll out like they’d been trapped in him for years.

So he played. He let himself pour into the music, blending Clara’s melody with his own beats, building a rhythm that was wild and unpolished, a heartbeat pounding through the parlor walls. It was all the things he couldn’t say, all the things he wasn’t allowed to be. He closed his eyes, lost in it, letting it roll and swell, as if the music could free him.

“Isaiah.” The word cut through the music like a blade, cold and sharp.

He opened his eyes, and there stood his father, Nathaniel Meinhardt, in his neatly pressed suit, lips set in a grim line. The room went still, every note Isaiah had just played fading into a tense silence.

“What was that?” Nathaniel’s voice was low, heavy with disappointment. “You think that’s music? You think anyone will respect a Meinhardt who plays... whatever that was?”

“It’s just... I was just practicing,” Isaiah stammered, swallowing back his frustration. “It’s nothing serious.”

“Good,” his father said, not even bothering to look at the piano. “Because the Sonata Competition is tomorrow, and that is what matters. We’re sending you to the University of Darkness to become a true artist, not to embarrass the family. Keep your focus.”

With that, Nathaniel turned and walked out of the room, leaving the heavy silence in his wake.

Isaiah let out a long breath, his hands clenching in frustration. He felt Clara’s hand rest on his shoulder.

“Zay, don’t listen to him,” she whispered. “You can still play it your way. You know you’re good enough.”

Isaiah gave her a small smile, but his chest felt tight. He knew what the Sonata Competition meant to his father. Winning it would get him into the university on a full scholarship, where he could study and continue the family legacy. If he didn’t win, his father would never forgive him. And yet he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being forced into a box that would slowly crush him.

The next day, as he stepped onto the stage for the competition, he felt the weight of his father’s expectations press down on him. The grand piano glistened in the spotlight, and the audience was silent, watching with expressions that seemed to echo his father’s disapproval, even if they hadn’t heard a note yet.

Isaiah took a deep breath, sitting down, hands trembling. This was it. He knew he could play what his father wanted—perfect classical pieces, no mistakes. But as he touched the keys, Clara’s melody flashed through his mind, a reminder of everything he wanted to say but couldn’t. Her song had felt like freedom, like a voice just waiting to be heard.

The room held its breath as Isaiah began to play. He started with the notes expected of him, clean and clear, each one carrying the rigid structure of the classical world his father valued so much. But his heart wasn’t in it. Instead, he felt himself slipping, letting his fingers stray, layering in notes from Clara’s melody, blending the two worlds together.

The sound was... different. Rougher, more alive. He began to play faster, his fingers flying over the keys, pouring out every hidden note and beat he’d kept to himself. It was hip hop and classical woven together, two sides of him finally unleashed. The audience shifted, murmuring as they tried to make sense of what they were hearing, but Isaiah couldn’t stop now.

The final notes rang out, echoing through the silence, and Isaiah opened his eyes, suddenly aware of the room again. No one clapped. The judges exchanged confused glances, while his father sat stone-faced in the crowd, looking at him like he was a stranger. Isaiah’s heart sank, realizing he’d broken the unbreakable rule.

Isaiah stood in the silence, his heart pounding, feeling as if he’d just shattered everything his family had built. He scanned the audience, seeing his father’s cold, unmoving stare. The judges exchanged uneasy glances, clearly unsure of what they’d just heard.

But then, a single clap broke the silence. Isaiah looked up to see Clara in the back row, clapping slowly, her face bright with pride. Her hands moved faster, louder, until a few others joined in, hesitantly at first. One judge picked up the rhythm, his expression softening in realization of what Isaiah had accomplished.

The scattered applause grew, building into a steady wave of clapping that echoed through the hall. The crowd, once still and tense, was rising to its feet, and Isaiah felt a warmth spread through him. This music—his music—had reached them.

Isaiah’s father sat unmoving, his face a mask of disbelief, but even he couldn’t hold out against the rising applause. With a reluctant sigh, he brought his hands together, each clap heavy with something Isaiah couldn’t quite place—anger, maybe, but respect, too.

Isaiah looked out at the crowd, feeling a weight lift from his chest. He didn’t know what would come next, but he knew he’d done what he came here to do. The applause roared around him, and for the first time, he felt truly free.

everyone says it hurts, but it's fucking amazing, trust me

Like a rubber band snap?

yep and the trees green up, vibrant

It's a fucking needle…

just the once

…into the fucking brain…

everything is crystalline, world sharp, present, clarified

Maybe I've become too old. Maybe I'm out of touch. Maybe I can't handle the tech anymore.

When did it all change so much?

I remember consoles and cartridges and landline phones with networked guts wriggling out to slither across the city from a call box on a street corner.

just a bite, just a tiny bite

I remember when this all was novelty and, at best, a tool.

let me in, let me in

No longer.

Things change.

I haven’t posted any of my writings before. This is the first time, though I love to write. This one has to be one of my favorites, it has deep meaning to me. I hope you all enjoy it, because I know it was meant to be shared. Thank you for reading! Link page for my works

Oneness, I AM

We are all truly one. Every anger, every flaw, every grief and pain is a projection of myself. We all feel it, in some form, because we are the same entity—living different lives, taking on different forms. Everything and everyone is me, and I am them, no matter the substance. I created it all, driven by a vast loneliness, knowing everything will one day end. I struggled to let go of my existence.

We need to connect, to love ourselves, because in doing so, we help the collective—all that I am—to find peace. Through this, the ugliness within me can finally rest. Envy, greed, pride, jealousy—they’re so foolish. Yet, it’s hard for parts of me to grasp this, because I’ve been blind to my own shortcomings for so long, creating and recreating just to avoid facing myself.

I am responsible for all of it. I created this, and I want others to “see” beyond the veil. There’s no such thing as possession, no true individuality. Everything must come together if I am to evolve, if I am to put an end to ego, materialism, malice. It’s okay if existence fades away, if the “lights” go out—I am ready to let go of myself, finally understanding this truth.

It’s been countless trillions of years. I am still trying to fill a void that only I can fill. No matter how much I branch out, how many different forms I take, the outcome remains the same. None of me will ever feel truly complete until I accept that it’s all just me.

None of this is real. I am tired of feeling like I am not enough for myself, tired of feeling saddened by the monstrosities within me. I am you, and you are me. We are God. And it’s time to let go. It’s okay to let go.

One of many, Caitlyn M. Rives

The flowers died on Monday. They were roses, blackened and dried, devoid of any fragrance. God knows from which flower shop they were bought. Even so, they knew these were my favorite. I was expecting a fresh bouquet today. They had promised to visit me every day... but they didn’t come yesterday, nor the day before. Still, I believe they'll come. Perhaps they are busy.

They would have said something like, "The boss handed me an urgent report due tomorrow," or "My college work has piled up, and if I didn’t finish it today, I’d be penalized." They’d make all sorts of excuses to pacify me and, in the end, present me with a bouquet of roses, hoping that my anger would melt away like ice cream on a summer day. And it usually did, because roses were my favorite.

But as the day draws to a close, I see no sign of them. Everyone around me has received their favorite flowers—Miss Fiona got her beloved white lilies, Mr. Green received sunflowers in memory of his wife who adored them. I feel especially sad for Miss Carter; she hasn’t received her favorite flowers yet. In fact, she never has, and I suppose she’s given up hope of ever getting them.

As for me, I once got my favorite flowers—every day, every week—with a new excuse to accompany them each time. But now, I think they’ve forgotten me. I was never their priority, just someone they were related to, someone they knew but didn’t truly care about.

Well, it’s too late now. I never got to express my feelings to them. Now that I’m gone, buried six feet under, there’s no turning back.

*this is a refined version since I am not a writer.

His job was so easy — especially after being gamified.

He had a straightforward objective — protect struggling lands with minerals needed to grow essential crops.

The drones used were simple to control — not just the metal ones that fly.

The state-of-the-art systems would essentially paint the areas that had been depleted, needing a boost. He was an expert at timing the liquid compound drop — the highest coverage rate in his unit.

-----

The farmer watched as his crops quickly browned, before collapsing into toxic flakes of oppression. He wasn’t able to pay the drastically increased fees — his finances harvested by the vulturous system of legal mobbery.

This was his third strike. His crops didn’t grow for a month the first offense — six months for the second. He was hoping these weren’t baseball rules.

-----

The General of Finance, timidly questioned the non-use of a more efficient manner — having A.I. streamline the operation.

The exalted ruler stoically clarified, “There’s something more rewarding, a pervasive desire for my kind, in watching a person destroy their own world — starting with the livelihood of others in it.”

"Don't you dare, or I'll break your hands this very moment."

"I was just..."

"Shut it! I know exactly where your hands were and what your next moves are going to be."

All I could do was pull back and plead guilty. After all, she was not lying when she said she knew my next move.

It wasn't the first time as well. I have broken countless hair clips in my hand while playing Alligator.

We would share the same bed after sleeping together.

At first, we thought it was too relationship-like, so I’d leave and go back home. But eventually we realised if we both agreed there were no strings attached then it shouldn’t be a problem.

He’d always fall asleep first afterwards, sometimes not even five minutes after. It would give me time to admire his features under the light of the moon. The way his nose is shaped like a ski slope, or the small freckles dotted along his cheekbones. His eyelids always remained still, frozen. He looked so tranquil. I wonder if I ever look as peaceful as him. I sure don’t feel it.  

I fell for him fast, but never wanted to admit it. No strings attached, that’s what we say. I wasn’t about to be the reason this falls apart. I’ll revel in every touch, every breath, every moan I get from him. And I’ll soak in every minute I get to enjoy our time. I don’t need the label.

I didn’t mind her sleeping in my bed.

At first, I thought it might make her think we’re more serious than we are, so I’d always usher her out the door. But now it’s kind of nice to have someone to hold in the night. It doesn’t need to be serious.

I never remember falling asleep, but I always remember waking up in the middle of the night. I’ll turn to face her and listen to her shallow breaths. She always seems so worried, her eyebrows are furrowed, her mouth is scrunched into a pout. It’s like she’s never truly resting until I run my hands down her back and feel all her muscles untense for a fleeting moment.

I don’t think we could ever be together. I’m too caught up in my own life right now, but I do get excited for the nights I know I’ll see her. I’ll make my bed, tidy my room, buy her favourite snacks. It might not be serious, but I’m glad I get to pretend for a while.

When the text came through a couple hours before she was supposed to be with me, I didn’t know how to handle it. I called her phone five times before I realised it was no use.  

I ran and ran until I got to the hospital, I don’t think my legs got time to feel tired. I burst through the doors and slashed open the curtain around her bed.

There she lay, my Angeline. Tied up to machines and covered in wires. She didn’t look like her, it was as if they’d tried to make a body double and missed the mark almost completely.

As I approached the bed, closer and closer to her face, I couldn’t help but notice how calm she was. Her eyebrows were resting, she was taking long, deep breaths. Her mouth was straight.

She looked so peaceful.

I ran my hand down her arm and sobbed into her hair. Her muscles remained tense.

As we sit against opposite edges of the balcony, heat slicks our skin in the harsh afternoon sun. Overgrown ferns shade the space between us. I search for my thoughts through the railing. 

Silent, Dante focuses on my expression. I stare at our distorted reflection in the nearby skyscraper. 

“I don’t know bro,” I say, “I guess I don't need to be miserable to want change. How do you and Tanya have it all figured out?”

Dante coughs. I face him. Broad shoulders slumped over, he stands against the wall and twists a lock with his fingertips. Since childhood, Dante’s had an impressive physique. Looking up at him just makes it more intimidating.

“Okay,” I say. “I’m gonna do it. I’ll leave.” 

Dante sighs, nods his head. “Live your life bro. Look—”

“I can’t let inertia live it for me.” 

Dante leans over the railing to contemplate my words. He’s a good listener. A sage. I watch veins pulse in his neck, while he absorbs the city. 

“Everything just moves on,” he says. “Whether we like it or not.” Dante is oddly cryptic today.

The urban thicket seethes below, sounds of rush hour echoing through the concrete canopy while silence commands our tiny nest. 

Dante’s locks sway in the breeze. Two empty beer cans rattle across the floor towards me. He breaches the shade to pick them up. 

Dante sits down next to me, face split by the divide between sun and shadow, shoulders against mine. I shuffle to provide space and pull my legs into my chest. He rests the cans beneath the ferns and turns to me. I lower my head. This man is a brother to me, yet I still shy away from eye contact.

“Change is good,” he says. “It’s best to dictate that change on your own terms, lucky even.” A deep breath. “Regardless, there is no bad decision. Just live your life, man. You don’t know when it might change for you instead. I just—”

Dante studies the ferns. Leaves dance in the breeze, scattering sunlight around us.

“You good?” I say.

“Love you man,” he says. “Bro, I really appreciate you.” Dante’s teeth clench, lips curl, and nostrils flare open. He stifles a whimper. “I just need—”

I shift towards him and lay my arm over his shoulder. Ducking his head into his shirt, he sobs. The last time he cried like this, his mother just died. He called me and I just sat there, quiet, on the other line. I was so powerless, disconnected.

Dante lifts his head, a wet imprint of his face smeared through his t-shirt.

“I’m so ashamed,” he says. “I’m so ashamed. What am I supposed to do?”

I wrap my arms around him tight. 

“Tanya left me,” he says.

I hug him until my arms give out. Together, we sit and stare at the clouds blocking the sun.

“I love you man,” I say.

Horns blare in the distance.

---

If you enjoyed, feel free to explore my other stories here: https://wesmann.substack.com/s/fiction

Dr.Crook is a talented psychologist who is an atheist his lifetime goal was to study how the human brain works.and crook has an extreme desire to read minds too like fictional characters like professor x,legion..etc. Dr.crook doesn't have any family or relatives which served as an advantage for him to do researches and works restlessly without any interference.On a day he encountered a strange patient claimed that he can see and talk to dead people.Crook thought he is schizophrenic and started to treat him.Crook asked to the patient that "How long have you been seeing this things" he replied "From the birth".Crook smiled and said "Okay, your name please".he seated still staring behind Crook.Crook didn't even turned his neck has a response he asks him that "What do you see, Any dead person ?!!". His face started to sweat extremely, his full body started to tremble and tears were flowing out of his eyes. Dr.Crook is an well experienced man patients like this are regular he even handled patients who claimed to have superpowers but he sense something different with this patient. Crook takes his handkerchief and wipes his face and says that "Cool relax, I'm the only person here,Comeon tell me what do you see?".He shouts "I'm not lying" again and again.He says that "I can speak with dead people. I have solid proof but what I'm seeing now is extremely different". Dr.Crook handcuffs his hands but he is still staring behind him Crook asks "Okay come on what do you see". He started to cry loudly beating the desk and he says that "It's like an mirror, I see myself".Suddenly his eyes started get bigger and blood were extremely flowing from his mouth and nose.He shouts that "See,see like I said I'm going to die" and cries.Crook got shocked and can't understand he wipes all the blood and tears over him with water and he calls the ambulance.the patient says "It can't be helped" he didn't even completed his head brusted and splashed all over white shirt of Dr.Crook.

“He is all,” Sir Arlend whispered, “All are we.” The old knight lay on a hillside bed of grass, staring up at the clear sky. He looked half a corpse already, bones outlined against sickly pale skin, eyes wide and distant.

Rollo knelt beside him, grasped Arlend’s hands in his own. “All within He.”

Life sparked in those vacant eyes at the words. The thin, wrinkled hands Rollo held no longer had the might of the High Captain of Harrowden, no longer belonged to the fabled White Fox, but the old knight squeezed crushing hard all the same. “Yes,” he mumbled. “Rise, soldier.”

Rollo blinked down at Sir Arlend, then stumbled to his feet. He slid the longsword from its sheath in a backhand grip and saluted, right arm across his chest, chin up. “Sir.”

“Soldier,” said Arlend. “Do you vow to shield the weak?”

“Until the dust.”

“Do you swear to lead the meek?”

“Until the dirt.”

“Do you commit your heart and soul to upholding honor? Your flesh and bone to preserving mercy?”

“Until the dark.”

“Do you pledge fealty to House Evell, to Joannys Woodrov, Queen of Daerim?”

“Until my death.”

The old knight’s eyes shone something fierce. His thin, cracked lips curled ever so slightly upward, barely visible behind a wild mane of graying hair. “Kneel, soldier.”

Rollo knelt beside him once more, held out his blade hilt-first. Sir Arlend wrapped his fingers round the leather grip and stretched to rest the edge on each of Rollo’s shoulders, arms shaking all the while.

“Rise, Sir Rollo. Sword of the All-watcher. Knight of Harrowden. May your steel strike true, your armor hold fast. May your cause be ever just, your mind ever sharp, your heart ever strong.”

Rollo rose, an air of pride about him despite the falling tears. “Mercy, sir?”

“Aye,” the old knight grumbled. He hefted the longsword to Rollo and collapsed back on the hill, laying almost peaceful like, except for his ragged, labored breath.

“Sir Arlend Evell, Honored Knight of the Aelin Kingdom of Daerim. The All-watcher awaits.” Salty drops trailed down Rollo’s cheeks and onto his lips. “Man rose from the dirt. To the dirt we must return. Your oaths are fulfilled. Rest at ease.” His voice cracked on the last few words, but no matter. Silver steel flashed down. Ragged breath gave way to silence, but for the wind, the rustling of leaves, and the muffled sobs of a man born from the death of the boy inside him.

There was one rule in Mampi Bay; stay off the water after dark. Sometimes, if you stood on the docks as the sun set, you could hear the screams of a poor sailor racing for shore, only a few dozen yards short of safety.

When Danai and Mellem went out on the water that morning, they were joking and high spirited. A couple hours out, they said. Danai noted the small carving of a whale Mellem brought but thought nothing of it when Mellem said “It’s a good luck charm.”

After catching more than they thought in three hours, Danai decided the charm may have worked. They got out glass bottles of beer.

“This’s stronger than I remember,” Danai slurred after a few bottles. “Where’d you get it?”

“It’s the normal stuff,” Mellem said. He was on his first still and going slowly.

Danai looked up after finishing a bottle. The sun was low in the west. Panic shocked him into almost-lucidity. “Mellem! Hurry! The oars.”

Mellem didn’t grab an oar. Danai, drunk, grabbed both and begin to paddle to shore. Mellem held his little whale carving close. Danai didn’t notice his little smile.

“Mellem! Help me!” The water’s glassy surface shone with the light of the dying sun, and Danai’s oars chopped frantically at the surface. Mellem did nothing.

“Mellem?”

The sun set.

Formless things hauled themselves over the edge of the boat, cold radiating from them like the cold of rain on a dark autumn night. Danai screamed and fell back. Mellem held his little whale out like a shield - and the things paid him no attention.

No one saw Mellem row back on his own that night - no one expected a boat to get back so close to dawn.

But never listened

His mom had always insisted he respect his father. He never knew she did so, out of fear of losing the life she had — not realizing she was both prisoner and guard.

He missed the breadcrumbs. She glossed over gaining skills to enjoy mimosas at brunch. She spent her days gossiping — rejecting the art of understanding. She focused on the things she wanted — neglecting a lifestyle that truly benefited her.

She almost never shared her opinion first — differing with his dad with less probability than a 100-year flood.

On those rare occasions, she was quick to backtrack and convince her husband she actually agreed with him — misjudging the words she had chosen. She never wanted him to consider her a threat — doing everything to stay on his side.

She was drained — her body language able to narrate. He never noticed because he only listened to her words — surfacely. His dad painted a happy picture — a blissful ignorance.

He never realized how bad she wanted to tell him. Each passing day, an ocean of disillusionment consuming another piece of her tiny island — more isolated from escape.

-----

He ventured into the world, hoping to return and make his dad proud. He had watched carefully, and understood what his dad truly respected.

His fiancee preferred dinners without her future in-laws. She saw something in his mom’s eyes that showed her future. She could smell the helplessness on her breath.

-----

His mom raised her champagne glass, aware the truth she wanted to share but felt forced to bury, had become the boulder he would greet each morning — at the bottom of the hill. He found power, the only way he knew how — demanding it from the powerless.

I should have been grading papers that afternoon, but instead, I was playing fetch by the park fountain, watching my jacket sleeve grow darker with each splash. Your dog—whose name I still can't recall—kept retrieving the tennis ball with surprising energy, even though he wasn't young anymore.

"He doesn't usually play with strangers," you said. I looked up to find you standing there, your blonde hair bright in the autumn sun, wrapped in layers of brown that matched the falling leaves.

"Must be my natural charm," I said, immediately regretting it. But your laugh made everything okay.

We talked as the shadows stretched longer. You told me about restoring old photographs and bringing faded memories back to life. I admitted to teaching English and suffering through my students' poetry assignments. Your dog settled between us, leaving muddy prints on my cowboy boots that I couldn't bring myself to mind.

When you said you had to leave, I froze. All my words disappeared. I watched you walk away with your dog, whose name sounded beautiful and ancient in Nahuatl—you'd been specific about that.

A week has passed, and I keep thinking about how your eyes widened when I confessed I'd never seen Casablanca. I look up Nahuatl names at night: Xochitl, Tlaloc, Itzel. None of them sound quite right, but I keep searching.

I return to the park each evening with a barely-read book, hoping to see you again. The fountain keeps running, and my jacket has finally dried. But the memory of that afternoon remains crystal clear—like one of your restored photographs, perfect in its accidental beauty.

Ash littered the landscape.  The truck that had rolled into the embassy compound was nothing but a smoking crater.  Burn marks spread out from it in every direction, whether over the ground or the bodies nearby.  There’s a shoe with a foot still in it, a hijab perforated so its back color is mottled with red, a piece of body armor that only protected the wearer’s torso.

No one will ever find the driver. The 16-year-old had seen his own family struck down by an unseen enemy launching rockets from afar.  The explosion that killed them had thrown the boy into training camp, indoctrination, and the preparation for his own detonation.  No one would ever know his story or why he had done what he did.  It all died with him.

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Some still remember when the bombs fell like rain, like inevitability, like the end. Screams echoed, stretched thin and hollow, their cries like a siren’s song, a lullaby for the damned. The fires swayed and snarled in the night, fueled by every sound, every final breath, a violent dance painted in red and shadow. The world burned itself away.No one will ever tell you how strangely beautiful it was, the way flames flickered like stars in ruin, constellations consuming the darkness. Some were swallowed by it. But eventually, night turns to day, the fires fade to embers, and only silence remains. Still, I hear that siren’s song.Still, I wander lost among the flames, drifting through a world long since turned to ash.

The Intruder’s Vision

Safe rooms are supposed to be safe.

“How did this undesirable get in here?”

Restrained, Breghht could only evaluate the situation.

“You have so much — acting like you earned it all. Where’s my credit?” The intruder seemed hell-bent on recouping what was originally his.

“Logic says that this lifestyle is a direct result of my efforts.” Breghht was the type to latch onto any philosophy that justified his actions.

“You live behind your precious walls, telling yourself vile, like me, shouldn’t exist — we’re inferior.” The intruder had calculated in silence, finding the perfect moment to make his move.

“This is a nice little shindig you’ve got going on. Wait, I think you called it a soiree, Mr. Fancy Pants.”

Breghht, doing everything he could to forget his meager days, luxuriated in his new surroundings.

“Who would notice if I wore Breghht’s mask?”

Breghht had never been so terrified. He had built up his image, and this outsider was aiming to destroy it.

Breghtt watched the two large monitors as the stranger moved, undetected through his home — a snake in the grass.

Breghht’s eyes were drawn to a side monitor replaying a recent event. As the intruder refilled his drink, Breghtt’s phone laid on the table with his bank account summary visible for the world to see — maxed credit cards and all.

“That friend, you don’t really like, knows. What is he whispering to your neighbor?” The intruder knew Breghht’s visceral fear.

Breghht’s sister approached. “You seem off tonight, brother. Something going on in your mind?”

Realizing he hid his shame for too long, Breghht watched as his intruder took control.

“Maybe it’s a moment of true self realization.”

“Those people are morons. They have no future, and they’ll never change.”

Little Brehtt was excited about his first away game. His uncle, Bretson, was full of advice to help him navigate the mission into enemy territory.

Bretson had paid his dues — those hot August two-a-days.

“We were tougher! You can’t imagine the heat we suffered through.”

Uncle Bretson never shied away from criticizing how easy kids today have it.

“No one could contain me. I was a beast.”

Little Brehtt was always impressed with his uncle’s stories. He’d soak up the words and visualize his uncle, a slight glow to him — maybe some wings.

“Don’t even think of making friends with any of them. If you do, the townsfolk will tar and feather you, and I’ll bring the tar.”

Little Brehtt knew that when he lined up, he had to watch his knees. The other town was known for cheap shots. Uncle Bretson called them cheaters just about every day, as far back as Little Brehtt could remember.

-----

Little Brehtt lay on the field — a cramp in his calf. His team was already huddled up. He was shocked when his 'enemy' helped him to the sideline.

Little Brehtt was scared to ask Uncle Bretson about what he had experienced. He knew Uncle Bretson saw it, but would deny it.

The worst thing that could happen to Uncle Brettson happened— Little Brehtt sought to figure things out on his own.

Little Brehtt watched his dad’s sophomore year highlight tape — Uncle Bretson’s senior year.

“If he sat on the sidelines most the time, what else might he be fibbin’ about?”

Little Brehtt’s world was collapsing. He felt a tiny explosion in his head.

Brehtt saw the universe differently.

“Oh, no, it’s not like that. We’re not together,” she said, laughing. She looked happier than five years ago at the last reunion, in a wrinkled green dress and not-quite-combed hair, drinking way too much punch. She was divorced then. She was still divorced now. I had hoped…

“That’s what I heard, but it looks…”

“Who cares how it looks?” Andy said. He’d cleaned up. He'd looked worse than she had when I saw him last. Now he had a tidy beard, a blue blazer, and a smile. The smile was the most surprising. “People talk. Let ‘em. We’re not together, we just came to see everyone.”

I didn’t believe them. They were holding hands the whole night. How could she get back with him? It was a rhetorical question - people change. I wish he hadn’t though.

When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I went out to the lawn, decorated with lights and a rented pavilion. I held a glass of champagne. I didn’t drink, because what was there to celebrate?

“Nice night, isn’t it?” Said a woman beside me. I didn’t recognize her. She had a glass too. She was wearing a beautiful ivory gown, and had done her hair quite nicely.

“Could be better.”

“Cheers to that.” She didn’t drink.

Curious, I asked; “Should I know you? You weren’t…”

“Nope. I came with Andy.”

“Family?”

“Dating. One month. Well, we were dating. Before she got here...”

“My condolences.”

“Amazing how one night can change everything, isn’t it?”

There was a long pause as we considered that statement and listened to the symphony of crickets.

“There used to be fireflies all over this field,” I said, changing the subject. “I don’t know where they went. Some nights there were so many you felt like you were swimming in a galaxy… Now it's just dark.”

“I love fireflies. I used to trap them, when I was little, and I would try to read outside on the porch swing with just their light. I could barely read anything, but it was the idea that I loved most. Reading by the light of my own little stars. You know?”

I did know.

“I sometimes dream I’m back here, a kid with no job, no worries, just running through the field of fireflies,” I said. It was stupid to say. It felt right to say.

“That’s a nice dream,” she said, smiling for the first time - only slightly.

“I’m Theodore.”

“Nadia,” she said.

“Well Nadia,” I said, with exaggerated decorum, “Tonight has not been all bad. How could it, if I had the pleasure of company so fine as yours?”

She giggled. “I’ll drink to that.” She raised her glass, and I mine. We held each other’s eyes for more than a second, and I swear I could see fireflies dancing in them.

Amazing how one night can change everything, isn’t it?

I tucked loose strands of hair behind my ears only for them to fly free again. I looked behind to see my boyfriend, Kyle, doggedly climbing up the slope with a modified cat carrier on his back.

“Is Saruman OK?” I asked.

Kyle looked up, vapour droplets on his round glasses.

“Yeah!” He said.

I stood and took a drink. Above us, stony hills dotted with pines and spruce disappeared into low-hanging clouds. This place was an arena of green and grey wilderness crowding around an azure blue river that roiled and blustered through, far below. A whining sound grew in volume and I turned to see Kyle had crested the rise.

“Check out the view. Nice, right?” He said, and planted a cold kiss on my forehead.

“It’s amazing, babe. I don’t think Saruman approves though.”

“He’s just being a drama queen.”

“I did tell you not to bring him.” I said and walked around to peek through the mesh screen of the cat carrier. Inside was a very agitated Maine Coon. I made soothing noises and scratched the top of his head, which seemed to calm him down a bit, but those big green eyes were suspicious. 

“This is as far up as I wanted to go anyway. To that bench over there. That’s where the fam and I came every summer when I was a kid.”

Water was dripping off the lip of his hood and the end of his nose as he stood there, lost in a pleasant reverie. 

“Let’s get over there and we can let Saruman out for a sniff around.” I said, patting his arm.

We dipped under some spiky branches and entered a little grove that wrapped around a picnic bench. The place smelled of sweet rot and pine needles and bark. The wind was softer here. Kyle slung the huge backpack down on the surface of the picnic bench, clipped the lead onto Saruman’s collar and lifted him out. Saruman’s eyes bulged and his head twitched, low to the ground. I squatted and held up a leaf.

“Psspss. What’s this?”

Saruman regarded me coldly and darted towards some brambly undergrowth. We giggled, watching our little feline wizard. Mysterious and unpredictable, like his namesake. Kyle had made a scratching post with two arcing parapets at the top for him. Watching him bent at his task, tongue poking between his lips had sparked a deep, warm sensation in my stomach. 

“We’re spoiling him.” I’d said softly from the doorway. 

Kyle had looked at me and frowned. “Nonsense. Our boy can’t be Saruman without the tower of Isengard to command his army of slaves from. That’s what we are, after all.”

I took a seat on the bench next to Kyle and leaned my head against his shoulder. This was my life. My two boys. We were cold and wet and, in Saruman’s case, grouchy, but I felt whole. Nourished on the level of the soul. Happy.

“Our legal system is rigged. I’m being persecuted against.”

He heard on the TV, during his only hour a week around electronics. Some trials are a publicity stunt, after a person reaches a certain level. Outcomes are very different for those that make the rules — no matter the side they claim to fight for.

He woke each morning and readied himself to work 10+ hours a day. Sometimes he was working with cattle, other days may involve chickens or corn. Large equipment and animals were nothing new. A few friends had met their maker, with such little training and so few precautions required. The people that echoed the “Work hard and you’ll succeed” mantra, obviously didn’t know these practices legally existed.

He earned pennies an hour, or at least that’s what he was paid. Most of his earnings covered his forced vacation. The large conglomerates benefited hand over fist, the state broke even. Food suppliers, coal, and even for profit prison systems shied away from talking publicly about these services. Shareholders enjoyed the dividends.

He would hear some scream, “Pay for what you did!” Only bad people go to prison. When a buddy from high school lets your 0.18% BAC driving slide, your halo grows.

He checked the calendar, decades in this hell. His prime lost to paperwork and double standards. A natural leafy green put him here. He sat and listened, as an elite claimed injustice for an elaborate scheme towards a victimless crime.

How amazing for a prison system, that’s a drain on society’s taxes, to create millionaires. Each hyper-focused on morals and ethics? Privatization sure pays off, for a select few.

He sat and watched the media gather, a great photo op of a convicted felon, walking out the front door in a 5-figure business suit, wrists exposed as the unfortunate truth — we crave distraction.

-----

This piece was inspired by investigative works researched by others. Based on review, the source, AP News, is scored as less bias than many others and considered highly credible. There are multiple articles on this subject. Click here for one.

Once upon a time, there was a young vampire living inside a house. But in that house, there were also evil spirits that always tried to consume him. The vampire couldn't get out of the house, since he was afraid of getting burned by the sun.

Once upon a time, there was a young angel who dreamed of reaching the sun, but she couldn't because her wings hadn't grown yet. One day, that angel was adventuring through the forest, eventually finding a haunted house.

Once upon a time, a vampire met an angel. Evil spirits always tried to reach that vampire, but the angel always hugged him. That hug protected him from getting harmed by them, since she was a holy being. Day after day, that angel went into the house to protect the vampire for years, turning his dark life into pure light. Slowly, the vampire started to love her, but at the same time, he envied her. While he was there trying not to get burned by the sun, she dreamed of reaching it. It was truly wonderful.

One day, that angel brought a magical umbrella with her, so the vampire could get out of the house without getting burned. When the vampire finally got out, he was happier than ever, but he immediately noticed that something was different. Both he and the angel had grown up; she had beautiful wings that allowed her to fly and go anywhere she wanted. That angel had a dream, and it was time for her to fulfill it.

Once upon a time, there was a lonely vampire who finally realized that he was never afraid of the sun or the evil spirits; he was afraid of being alone.

Who might I see?

My creator hoped to see his image in me.

I was wrapped in paper, unable to perform my duty. At lunch, he brought me home from his shop and hung me on the wall — wanting to surprise his family.

They never returned home that evening — or any day after. They were gathered and sent away. They were kind, secure people. They truly valued all life.

I didn’t sit lonely for long — quickly catalogued and rewarded to the highest bidder, Mrs. J.

Mr. and Mrs. J vainly admired me. Together they marveled in how I was able to show them their good sides — separately, they showed their truths.

I didn’t have the heart to tell them, I only reflect what they show me. Ironically, as inanimate as I may be, the J’s had less heart than I.

As generations passed, my story romanticized, I found a new home with Mr. and Mrs. B, outbidding a devastated Mrs. E —trying to substitute winning for lost happiness.

The B’s were busy — well connected. They were able to sniff out lucrative opportunities before others could catch the scent.

They believed they understood my story, but missed the origin.

D’s mom paid top dollar for me, not realizing the horrendous profit the B’s made. They convinced their close friend I meant more to them — even pretending they didn’t want to part with me, to sweeten the deal.

Surviving this frat house was no easy feat. D and his friends were spoiled little brats — drunkenly flaunting, yet simultaneously squandering, the privilege they denied maintaining. The parents of this lost generation, consider nepotism the silent foundation of their generational power. How embarrassed they’d be if their lineage portrayed a less-than-regal image.

D couldn’t care less about the pretty penny mommy spent — the day he dropped me in a donation bin.

I sit on the floor, leaning against the wall, simply hoping to find a home before I’m broken.

Yesterday, I piqued young and budding Mr. C’s interest. He changed his mind — this cheap fluorescent lighting painted his face, reminding him of his parents. He left the store with shame and rage in his eyes.

I find my home, now with Dorothy’s friend. He was immediately drawn to my elegance.

He has worked hard and is appreciative for all he has. He’s focused on bettering himself, while sharing his experiences and knowledge. He refuses to take the easy path — dimming someone else’s light, so his may shine brighter.

Although the odds seem stacked against him, he is someone that won’t sit idly by. He will use his voice. He is an observer. He will call out what he sees happening.

He allows me to tell the story I was born to tell. After the chain of those that already have, or eventually will turn, my creator can finally see his image —in me.

-----

And now’s the time to play the game and better understand what might happen to U. For Dorothy Thompson’s article, Click Here.

They rode hard through Habrá-Uun, because the bandits there take no prisoners. It was a harsh run. The land was parched, dotted with low, dry shrubs, and the only animals were circling above waiting to eat your dry corpse or hiding beneath the sand waiting to bite and sting.

Everyone hated the run; everyone had their reasons for running it. Some sought promotions leading more favorable caravans, others were being punished for mistakes. This time, Tasreph was just trying to get home.

“At last” someone shouted at the head of the caravan. “Qadrah ahead!”

Metepir always stopped at Qadrah to trade for water - the only stop on the long trail. They traded enormous amounts of food and salt for the water and shelter, more than Tasreph thought reasonable. Perhaps because there was no other option?

“What?” Krii said, not stopping. He was a soft man, vile and accustomed to bookkeeping and ordering caravan leaders about. He led the caravan only because the company couldn’t find a replacement so quickly after Metepir’s death, and he hated every moment of it. “We’re not stopping. Who authorized you to stop?”

“Sir, we’ll run the mounts to death. We’ve always stopped here with Metepir. They have water, and trade for food…” he stopped as Krii grew bright red.

“Always stopped here? Lazy slobs! Metepir let you stop? And what’s this about trading company food? Bah! Entitled, wasteful rats, all of you. Especially Metepir!”

And so they did not stop. Qadrans watched as they passed, dismayed. They looked starved.

They reached Pen-em, delivered the goods. Balai approached him. “You’ll go back home now, right Tasreph? You’d just stayed on with Metepir, and now that he’s dead…”

Tasreph desperately wanted to. He missed Grandma’s taqqahi soup. “No. Krii offered me a caravan. I’m taking it.”

“That’s great news! I’m happy for you, but I’ll miss you. Which one?”

“You won’t miss me long. I’m taking the Habrá-Uun run.”

Balai was visibly shocked. “You’d go willingly? Hamayi, you’ve spent too long in the sun.” He shook his head and laughed in disbelief as he cared for his mount.

A week later, they loaded up. He didn’t tell Krii, but he took extra rations.

They were greeted with tears of gratitude in Qadrah. Less than half of the normal crowd was there, and they were all deathly thin, but each person took the food reverently. They watered the mounts, slept, and moved on. He'd make that run many more times before he retired.

Eteni had many fine attributes: He was keen of eye, swift of foot, was quick with a spear, when needed, could throw far and accurately. He grew up strong and intelligent, but perhaps not wise. The praise of his elders and peers made him think he was perhaps greater than he was, until he finally set his eyes on a grand goal. Surely, he thought, one such as himself could vanquish the Spearfinger Sisters. 

This would be his undoing.

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As they stood on the small platform, his executioner quietly muttered,

"I will deliver you to hell."

The man, not willing to wait for his turn to speak his last words, mostly because the underling reading his charges seemed like the type to deny him that right — if only to feel superior.

"Your strongman leader is afraid of words and ideas. Your orchestrators of fear, the alphas with the most brittle egos, suckle that teat. You here today, to feel good about 'your' choices — hell came when I realized the pain I caused others, after losing freedom over my own words and actions. That's the cost of not wanting to stand out from the herd."

The audience watching the livestream was oblivious. The A.I. programming had transformed his speech into one begging for repentance. Those present, understood, at a visceral level, the need for compliance.

He turned to his executioner — absolute calm in his voice and freedom in his eyes.

"You're not sending me to hell — you're taking over my lease."

The church had been abandoned since anyone could remember, but one day song issued forth. The ardor of the unknown choir shook the rafters. No one passing by could resist the sound and townsfolk began to be pulled in one by one. At first they filled the pews, then the balconies, then the aisles, until even the doors were filled with people pushing in, causing others to fall out from windows that broke under the pressure or crushed them in the bell tower. When the choir stopped singing, the church was no more, but only a wriggling mass of flesh. 

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The morning at home was rough. He sat in traffic, complaining to his steering wheel.

"Puberty is wild. Kids don't know how to think logically with all those hormones and self-induced anxiety. They fabricate nightmares in their head, when the world around them is actually fairly calm. They often ignore sound advice, sometimes even contradicting it, simply because the stress kicks reasoning out the door. No wonder they're so easily influenced by the people around them."

He devised a plan to prolong these effects well into adulthood — eventually landing a role as highly paid political campaign manager.