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Arsenic Day
6Mins Each
7
ISSUES
FORGOTTEN
Updated Nov 10, 2020
G
11
1399
15
Friendship
Romance

Arsenic is the new sensational girl group in Blanco Islands. But Amy the lead singer is not happy. She regrets the choices she made and is desperately wishing for happiness. She just wants her best friend back, her gang back, no competition.

Would she be able to bring back all those happy things forgotten?

Young Adult
Friendship
Romance
Read More
Solo Work
FORGOTTEN

Arsenic is the new sensational girl group in Blanco Islands. But Amy the lead singer is not happy. She regrets the choices she made and is desperately wishing for happiness. She just wants her best friend back, her gang back, no competition.

Would she be able to bring back all those happy things forgotten?

Read More
Solo Work
Alef Magnus
7Mins Each
20
ISSUES
Glory
Updated Jan 20, 2016
PG-13
134
11677
138
Dark
Thriller

On the eve of the release of her sophomore album, soon-to-be pop sensation Glory meets a charismatic male pornstar with sinister knowledge of the people handling her direction.​

Drama
Dark
Thriller
Read More
Solo Work
Glory

On the eve of the release of her sophomore album, soon-to-be pop sensation Glory meets a charismatic male pornstar with sinister knowledge of the people handling her direction.​

Read More
Solo Work
Rosemary Dawson
5Mins Each
3
ISSUES
Misty Mornings
Updated Jan 12, 2018
PG-13
0
1521
2
School
Romance

Megan Low is a normal highschool student, wanting peace and nothing else. But she gets less attention than everyone else because of her average looks. 

From a dull scent of polluted rain to the scent of lavender, flowing in the air with misty mornings. Thats how strong it is to prove them wrong for judging a book by its cover.

"Payback time, motherfuckers," Megan smirked.

Young Adult
School
Romance
Read More
Solo Work
Misty Mornings

Megan Low is a normal highschool student, wanting peace and nothing else. But she gets less attention than everyone else because of her average looks. 

From a dull scent of polluted rain to the scent of lavender, flowing in the air with misty mornings. Thats how strong it is to prove them wrong for judging a book by its cover.

"Payback time, motherfuckers," Megan smirked.

Read More
Solo Work
Brian.C.Sloan
1Min Each
0
ENTRIES
Write Your Own Mean Tweet!
✪ Submission Closed
PG-13
0
306
0
Creator's
Pick

Based on Jimmy Kimmels segment, this contest is to create the funniest mean tweet. Pick a celebrity you dislike the most and write them the meanest tweet you can think of. Now, creativity, wit, and general funniness will be determining factor for the winner. The only limit is to keep it to a short paragraph. Have fun!

Flash
Creator's Pick
Read More
Write Your Own Mean Tweet!

Based on Jimmy Kimmels segment, this contest is to create the funniest mean tweet. Pick a celebrity you dislike the most and write them the meanest tweet you can think of. Now, creativity, wit, and general funniness will be determining factor for the winner. The only limit is to keep it to a short paragraph. Have fun!

Read More
Alexander Temple
11Mins Each
4
ISSUES
Faded Star
Updated Oct 7, 2019
PG-13 Completed
5
780
1
Short Story

What happens when the largest Child star in Hollywood is no longer cute or adorable. Her fans do not want her to grow up and yet she does. Hollywood no longer wants her. She retires before most people start working. We follow the life of Lourdes Aires, who now has to lead a normal life but still is haunted by Hollywood.

Drama
Short Story
Read More
Solo Work
Faded Star

What happens when the largest Child star in Hollywood is no longer cute or adorable. Her fans do not want her to grow up and yet she does. Hollywood no longer wants her. She retires before most people start working. We follow the life of Lourdes Aires, who now has to lead a normal life but still is haunted by Hollywood.

Read More
Solo Work
Arsenic Day
3Mins Each
1
ISSUE
Meet the character Pt. I
Updated Jun 28, 2020
G
3
376
0

Well usually I am the undeniable ruler of the kingdom of Loserville but I am abdicating. The throne is all yours” –Amy

I have decided to post a serialized story on this platform soon. And in a desperate effort to build up the hype and anticipation. Here are eight interesting facts of one of my first original characters.

Blog
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Solo Work
Meet the character Pt. I

Well usually I am the undeniable ruler of the kingdom of Loserville but I am abdicating. The throne is all yours” –Amy

I have decided to post a serialized story on this platform soon. And in a desperate effort to build up the hype and anticipation. Here are eight interesting facts of one of my first original characters.

Read More
Solo Work
Friendsxmg
5Mins Each
3
ISSUES
Until I Met You
Updated Aug 29, 2020
G
2
209
0
Humor
Friendship

16-year-old Hope Carson. A simple girl that just moved in with her new family, is about to start a new school year with her friends. She expected this year to be just like others, except for her stepfamily of course, but when she bumped into the one guy, she always told herself to hate, drama is making their way to Hope's life.

17-year-old Blake Adams started his life like any other human. But when he got discovered on the age of 15, almost everything changed, but one thing that hadn't changed, was the hate he got for Kyle Carson. Blake is a very loving person, but when it comes to Kyle, all that love fades away and turns into nothing but hate.

Are Hope and Blake capable of keeping their relationship a secret from the whole world, and most importantly, Kyle. Or will everything fall apart, and will they be exposed?

Find out in this romance / drama story!

Please read the first chapter. Important!!

Romance
Humor
Friendship
Read More
Solo Work
Until I Met You

16-year-old Hope Carson. A simple girl that just moved in with her new family, is about to start a new school year with her friends. She expected this year to be just like others, except for her stepfamily of course, but when she bumped into the one guy, she always told herself to hate, drama is making their way to Hope's life.

17-year-old Blake Adams started his life like any other human. But when he got discovered on the age of 15, almost everything changed, but one thing that hadn't changed, was the hate he got for Kyle Carson. Blake is a very loving person, but when it comes to Kyle, all that love fades away and turns into nothing but hate.

Are Hope and Blake capable of keeping their relationship a secret from the whole world, and most importantly, Kyle. Or will everything fall apart, and will they be exposed?

Find out in this romance / drama story!

Please read the first chapter. Important!!

Read More
Solo Work
paul robison
3Mins Each
147
ISSUES
BROKEN DOLLS
Updated Mar 30, 2017
R
8
20436
23
Thriller
Crime

Fools, because of their rebellious way,  and because of their iniquities, were afflicted.

Psalm 107: 17

THEY TOLD HER SHE would die here.  This place that she did not know, this dark, dank, rancid dungeon where nobody wished her well and most spoke languages alien to her....this place she would call home for the rest of her life.  That's what they told her.  It was getting harder to disbelieve them.

There were people in there who wanted her dead, some in retribution but most to establish their own notoriety.  It would be a sure path to fame to kill her or one of her friends, known collectively as the Monte Carlo Actress Killers.  That was the moniker that stuck in the international media.  More imaginative than the Gang of Four, the Falling Stars, the Desperate Glamor Gals.  Less chilling, to her at least, than the one that ran on the front page of Le Mondethe day after the verdict: Poupees Cassees.

Broken Dolls.

So she waited.   For a miracle.  For newly discovered evidence.  A confession from the real killer. A sympathetic ear to her appeal.  Or just the morning when she'd wake up and discover this was all a dream.  The last three-hundred-and-ninety-eight mornings, she'd opened her eyes and prayed that she was back in Hollywood, or, better yet, back in Hammersmith, London, England, her birthplace, studying more acting for the entertainment-starved American masses.

And she watched.  She turned every corner widely and slowly. She kept sitting up. She tried to avoid any routine that would make her movements predictable, that would make her vulnerable.  If they were going to get her in here, they were going to have to do it the hard way!

It began as a normal day like any other.  She walked down the narrow corridor of H Wing. When she approached the block letters on the door's glass window----INFIRMERIE---she stopped and made sure her toes lined up with the peeling red tape on the floor that served as a marker, a stop sign before entering.

"Bonjour,"she said to the guard at the station on the other side of the hydraulic door, a woman named Henriette.  No last names.  None of the prison staff was permitted to reveal anything more to the prisoners than their first names, and those were probably false, too.  The point was anonymity outside these walls:  because of it, the inmates, once released, wouldn't be able to hunt down the prison guards who hadn't treated them so nicely.

"Hi, Mischa."  Henriette always greeted Mischa in her best English, which wasn't bad.  Better than Mischa's French. After a loud, echoing buzz, the door released with a hiss.

The prison infirmary was the length and width of an American gymnasium, but it had a lower ceiling, about eight feet high.  It was mostly one open space filled without about two dozen beds.  On one side was a long cage---the "reception" area-----where inmates waited their turn to be treated.  On another side, also closed off and secured, was a room containing medical supplies and pharmaceuticals.  Beyond this room was a high-security area that could hold five patients, reserved for those who had communicable diseases, those in intensive care, and those who posed security risks.

Mischa liked the infirmary because of the strong lighting, which lent some vibrancy to my otherwise dreary confinement.  She liked helping people, too; it reminded her that she was still human, that she still had a purpose.  And she liked it because she didn't have to watch my back in here.

She disliked everything else about it, unfortunately.  The smell, for one thing---a horrible cocktail of body odor and urine and powerful disinfectant that always bowled me over when I first walked in.  And, well, fuck, nobody who comes to the infirmary is having a good day.

She tried to have good days.  She tried very hard.

It was busy when she walked in, the beds at full capacity, the one doctor, two nurses, and four inmates who served as nurse's assistants scurrying from patient to patient, putting figurative Band-Aids on gaping wounds.  There'd been a flu going around, and at JRF, when one person got the flue, the whole cell block got it.  They tried to segregate the sick ones but it was like rearranging chairs in a closet.  There just wasn't much room.  JRF---L'Institution  de Justice et Reforme pour les Femmes----operated at more than 150% capacity.  Cells designed for four held seven, the extra three people sleeping on the floor.  A prison intended for twelve hundred was housing almost two thousand.  They were packing them in like sardines and telling them to cover our mouths when they coughed.

Mischa saw Rihanna at the far end, wrapping a bandage on an Arab woman's foot.  Rhi, like her, was a nurse's assistant.  The warden ordered that they not communicate, so they were assigned to different cell blocks and different shifts in the infirmary.

She felt a catch in her throat, as she did every time she saw her now.  Rhianna had been my closest friend since she relocated (temporarily) to Salzburg to be with her boyfriend.  They'd been living next door to each other for the past five years, sharing each other's secrets.

Well, not alltheir  secrets, it turned out.  But she'd forgiven her.

"Hey." Rhianna whispered in her lovely Caribbean accent.  Her fingers touched Mischa's.  "I heard what happened.  You okay?"

"Living the dream," I said. "You?"

She wasn't in the mood for humor.  Rihanna was a stunning beauty---tall and shapely with large radiant eyes, chiseled cheekbones, and silky, ink-color hair--which made it all the harder to see the wear around those eyes, the stoop in her posture, the subtle deterioration of the spirit that made her the idol of millions. It had been just over a year since the murders, and three months since the conviction.  She was starting to break down, to give in.  They talked in here about the moment when that happened, when you lost all hope.  La Reddition,they called it.  Surrender.  Mischa, herself, hadn't experienced it yet and she hoped she never would.

"Movie night," Rihanna whispered.  "I'll save you a seat.  Love you."

"Love you back.  Get some rest." Their fingertips released.  Her shift was over.

***********

About an hour and a half later, Mischa heard the commotion as the hydraulic door buzzed open.  She had my back turned to the entrance.  She'd been helping a nurse dress a laceration on an inmate's rib cage when one of the other nurses shouted, "Urgence!"

Emergency.  They had a lot of those.  They had a suicide a week in JRF.  Violence and sanitation-related illnesses had been through the roof with the worsening overcrowding.  It was impossible to work a six-hour shift without hearing urgencecalled at least once.

Still, she turned, as guards and a nurse wheeled in an inmate on a gurney.

"Oh, God, no." Mischa dropped the gauze pads she'd been holding. She started running before the realization had fully formed in her head.  The shock of black hair hanging below the gurney.  The look on the face of one of the nurses, who had turned back from the commotion to look at her, to see if it had registered with her who the new patient was.   Everyone knew the four of them as a group, after all.

"Rhi," she whispered.

General
Thriller
Crime
Read More
4 Collaboration Spaces Available
BROKEN DOLLS

Fools, because of their rebellious way,  and because of their iniquities, were afflicted.

Psalm 107: 17

THEY TOLD HER SHE would die here.  This place that she did not know, this dark, dank, rancid dungeon where nobody wished her well and most spoke languages alien to her....this place she would call home for the rest of her life.  That's what they told her.  It was getting harder to disbelieve them.

There were people in there who wanted her dead, some in retribution but most to establish their own notoriety.  It would be a sure path to fame to kill her or one of her friends, known collectively as the Monte Carlo Actress Killers.  That was the moniker that stuck in the international media.  More imaginative than the Gang of Four, the Falling Stars, the Desperate Glamor Gals.  Less chilling, to her at least, than the one that ran on the front page of Le Mondethe day after the verdict: Poupees Cassees.

Broken Dolls.

So she waited.   For a miracle.  For newly discovered evidence.  A confession from the real killer. A sympathetic ear to her appeal.  Or just the morning when she'd wake up and discover this was all a dream.  The last three-hundred-and-ninety-eight mornings, she'd opened her eyes and prayed that she was back in Hollywood, or, better yet, back in Hammersmith, London, England, her birthplace, studying more acting for the entertainment-starved American masses.

And she watched.  She turned every corner widely and slowly. She kept sitting up. She tried to avoid any routine that would make her movements predictable, that would make her vulnerable.  If they were going to get her in here, they were going to have to do it the hard way!

It began as a normal day like any other.  She walked down the narrow corridor of H Wing. When she approached the block letters on the door's glass window----INFIRMERIE---she stopped and made sure her toes lined up with the peeling red tape on the floor that served as a marker, a stop sign before entering.

"Bonjour,"she said to the guard at the station on the other side of the hydraulic door, a woman named Henriette.  No last names.  None of the prison staff was permitted to reveal anything more to the prisoners than their first names, and those were probably false, too.  The point was anonymity outside these walls:  because of it, the inmates, once released, wouldn't be able to hunt down the prison guards who hadn't treated them so nicely.

"Hi, Mischa."  Henriette always greeted Mischa in her best English, which wasn't bad.  Better than Mischa's French. After a loud, echoing buzz, the door released with a hiss.

The prison infirmary was the length and width of an American gymnasium, but it had a lower ceiling, about eight feet high.  It was mostly one open space filled without about two dozen beds.  On one side was a long cage---the "reception" area-----where inmates waited their turn to be treated.  On another side, also closed off and secured, was a room containing medical supplies and pharmaceuticals.  Beyond this room was a high-security area that could hold five patients, reserved for those who had communicable diseases, those in intensive care, and those who posed security risks.

Mischa liked the infirmary because of the strong lighting, which lent some vibrancy to my otherwise dreary confinement.  She liked helping people, too; it reminded her that she was still human, that she still had a purpose.  And she liked it because she didn't have to watch my back in here.

She disliked everything else about it, unfortunately.  The smell, for one thing---a horrible cocktail of body odor and urine and powerful disinfectant that always bowled me over when I first walked in.  And, well, fuck, nobody who comes to the infirmary is having a good day.

She tried to have good days.  She tried very hard.

It was busy when she walked in, the beds at full capacity, the one doctor, two nurses, and four inmates who served as nurse's assistants scurrying from patient to patient, putting figurative Band-Aids on gaping wounds.  There'd been a flu going around, and at JRF, when one person got the flue, the whole cell block got it.  They tried to segregate the sick ones but it was like rearranging chairs in a closet.  There just wasn't much room.  JRF---L'Institution  de Justice et Reforme pour les Femmes----operated at more than 150% capacity.  Cells designed for four held seven, the extra three people sleeping on the floor.  A prison intended for twelve hundred was housing almost two thousand.  They were packing them in like sardines and telling them to cover our mouths when they coughed.

Mischa saw Rihanna at the far end, wrapping a bandage on an Arab woman's foot.  Rhi, like her, was a nurse's assistant.  The warden ordered that they not communicate, so they were assigned to different cell blocks and different shifts in the infirmary.

She felt a catch in her throat, as she did every time she saw her now.  Rhianna had been my closest friend since she relocated (temporarily) to Salzburg to be with her boyfriend.  They'd been living next door to each other for the past five years, sharing each other's secrets.

Well, not alltheir  secrets, it turned out.  But she'd forgiven her.

"Hey." Rhianna whispered in her lovely Caribbean accent.  Her fingers touched Mischa's.  "I heard what happened.  You okay?"

"Living the dream," I said. "You?"

She wasn't in the mood for humor.  Rihanna was a stunning beauty---tall and shapely with large radiant eyes, chiseled cheekbones, and silky, ink-color hair--which made it all the harder to see the wear around those eyes, the stoop in her posture, the subtle deterioration of the spirit that made her the idol of millions. It had been just over a year since the murders, and three months since the conviction.  She was starting to break down, to give in.  They talked in here about the moment when that happened, when you lost all hope.  La Reddition,they called it.  Surrender.  Mischa, herself, hadn't experienced it yet and she hoped she never would.

"Movie night," Rihanna whispered.  "I'll save you a seat.  Love you."

"Love you back.  Get some rest." Their fingertips released.  Her shift was over.

***********

About an hour and a half later, Mischa heard the commotion as the hydraulic door buzzed open.  She had my back turned to the entrance.  She'd been helping a nurse dress a laceration on an inmate's rib cage when one of the other nurses shouted, "Urgence!"

Emergency.  They had a lot of those.  They had a suicide a week in JRF.  Violence and sanitation-related illnesses had been through the roof with the worsening overcrowding.  It was impossible to work a six-hour shift without hearing urgencecalled at least once.

Still, she turned, as guards and a nurse wheeled in an inmate on a gurney.

"Oh, God, no." Mischa dropped the gauze pads she'd been holding. She started running before the realization had fully formed in her head.  The shock of black hair hanging below the gurney.  The look on the face of one of the nurses, who had turned back from the commotion to look at her, to see if it had registered with her who the new patient was.   Everyone knew the four of them as a group, after all.

"Rhi," she whispered.

Read More
4 Collaboration Spaces Available
Victoria Temple
9Mins Each
4
ISSUES
Who's that Girl?
Updated Aug 19, 2020
PG
0
527
1
Short Story

Madonna sold more albums than any other female artist. She had just as many hits as the Beatles or Elvis. She is now 61 and still thinks she has a lot to give. The problem is she is getting old and cannot accept this. The public also thinks Madonna is old and new popstars now dominate the Charts.

This is a fictitious story of Madonna's struggle on getting old and finding her place in the music industry today.

Fanfiction
Short Story
Read More
Solo Work
Who's that Girl?

Madonna sold more albums than any other female artist. She had just as many hits as the Beatles or Elvis. She is now 61 and still thinks she has a lot to give. The problem is she is getting old and cannot accept this. The public also thinks Madonna is old and new popstars now dominate the Charts.

This is a fictitious story of Madonna's struggle on getting old and finding her place in the music industry today.

Read More
Solo Work