short story

Oh how I miss you. I miss the you that rode in my passenger seat all of fall last year. I miss being cuddled under blankets and talking while Harry Potter was playing in the background. I still come to your house everyday, but now it’s to watch your brothers. Your door stays shut. It’s a sting that doesn’t stop burning.


People who are all alone have every right to be friends with one another.
—  Shirley Jackson, Just an Ordinary Day: The Uncollected Stories
The Girl With The Candle In Her Heart

Ok, so it’s rare I make myself cry with one of my own #microfiction, but damn this turned out well…

There once was a girl with a candle in her heart.

And every day, when she got up, she would see the world was dark and cold and strike a piece of steel against her flinty chest (for she always kept her tinder box nearby). And her heart would splutter into bright, warm light, which lit up her little corner of the darkness.

In the course of her day, the candle would usually flutter and fade as she was jostled by the various people that filled the city in which she lived. Because it was a very busy city and it was very easy to start to see those around you as obstacles instead of people. So not many noticed the light of her little candle and they would bump her and still some of the wax from her chest onto the ground.

Other times, a great dark tide would descend on the city. Many were able to ignore it, for they were very busy people and could only deal with so much in a day, and they would row through its murky waters on rafts made out of “not my problems” and “oh that is very far aways” and “isn’t that terribles”. Sometimes, the girl was able to do this too. But other times, the shadowy waves would buffet her harshly and she would fall to the ground, weeping hot, tallow tears. On those days, you could tell where the girl had been by following the trail of dried wax.

But most often, the girl’s candle ran low because whenever she saw someone whose own chest had gone dark, she would press her’s to their’s and let the flame of her candle catch on the wick of their heart.

Sometimes these were people who had been jostled too many times. Others were those who, if they did not find their way, were at risk of being pulled beneath the inky depths. Sometimes their hearts had gone dark for no reason at all.

But whatever the cause, the girl gave them a little bit of her flame. Even though the act of doing so caused more wax to spill and sometimes made her world seem a very dark place indeed.

One day, when the girl’s own candle had dripped down to its stub, she realised she did not even have enough light to see outside her own house. So she spent the day inside, trying to scrape together enough tallow to bolster her meager flame.

Then there was a knock at the door.

Standing outside, were the people whose candles the girl had re-lit.

There were a great many of them.

“We just wanted to thank you.” They said together, smiling little embarrassed smiles. “For you have made us so warm and happy over the years.”

The girl felt an inferno flickering to life in her chest.

“So we got you this…”

From behind the crowd, walked a strange misshapen figure. It was made entirely of candle wax and a long, thick wick ran all the way through its body. Where it should have had a head, it instead had a candle flame that burned ever so bright. It was very handsome in its way.

“You see, every time you gave a little bit of your fire to us, we each fell a little bit in love with you. And, seeing as you were so dear to us, we scooped up the wax that you spilt giving it to us and we clung to it like it was treasure.”

They smiled at each other, all bathed in the glow of the girl and the golem made of wax.

“And then, when the time came that we had warmth to spare, we gathered up all the pieces of you that we had, as well as all those we could find that life and other people knocked from you, and we put them all together. And then we kissed the air until our lips struck sparks in the wind and that wind lit the wick. And then the candle came to life.”

The construction they had made took several more shy steps forwards, until it took a place next to the girl and, between the two of them, it was luck every inch of her skin were glowing. It took her hand and both their hands were warm.

“This is the light that you put out into the world.”

The golem’s flame flared for a second, as if it were smiling.

“And now it is coming back to you.”

Vampire in Space. I made a little story for him few months back:

The new pilot of the second engine was a rather peculiar guy. He was a pale, tall man with a hair dark like the space surrounding the ship. He didn’t speak much during the working hours and always left right after his shift was over. No-one knew where his resting capsule was, but people from the eastern wing swore they had spotted him walking through the most remote halls of the third level barracks - Slowly and silently, like a corpse looking for his way to the afterlife. 

But the most eerie thing of the quiet man was that he never had lunch with the other staff. When it was time to eat, he sat quietly at his workstation and fed himself with a small package full of dark, greasy liquid. In no time everyone in his shift were convinced it could be nothing else but blood.

The whole second sector was buzzing with the rumors of this new mysterious man. In only 3 weeks most of the people had already forgotten his real name - knowing him only by “the Vampire of the Eastern Wing”. 

The Nightblossom Contract - A Lady of Khaneya Short Story
  • Word Count: 741
  • Genre: Fantasy, Romance
  • SUMMARY: The contract Einar-Emen must sign with Lady Jakazi before he can make his debut and take his place among the concubines of Kinshasa.

Nightblossom Tent Rules and Contract

The following contract is between _Einar Klingenfyr_ (name of concubine), also known as _Emen_ (stage name/alias/slave moniker) and _The Noble House of Jakazi / The Nightblossom Tent_ (employer).

Keep reading
North American Myths and Legends | Jakob on Patreon
Patrons only!

Hey!! Got a new patrons-only post up on patreon! This one is the draft (probably final?) form for a short story I originally started putting together for an anthology. I didn’t get in (i’m bad at pitching) but I just finished the story today! Gotta illustrate it still, but if you wanna read it early: here it is!


<<Sio, please>>, Ogebi said pushing her hands up. <<She’s for all intents and purposes my child. That’s all you need to know right now>>.

Siobhan shook her head vehemently, wagging her finger at her. <<You owe me the truth, Bee, and all of it. You really want me to believe in the three months you were gone you had a child?>>, she insisted.

Ogebi took a deep breath, trying to hold back the tears. <<Let’s just go home, please. That’s all I’m asking. I missed you, I have many things to tell you. Just not here>>, she pleaded.


At last! As promised! Sorry about the long wait, last week I got a bit sick. And at least one of those illnesses convinced me I was a writer instead of a YouTuber for a bit. WHOOPS. But, I’m almost done writing that story, and you’ll see it after this Halloween stuff and the first chapter of my new long series. I will give you its super pretentious title: Handplates: Into the Light.

These next few videos will be the ones that got requested to me for Halloween! This one was requested by @lachatsar, and it’s the Tell Tale Heart, by Edgar Allen Poe! Man this was a blast to read. My neighbors upstairs must think I’m crazy, surely. But I assure you it is just acuteness of the senses.

Enjoy! See you soon with more creepy stories!

Download as an MP3 here:

Illustration by Thoka Maer

The old man — turns out he had seven grandchildren, had been married over 40 years — he was waiting in the parking lot at Drippy’s after Diane’s shift ended one Saturday. It wasn’t even nighttime; Diane had the day shift that ended at 4 o’clock. It was broad daylight. For some reason Diane went over to his window, maybe because he called to her — did she recognize him? She was just too nice. Too trusting, like Dawn said. The man reached out — maybe Diane thought, Is he going to touch my hair, or something? Aww, do I remind him of his wife when they were young? — and slashed her face to ribbons. It was a pocketknife; somehow Diane had ahold of it, tight in her fist, when the cops and everyone showed up, and who knew a pocketknife could do something like that? Somebody took pictures that the newspaper ran, and then later when that national magazine did the story, there were the pictures again. Rivers and rivers of blood, her red-and-white gingham apron soaked through. A thick scarlet X over her face. Her blinded left eye.

Read the rest of Lindsay Hunter’s short story about being almost famous here

Maybe falling in love again won’t fix your heart, darling,” he said, cupping her cheek, slowly moving his thumb across her soft skin in circles, “maybe you need to fall in love with the little things first. Fall in love with moments and seconds and seasons, with objects and sunsets and rain and the moon. Fall in love with fictional characters and the smell of a new book, fall in love with coming home after a long day and pouring yourself a hot cup of coffee. Fall in love with yourself, your freckles, your waist, your smile, that dimple on your cheek. And whenever you’re ready, fall in love with me.
—  excerpt
I miss her man, I miss her so much. But how the hell do I tell her that?”, my friend asked me once. It might have been the stupidest question I had ever heard because the answer was so obvious. “You do not tell her, you show her. Show her that you care and show her that her presence makes your day better.
—  It is so easy to say things but taking actions is the hardest part. // ck.writes
What are you scared of?” He said it with a mischievous grin, with dark eyes twinkling in the dim light, with a playful shove against her shoulder. She twisted out of his grip. Didn’t he know that the five words sent her heart flying, her pulse skittering, her hands shaking? “Of letting you get too close” she wanted to say, “of you seeing the parts of me I desperately want to hide”, “of you finally realising I’m not what you wanted”, “of getting attached and losing everything.”
Her mouth clamped shut and she forced the words down, nearly choking on them, splitting her skin open on their sharp edges.
“Of being forgotten,” she finally whispered and his face darkened, “I don’t want to be one of the girls you kiss and forget about.”
She watched him struggle for excuses, desperately trying to reach for something that would soothe her churning thoughts, the storm of doubts she was caught up in.
“You’re not like the others.” Only a snort made it past her lips at his answer. She knew she wasn’t like the others, there was no need for him to tell her. She was scared, positively terrified, and now that he knew how much of a mess she was, it was so easy to see him looking for a way out.
“You want to know if I’m scared,” she said, not bothering to wait for a reply this time, “and I am. Yes, I am. So scared of being used and hurt only to be left behind. So scared of getting my hopes up only to have them crushed. But most of all I’m scared of being forgotten.” He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Closed it. When it became clear that he was frantically searching for something, anything, to say, she spoke again, quieter, calmer.
“But I wanted to give it a shot this time. I wanted to prove that even a person like you could love me. But now I know you’ll run as soon as you see me break. And yes, I’m scared. Of never finding someone who can show me that I don’t have to be.
—  write about “fear” // Fear of being forgotten, ignored, or replaced