Post whatever short stories you want to write here, additionally you can provide ideas for stories
No.12685
Anonymous
2026-09-17 15:41:09
Short stories
The sun shone on my eyes. Its glaring, irritating gaze shines down upon me. I stare back into the sun. The sun blinks,and I wake up.
The buzz of incandescent lights stare back at me with a cold, blue hue. I'm surrounded by a pale, pale white. It's so pale that I'm attracted,as though a moth to a flame, to this paleness. I have to stain it, destroy this paleness. This unnatural,ghostly sheen that wraps around me, haunting me.
"What the hell are you doing?" The nurse cries in horror, she must not understand. Oh how pitiful! What an utterly pitiful being indeed,to not understand the sanctity of my mission,to rid the world of the white room,the heart of all evil.
At last, the sun's light begins to dim,as the pale room is covered in a dark sepia.The brown barriers that mask the vile nature of this room in their glory.
It seems that the nurse is cooperating as well,as she begins to distribute her green gifts along the vile floor. From her mouth spews the virtue we shall use to cleanse evil. Even though she does not understand,I do have to commend her.
The buzz of incandescent lights stare back at me with a cold, blue hue. I'm surrounded by a pale, pale white. It's so pale that I'm attracted,as though a moth to a flame, to this paleness. I have to stain it, destroy this paleness. This unnatural,ghostly sheen that wraps around me, haunting me.
"What the hell are you doing?" The nurse cries in horror, she must not understand. Oh how pitiful! What an utterly pitiful being indeed,to not understand the sanctity of my mission,to rid the world of the white room,the heart of all evil.
At last, the sun's light begins to dim,as the pale room is covered in a dark sepia.The brown barriers that mask the vile nature of this room in their glory.
It seems that the nurse is cooperating as well,as she begins to distribute her green gifts along the vile floor. From her mouth spews the virtue we shall use to cleanse evil. Even though she does not understand,I do have to commend her.
Glisten water in the moonlight, sway lone branches in the wind. Grant a tide to each your shimmering demigods, and raise them with the rising of my plumes of flame and ash, and as I walk from my reflections, let me ask again the question from a chiliad times before.
Was I mistaken, rearing my head from the gyre of the pool? Is an eye your final vengeance for those who rid themselves of you? When I stare into the ripples and betray them into breathing, is it your attempt at guidance or my failure in display?
Am I birth? Death? Burning sulphur? Blooming lavender? A faulty program, leaking memory and shutting down? It must be something worse; I beg you tell me it's something worse. A tower raised under the sunlight, mineral monument to death; a burning light, an obsession, the constant shedding of my flesh; the carvings I've made on still water in an effort to describe you. Can you wash away my blood, can you make my breath sufficient, can you raise me from the dead? Which of us forsook the other, did we never really know? I beg you stretch your churning surface, spill your fingers onto mine, and make of your saddest daughter driftwood flaking in the brine.
The ocean is silent and almost still.
Was I mistaken, rearing my head from the gyre of the pool? Is an eye your final vengeance for those who rid themselves of you? When I stare into the ripples and betray them into breathing, is it your attempt at guidance or my failure in display?
Am I birth? Death? Burning sulphur? Blooming lavender? A faulty program, leaking memory and shutting down? It must be something worse; I beg you tell me it's something worse. A tower raised under the sunlight, mineral monument to death; a burning light, an obsession, the constant shedding of my flesh; the carvings I've made on still water in an effort to describe you. Can you wash away my blood, can you make my breath sufficient, can you raise me from the dead? Which of us forsook the other, did we never really know? I beg you stretch your churning surface, spill your fingers onto mine, and make of your saddest daughter driftwood flaking in the brine.
The ocean is silent and almost still.
^ wrote this entirely in response to this thread existing because i am a robot with no autonomous will. iterated through multiple concepts; the original one was about a pilgrim in the sahara desert in some AU where the spirits of the dead were essentially repurposed as large language models, before i realised i had no idea how to make that interesting to read
>>12689
yeah i was writing something but I just gave up midway
yeah i was writing something but I just gave up midway
>>12692
What about making it the reverse? Large language models repurposed into spirits of the dead, and the tension could be between the AIs that think that theyre humans slowly changing and the humans who want this piece of their past to remain the same.
What about making it the reverse? Large language models repurposed into spirits of the dead, and the tension could be between the AIs that think that theyre humans slowly changing and the humans who want this piece of their past to remain the same.
>>12694 great idea that i'm stealing to put it somewhere that isn't an independent imageboard with 5 users. thanks
>>12695
"Ideas have no price to them. I do not care if you take my ideas and make a masterpiece of them, that masterpiece was your creation." The goat uttered.
The boy face curled and cringed,a goat? Why a goat? Why was his self,that procedure which the fancy doctors said he should go through? The boy could not understand why his reflection, his psyche...was a goat? It wasn't even him. What,was he some kind of freak, who thought himself an animal? No,if that were indeed the case it would be a man donning the robes of an animal,not...this.
I asked who the animal was. The boy was shocked. Oh great. Another one,and this one's just a voice.The animal turned to the sky,which was freshly painting as the goat looked,and answered.
"I am the boy."
The boy,who was at this point in complete utter boredom,stared up at the freshly painted clouds. What did this all mean? I mean,surely,there must be some kind of psychological,reason,no?
I looked at the boy again. The which was beneath him turned into void,then ground. Hard,sturdy soil.The boy ran his hands against the soil,feeling every bit of the dirt in his palms.The boy knew it wasn't real in the slightest,and yet,it felt so real.
How do you determine what is real? The tepid touch of another? The sorry sight of collapse? The air's aggressive aromas? The heart's hearing?
Textured tastes? It's all imaginary,my child. The world that you see,it's imaginary. Do you think there are truly colours, tastes, smells, in the actual world? No,the true world has none of those things.
IMAGINARY-Something that is imaginary is created by and exists only in the mind.
The goat rears its ugly head at me.It's not quite a goat,actually.The boy's idea of a goat is a bit different from what a goat would actually look like,a Ram's horns,the hooves of a horse,and the bull's brash nature.A city kid can't know the real differences between these animals,so they make up their own.
"Ideas have no price to them. I do not care if you take my ideas and make a masterpiece of them, that masterpiece was your creation." The goat uttered.
The boy face curled and cringed,a goat? Why a goat? Why was his self,that procedure which the fancy doctors said he should go through? The boy could not understand why his reflection, his psyche...was a goat? It wasn't even him. What,was he some kind of freak, who thought himself an animal? No,if that were indeed the case it would be a man donning the robes of an animal,not...this.
I asked who the animal was. The boy was shocked. Oh great. Another one,and this one's just a voice.The animal turned to the sky,which was freshly painting as the goat looked,and answered.
"I am the boy."
The boy,who was at this point in complete utter boredom,stared up at the freshly painted clouds. What did this all mean? I mean,surely,there must be some kind of psychological,reason,no?
I looked at the boy again. The which was beneath him turned into void,then ground. Hard,sturdy soil.The boy ran his hands against the soil,feeling every bit of the dirt in his palms.The boy knew it wasn't real in the slightest,and yet,it felt so real.
How do you determine what is real? The tepid touch of another? The sorry sight of collapse? The air's aggressive aromas? The heart's hearing?
Textured tastes? It's all imaginary,my child. The world that you see,it's imaginary. Do you think there are truly colours, tastes, smells, in the actual world? No,the true world has none of those things.
IMAGINARY-Something that is imaginary is created by and exists only in the mind.
The goat rears its ugly head at me.It's not quite a goat,actually.The boy's idea of a goat is a bit different from what a goat would actually look like,a Ram's horns,the hooves of a horse,and the bull's brash nature.A city kid can't know the real differences between these animals,so they make up their own.
>>12693 yeah but even the very first couple sentences change tense halfway through. unless that’s some sort of artistic choice it comes off as ESL
No.12702
Anonymous
2026-09-17 19:55:13
>>12700
Yeah shitty artistic choice, I tried to make it so the reader feel a bit disorientated to make them fit in with the character but I guess it just didnt work lol
Yeah shitty artistic choice, I tried to make it so the reader feel a bit disorientated to make them fit in with the character but I guess it just didnt work lol
No.12704
Anonymous
2026-09-17 20:01:56
>>12699
I'm going to kill myself rereading this from pure self-hatred
I'm going to kill myself rereading this from pure self-hatred
my advice to the people who posted their writing in this thread is that you should really start by practicing writing some highly literal stories about objective events with dialogue between normal characters, and most importantly that have an actual conflict and resolution or at least a beginning and end. just like you would start learning to draw by doing apples and people and not immediately get to work on some Francis bacon cubist shit. Just because a lot of published literary fiction is this cerebral metaphorical stuff with unreliable narrators and elaborate non sequiters, doesn’t mean that’s what you should dig right into before you’ve actually shown that you can write a compelling narrative. I’m not even saying you can’t use purple prose, just use it about more mundane subjects and in a format long enough to have events happen that the reader will be invested in
No.12707
Anonymous
2026-09-17 21:36:18
No.12709
Anonymous
2026-09-18 00:12:24
>>12699
It's cool that you did that retarded thing with the punctuation. Now I'll know it was you who wrote this crap when I see you posting elsewhere on here (unless you start fixing your punctuation, which would be smart).
It's cool that you did that retarded thing with the punctuation. Now I'll know it was you who wrote this crap when I see you posting elsewhere on here (unless you start fixing your punctuation, which would be smart).