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 (330)
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Shades of the Unspoken đ
The world had been stripped of colour for so long that most people couldnât 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 Jackson2 months ago in Fiction
đ The Thing I Shouldnât 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 Jackson2 months ago in Fiction
đŠď¸ 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 itâs filing for retirement, and you step outside already feeling like someone hit the âlow batteryâ icon on your forehead. Those days? Theyâre sneaky. They pretend to be nothing⌠right until the universe decides to throw a plot twist straight at your face.
By Karl Jackson2 months ago in Fiction
đ THE WINDOW THAT WOULDNâT 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 hadnât meant to leave this soon. She hadnât 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 Jackson2 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 Jackson2 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 hasnât 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 Jackson2 months ago in Fiction
The Doorway You Walk Past Every Day đŞâ¨
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 quiet⌠a little too heavy⌠a little too charged, like the air itself is holding its breath.
By Karl Jackson2 months ago in Fiction
Ink-Stained Souls
The cabin didnât 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 havenât figured out how to heal yet. But everyone at the Cedar Ridge Writing Retreat swore it had magic in its bones. Or at least thatâs what the brochure said, right under a photo of a smiling woman holding a pen like it was a wand.
By Karl Jackson2 months ago in Fiction
đ˛ Out of the Woods
The night the trees started whispering my name, I knew something had shifted. The forest didnât do that for everyone. Some folks could walk beneath its tangled canopy for a lifetime and hear nothing but wind. Others, like me, got claimed. Gathered up. Folded in. I guess thatâs what happens when you grow up at the edge of a place locals call âthe maze with a pulse.â
By Karl Jackson2 months ago in Fiction
đ The Echo in the Crowd
Introduction Sometimes the universe throws you a curveball so wild that your brain refuses to file it under anything ordinary. It doesnât matter how grounded you think you are. It doesnât matter how many times youâve told yourself youâre done replaying old memories like a scratched playlist. There are moments that grab you by the collar and say hey, sit down, weâre doing this again.
By Karl Jackson2 months ago in Fiction
The Night of Unbroken Embers
A story about the rituals we inherit, the ones we break, and the ones that quietly reshape us The fire waited for her. It always did. A circle of stones, a stack of cedar, the scent of old smoke clinging to the wind. And Mara standing at the edge of it all, her fists tight in the sleeves of her coat, her breath forming little ghosts in the cold.
By Karl Jackson2 months ago in Fiction
