Holiday
Someone Keeps Swiping Right on My Dating Profile
I downloaded the dating app two weeks after Valentine’s Day. Not because I was ready to date again. Mostly because my friends wouldn’t stop telling me to “get back out there.” My last relationship ended badly, and February had been miserable enough already.
By V-Ink Storiesabout 10 hours ago in Fiction
The Last Round Before Sunrise
The group had been bar-hopping since early evening. St. Patrick’s Day had turned the whole downtown area into a blur of green shirts, plastic shamrocks, and loud music pouring from every open doorway. By midnight, most of the popular bars were packed shoulder-to-shoulder.
By V-Ink Storiesabout 10 hours ago in Fiction
Echoes of Resistance
The streets of Bristol were alive that day, though not with the usual hum of buses and chatter, but with the heavy pulse of voices that demanded to be heard. I had not intended to join the protest—I came to observe, to write, to bear witness—but once I stepped into the swell of people, the energy was impossible to ignore. The banners waved above heads, each one a story, a demand, a prayer. The scent of rain-soaked asphalt mixed with the faint tang of chalk from hastily scrawled messages, leaving the air electric.
By imtiazalam3 days ago in Fiction
Butter Upping to Easter
Easter was never about Jesus to us scrawny egg headed heathens, we'd run around in itchy dress clothes, wide-eyed and goofy looking for marshmallow chicks hidden in the house way before Granma arrived. Aunts and mothers made food in the kitchen, none that we liked except for chocolate pie. It seemed like forever before we could change into our play clothes and move on with the hunt, the required croquet games and finally one doozy of an easter dinner.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)8 days ago in Fiction
A Christmas Carol
I was going through some old documents I had when I came across this. I wrote it for somebody I cared about a few years ago. She loved the Christmas Carol Story but brought up that she wished things turned out better for Scrooge and Belle. So I wrote an ending that met that criteria. This person isn't around anymore so instead of this collecting dust I figured you could have it. Hope you enjoy!
By Donny Foley11 days ago in Fiction
Eggshells
Margaret Whitlock was known as the best artist in the sleepy town of Greystone. Her specialty was Easter egg sculptures—delicate, intricate creations painted with painstaking detail. Each egg was a marvel, depicting pastoral scenes, mythical creatures, and swirling patterns so fine they seemed almost alive. Every Easter, people from all over flocked to her gallery to admire and buy her work.
By V-Ink Stories16 days ago in Fiction
Sadie Sunshine
Sadie Sunshine always had a smile on her face and she lived in the magic village of Emerald Springs. The houses changed their colors based on the holiday. On Valentine’s Day houses would change to blue, white, or red. On Easter the houses are robins’ egg blue or bright yellow. They would be red, white, and blue on the fourth of July. They turn orange and black for Halloween. On Christmas the houses would turn not only red or green, some of them become blue or white to look like frozen ice crystals. The sheen of a crystal blue or white house in the winter time looked so pretty that remembering them filled Sadie’s heart with joy.
By DJ Robbins23 days ago in Fiction
Miracle In The Andes Survivors
On October 13, 1972, a chartered plane carrying a Uruguayan rugby team known around the world as the Miracle in the Andes. The aircraft, operated by the Uruguayan Air Force, was transporting members of the Old Christians Club rugby team from Montevideo to Santiago. On board were 45 people, including players, friends, and family members. As the plane crossed the Andes, turbulent weather and navigational errors led the pilot to misjudge his position. Believing he had cleared the mountains, he began descending—directly into the snow-covered peaks.
By Ibrahim Shah 25 days ago in Fiction
FUZZY BEAR
*Fuzzy Bear: A Hug You Can Trust* In a cozy little forest surrounded by tall trees, colorful flowers, and chirping birds, lived a teddy bear named *Fuzzy*. Fuzzy wasn’t like other bears—he wasn’t wild or loud. In fact, he wasn’t even real. He was a soft, stuffed bear with button eyes, stitched paws, and golden brown fur that was always warm, no matter how cold the night was.
By Ibrahim Shah 26 days ago in Fiction
Relic
Every Saturday morning I write her a letter in place of a cup of coffee. The kettle can wait. The stove can click itself awake without me. What matters is the scrape of the chair across the tile and the pen uncapping with that soft, hungry pop, like the day taking its first breath.
By SUEDE the poet28 days ago in Fiction
