Young Adult
Imprisoned. Top Story - October 2025.
The sea, the sky, the stars, the sun; all look within reach, within the realms of possibilities. Like I can reach out with mine own hands, and pluck the glittering lights from the night sky. Or caress the gentle white lines of foam that scatter themselves across the vast endless sea.
By Liam Storm3 months ago in Fiction
FruFru and Pootzygirl
Frufru was born in Yonkers, New York. Pootzygirl was born in Thonotosassa, Florida. Frufru was raised by European immigrants who were naturalized Americans. Pootzygirl was orphaned at a young age and grew up with guidance counselors and guardians. Frufru went to Fashion and Design school and was the Personal Apprentice of Cruella Deville. Pootzygirl took classes at many different schools learning from many teachers and considered herself a philanthropist and an entrepreneur. Frufru wears the most expensive name-brand garments, drives the most expensive cars, always has her hair, make-up, fingernails, and outfit, worn to perfection. Pootzygirl forgets she has hair, loves a good cape, and is happy when she has a comfortable pair of shoes that make her feet happy. Frufru likes gourmet restaurants and shopping at elite specialized boutiques. Pootzygirl likes art and beauty, and feels satisfied when she can accomplish fulfilling a need without complications or heartache. Frufru is scared of animals that are not pets like cats or dogs. Pootzygirl loves all animals and prefers being outdoors if the weather allows. Frufru thinks everything said or written is just nonsense. Pootzygirl thinks everything said or written is absolute truth. (In the comic book depictions of these two characters, Frufru is depicted as the "Villain" and Pootzygirl is depicted as the "Hero".) The writer does not think of them that way. The creator of these two characters is a "Bipolar" woman, who struggles with her own "Frufru" self, and her own "Pootzygirl" self, every day.
By Shanon Angermeyer Norman3 months ago in Fiction
The hotel laundry has been running itself after midnight
I work laundry for a mid-range chain hotel — the kind with fake marble floors, “continental breakfast,” and carpets that smell faintly like wet dog no matter how often they’re shampooed. My shift’s usually 4 p.m. to 1 a.m., but I’m often the last one here. Nobody wants to be the person closing down the laundry room at night.
By V-Ink Stories3 months ago in Fiction
The Mirror Draft. AI-Generated.
Ethan Ward was a literature professor at Hillcrest University — a quiet man who loved solitude more than social events. His students called him “The Ghost Teacher” because of how silently he moved through the halls. He wasn’t rude — just lost in thought, like someone living between two worlds.
By Ghanni malik3 months ago in Fiction
[UPDATE] I was the only one working the night shift… so who checked in Room 409?
Hey everyone, I didn’t expect my last post to blow up the way it did. I just needed to vent about something weird that happened at work, but apparently, it freaked a lot of people out.
By V-Ink Stories3 months ago in Fiction
I was the only one working the night shift… so who checked in Room 409?
I’ve been working night shifts at a small roadside hotel for about two years now. It’s one of those places off the interstate that looks like it’s been “under renovation” since the ‘90s — faded carpets, buzzing neon vacancy sign, vending machines that still take quarters. It’s quiet most nights, which is exactly how I like it.
By V-Ink Stories3 months ago in Fiction
A Room Full of Memories
A Room Full of Memories The attic smelled of cedar and dust — the kind of scent that wraps around old memories and refuses to let them go. Daniel hadn’t been up here since he was a teenager. Now, standing in the doorway with a box of cleaning supplies and a heart heavy with absence, he realized he didn’t know where to begin.
By Abdul Muhammad 3 months ago in Fiction
The Coffee Cup. AI-Generated.
Every morning at exactly 7:10, Elias Mwangi opened the doors to his tiny café on River Street in Nairobi. The brass bell above the door jingled softly, echoing through the narrow shop that smelled of roasted beans, cinnamon, and rain-soaked wood.
By shakir hamid3 months ago in Fiction
