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Contest Winner

The One Who Bore Them

by William See

Would you care to hear an old man’s story, for a moment?

I remember that as a child, I had a manic fixation on organizing and cataloging every interest, object, or idea I had. One might say I had an insatiable appetite for the very essence of existence and how it interplays with itself in all its beautiful and horrific grandeur. It started first with the elements and how they inspire everything in the natural world, and how they turn Her cogs. Then, with ideas of myself, and who I would eventually become; the future, indeed, is important to me. And then finally, I collected certain objects that I treasured the most out of anything else, for their respective colors, shapes, tactile and emotional invocations.

These items are rather special. So special, I vividly remember all five-hundred-thirty-eight instances. All neatly categorized and ordered and lovingly caressed with each associated, tactile memory. Many of them have names, some as mundane and dismissive as a car passing by your street, some as moving as a historic romance, and some as black as a horrible deed hidden in a basement somewhere. Innumerable years were spent collecting them.

I might be inclined to refer to them as “toys”, or trinkets. Coupled with the infinite amusement they bring me, I have a certain…predilection to losing these items. My body, long weathered against the grains of Time, has spent the strength my youthful arms once carried. I used to have power and space to hold them. Now I can barely catch my beloved objects as they fall from my grasp. I cannot remember the first time I realized that they had begun to slip from me - I perhaps noticed a draining, an emptiness, a sort of puzzle piece that loosely dangled from my flesh like some half-living dream. You feel that integral piece and its absence. And to the ignorant passerby of the mundane world, these gifts to the world are squandered and left to rot in undignified pockets. This is, perhaps, why I go through such great lengths to detail all of this to you.

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Pasta of the Month

Dead Men Tell No Tales

by Girik Sarkar

Journal of Pvt. Ravi Singh, posted at Kargil, India.

March 5, 1999

The air here is thin. Every breath of air feels like a stab of icy needles to my lungs. I do not know how much longer I can tolerate this. The cold is just too much for me. It’s like a knife edge that never dulls, just bites deeper and deeper until you stop noticing. I think that’s what frightens me most. The idea that one day, I won’t feel it anymore. That one day, I’ll be gone, and I won’t even know it.

We arrived at our post this morning. Just a handful of us in a desolate stretch of the mountains, the kind of place where even the wind sounds lonely. The fog rolls in thick, swallowing everything around us, and the silence stretches for miles. The world beyond it might as well not exist. There is no sky here, no horizon, just an endless pale shroud that muffles everything, even sound. I never thought silence could be so loud. It hums in my ears, but not in a melodic tone, but a somber one. It feels alive.

Our orders are simple - hold this position, report movement, and above all, survive. But something feels awfully off. I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s just the exhaustion from the climb, or the way the mist is grasping everything around us with its cold fingers. The others feel it too, I can tell. No one says it out loud, but we’re all glancing over our shoulders more than usual. We know very well that it is not the enemy, not yet at least. It’s the land itself, there always seems like there is something more to it, behind the curtain of the mist, something strange, something sinister.

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Staff Pick

The Strangest Apocalypse

by Kimberchance

I saw the end of the world, and its harbinger, from the top of a mountain. It’s possible that nobody else had as good a view as I did, but even if I wanted to find out, I can’t. Nobody I’ve asked has corroborated my story. Most just laugh and go along with my excuse that I’m writing a horror book and want to interview random people about the area. A rare two or three have gotten a far-away look in their eyes before shaking their head and refusing to talk about it further.

That look both scares and comforts me. After a few dozen interviews with an equal amount of coffee and beer to help bribe a story from the interviewee, I’m noticing that thousand-yard stare more and more often. A part of me had hoped that I’d gone through the most vivid nightmare ever experienced. That hope gets smaller and smaller the more often I ask someone about the black skies, the red rain, and the yellow eyes.

The last person I interviewed went pale and nauseous after I asked if she remembered anything about that week. Before I could make sure she was okay, she ran off into a nearby park sobbing and telling me to stay the hell away from her. It might have been creepy behavior, especially for a girl that had just been interviewing her, but I sat at the coffee shop for hours until I saw her come out of the park and drive away in her car. Her makeup had smeared all over her face, her jeans and jacket covered in dirt and grass stains.

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Writers' Showcase

These pages were recently posted to our Writers' Showcase, where users can post their stories in need of attention. Please consider reading through them and leaving some feedback.

[[<Please Let Me Stay>]]
by [[User:<kimberchance (Chance Kimber)>|<kimberchance (Chance Kimber)>]]

The Crow of Cock

by RainMakerWindWaker

A shy and downtrodden man's life is changed forever when he finds a rubber chicken mask laying on the sidewalk.

I Love the Rain

by Banned In CP

Do you love the rain? I do.

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Featured Subgenre

The Animals category is for stories involving all manner of fauna. From bloodthirsty beasts to creepy-crawlies, there's sure to be a creature here that gets under your skin (perhaps literally).

There are 550 stories in this category, some of which may make you do a double take on good old Fido...

Browse By Subgenre

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Thanks for the staff pick!

Some musings on my recent works and projects.

Having a hell of a time with my writer's showcase submission

2025 Holders Revival Writing Contest