Historias de Shortfiction

Every morning, Papanti wakes to smoke, brew coffee, and feed a hungry dragon-calf. Between fog, dreams, and absurd conversations, the line between reality and story grows dangerously thin. ☕ A daily, poetic slice-of-life fantasy - whimsical, warm, and quietly strange. -After finally cobbling together a couple of half-baked, supposedly eco-friendly solutions-still in need of plenty of testing before they could truly earn that label-the group reconvenes at base camp to plan their next decisive "strike."-

திருடப் போன வீட்ல owner beer குடுத்து வரவேற்றா எப்படி இருக்கும்? ஆனா அவரு உண்மையிலேயே யாரு?" ​நடுராத்திரியில சென்னைல இருக்கிற ஒரு இருட்டான வீட்டுக்குள்ள லுங்கி திருடன் நுழையுறான். அங்க ஆரம்பிக்குது ஒரு தரமான சம்பவம். ​ஒரு மயக்க மருந்து ஸ்ப்ரே. ​ஒரு silver bracelet. ​ஒரு முறுக்கு மீசைக்காரர். ​பார்க்கிற எல்லாரும் யாரு, உண்மையிலேயே அந்த வீட்டின் ஓனர் யாரு? ஒரே வீட்டுக்குள்ள மூணு பேரு மாட்டிக்கிட்டா என்ன ஆகும்? ​சிரிப்புக்கும் விறுவிறுப்புக்கும் பஞ்சமில்லாத ஒரு 'dark comedy' thriller கதை!

Thiruda pona veetla owner beer kuduthu varavetta eppadi irukkum? Aana avaru unmaiyilaeye yaaru? Nadurathiriyila Chennai-la irukkira oru iruttana veettukkulla Lungi Thirudan nuzhaiyuran. Anga aarambikkudhu oru tharamana sambavam! Oru mayakka marundhu spray. Oru silver bracelet. Oru murukku meesaikkaarar. Paarkkira ellarum yaaru? Unmaiyilaeye andha veettin owner yaaru? Orae veettukkulla moonu peru maattikkitta enna aagum? Sirippukkum viruviruppukkum panjamilladha oru 'Dark Comedy' Thriller kadhai!

They call him Dead End. To civilians, he is the boogeyman-the Kin-Slayer who murdered his own bloodline, the cursed child whose name is whispered to frighten children into silence. To them, he is the end of every path, the shadow that waits at the edge of rumor. But to warriors, he is Ashborn. The defector who broke his oath to a corrupt clan, the blade that severed tyranny, the scarred survivor who carried the vow that cruelty would rule never again. Haunted by whispers of fear and burdened by reverence he cannot accept, he flees across borders, hiding behind masks and lenses, trying to bury the scars of his past. Yet, destiny is not so easily escaped. When his path collides with old bonds and new truths, he must confront the duality of his legacy: monster or savior, curse or vow. In a world where legends are twisted into nightmares, Dead End: Never Again is the tale of a boy who became both the end of his bloodline and the promise of a future free from its chains. ********************************************************* *Contains graphic violence. Read at your own discretion* *No gore*

WARNING: Cringe/absurdity/general stupidity will ensue. I'm not looking for feedback on these stories, so either comment what you liked if you want to, or don't comment at all, please and thankyou :3 These are stories I write when I'm bored/have a good idea that isn't novel-quality/just want to write something new, but not start a whole project. These will be anywhere between 1K-10K words probably. Different from my creative writing practice, which is aimed at meeting exam criteria and thus more limited. I'm not trying to be 'good' with these, just getting drabbles out of my head and into a format people can read as a somewhat cohesive story.

A quiet, unsettling one-shot about fear, attachment, and the strange comfort found in the wrong place. A story where silence speaks louder than love, and staying feels safer than leaving.

Embark on an amazing journey through science fiction, fantasy, and horror. Discover a grieving couple granted an unfathomable gift from beyond, a vote in the depths of Hell that could end eternal suffering, and a priest-commander in a war-torn future facing the ultimate test of faith. Stand guard over a fragile bloom that holds the essence of all that is good, and there's even a sinister patch of grass with malevolent intentions. With twists, surprises, and amazing adventures waiting within, are you ready to immerse yourself in the unknown?

This is merely a beginning and a respite for my mind Gathering thoughts and publishing hopes. Memories and empathy filling digital pages, dreaming of smiles and shared experiences.

Shall he find the art of mending a broken heart, he realized that wounds would never really heal easily. So he let his heart cry through the bleed of his pen and declare that the war be ended. His vanity of existence chose to delight in serene melancholy and write the epilogue for the last page of his piece, just so one can still breathe. "...Because I want her to live the poetry we cannot write."

"Don't step on the line, you dolt." Armie looked at Terence. He stayed still on the circle that had been drawn on the floor, uncertain of how to proceed.

She's a leftist organizer in Minneapolis. He works for ICE. They know exactly why this is a bad idea - and do it anyway. Loophole is a darkly funny, painfully human story about politics, attraction, and what happens when ideology collides with actual skin and breath. No heroes. No villains. Just two people caught in a moment that isn't supposed to exist. Nothing gets fixed. Nobody gets redeemed. But something real happens - and that might be worse.

He sold no coconuts that day. It was a Wednesday, and Wednesdays were often slow, but to have made no sales was as noteworthy as it was concerning.

"Take a left here." The driver of the rickshaw, unable to understand or unwilling to care, continued straight down the road.

It wasn't long before they arrived at the temple. Graciela, Pedro, and Antonia climbed out of the venerable Beetle and ran to the door. They banged on the door, banged on it with their fists, and Pedro even kicked at it, but the door did not open. It always closed an hour after sunset, regardless of the season. Today was no different.

Try as you might, you couldn't produce enough to feed them. You didn't understand why. They suckled hard, trying to draw every bit of milk from you, but eventually they'd give up and mewl, and you'd know you had failed them again.

"How about a loaf of bread, Calaris?" The enormous bulk slowed down, taking its momentum with care, then stopped. It turned and faced the rectangle-headed robot.

It began with a toothpick. Funnies Caretto picked his teeth after leaving a restaurant on East 54th and chucked the toothpick into the street. Rain carried it down the gutter and into the sewers, and the swirls and eddies of New York waters made the toothpick jam into a crack on the side of the canal. About a third of the toothpick was stuck tight in the minute crevice; that bit of wood wasn't going anywhere.

Dumbo the Flying Elephant was the choice for the afternoon. The six kids gathered around the television set, he popped the tape in, and off went the opening credits. He checked the back of the box-he'd have just about an hour of free time. It was not nearly as long as most movies nowadays, but then again, this was very much a classic.

"Give her what you have. Just do it. Don't think about it." She stood there uneasily and uncertain. There was something in her new friend's tone she didn't like, something too willing, too encouraging.

The water balloon smacked him on the temple. It didn't hold much water, but it was a small and thin one, so it blew up hard and completely doused him.