Inkognito

The apartment wore its darkness like a bruise, the under-cabinet lights bleeding a low amber across the kitchen counter like honey poured over rot and called sweet. Jake eased the door shut behind him, the click of the lock landing like a confession he wasn’t ready to make. “Late night,” came a voice, slicing through the dark. Jake turned toward the kitchen table where Clay sat, his silhouette framed by city lights that bled through the blinds. His T-shirt was worn thin and his sw

Jake Henderson has a husband. And a habit of ending up in Haven Cooper’s bed. Haven’s rich, reckless, and beautiful in the way bad decisions usually are. He makes guilt feel like seduction, and walking away feel like losing. Jake tells himself it’s just an affair. But lines blur quickly when ego and obsession start to look like love, and control starts to feel like safety. In a city full of glass towers and dark corners, the real danger isn’t in being watched. It’s what happens when no one’s watching.

The skyline poured fractured neon through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite, painting Haven’s bedroom like a crime scene curated by Vogue. The air was thick with overpriced cologne, something amber and smug. The sheets were black silk, smooth and cold, clinging to Jake’s skin like a secret he wasn’t ready to admit. Haven’s hands moved up his thighs, firm, hungry, and sure of the answer before the question was even asked. A bassline thumped somewhere in the walls,

I took on prompt #311. Read at your own risk:

Once upon a time, many years ago— Oops. Wrong story. My bad. Let’s try again: You ever get so overwhelmed you consider faking your own death just to get out of brunch plans? Cool, same. Hi. My name’s [REDACTED FOR LEGAL REASONS], I’m thirty-two (in three more days), emotionally exhausted, and I limp like a haunted pirate because I fell down my own stairs and tore my LCL like a coupon at checkout, earning myself a permanent injury. I am in shape though. Rol

I wrote this in response to PT Prompt #311: "Write about how you handle negative situations." CONTENT WARNING: This response contains references to domestic abuse. Yes, this is personal. It's also, quite literally, the least gay thing I've posted on GA. Reader discretion advised, because I had absolutely none to begin with.

🚨 Emergency! 🚨 All anthology stories are missing, presumed devoured. Detective Inkognito Cheeto reporting for duty. I arrived on the scene ready to sink my teeth into some monstrous prose… only to find every link dead, every story vanished. No blood. No traces. I suspect a server-dwelling story-snarfing chupacabra with a taste for suspense and a vendetta against hyperlinks is on the loose. I’ve seen it before. Smells like plot holes and printer ink. Possibly invisible. Possibly illiterate. Either way, every link says “We could not locate the item,” which is exactly what I'd say if I was hiding the evidence after a literary feeding frenzy. Someone grab a flashlight, a priest, and maybe a very large net. We’ve got a creature feature mystery on our hands.

Can't wait to pull “Enemies-to-Lovers-to-Divorcees but They're Both Competing Mall Santas.”

So, if I show up to interview a ghost and get ghosted instead, would that be considered... paranormal neglectivity? Not that I care or anything. They’re dead to me either way.

No, this was about his 20-year addiction to alcohol after losing his husband in the accident. The ending is him finally putting the bottle down and choosing sobriety.

Challenge accepted. Judge away.

Guest Prompt #2 by Valkyrie: Write a short story (at least 500 words) in first person without using the pronoun “I”. After a devastating loss, the protagonist finds solace in the intoxicating presence of another.

He was with me every night. Warm in my hands. Cool on my lips. His gentle words whispered in my ear. The ritual began the same way each evening, reaching for his comforting presence after another day of pretending everything was fine. He built me up in ways my own thoughts could never build myself. While the mirror reflected a failure, he assured me that success was just around the corner. The apartment grew smaller over the years, but his presence filled every inch. Friends stopp

Absolutely! 😄

Just posted Stupid in Love, my very loose interpretation of PT Prompt #301.

Marcus walked into the bathroom and immediately questioned every life choice that had brought him to this moment. There stood his boyfriend, Tyler, wielding the vacuum cleaner hose while aggressively suctioning his wet hair. “Tyler,” Marcus yelled over the deafening roar, “what in the name of basic evolutionary progress are you doing?” A look of pure happiness radiated from Tyler as he spun around, his hair now resembling a tumbleweed that had been electrocuted mid-spin cycle. “In

This story is my very loose take on PT Prompt #301: Choose a sense and then describe something related to that sense to someone lacking that sense.

Confession #003: The Serial Starter Murders I regret to inform you that I am once again the primary suspect in a heinous literary crime. The charge: First-degree Premeditated Plot Multiplication. The victim: My free time, my dignity, and the concept of narrative closure. The murder weapon: Whatever keyboard was closest when the intrusive thoughts won. There once was a time long ago, in other online writing communities, when I was a lean, mean, flash-fiction machine. A narrative minimalist. A short story ninja. In, out, emotional damage delivered, no strings attached. Then I joined GA. Now, I’ve contracted a rare and debilitating affliction known only as Chronic Multi-Chapter Delusion Disorder. Symptoms include: Hallucinations of literary productivity. Delusions of grandeur regarding my attention span. Chronic inability to not keep adding to my ongoing projects before I finish one. Pathological optimism that this time will be different. At last count, I have five active writing projects. So naturally, like the completely mature, reasonable, and responsible adult I 100% absolutely am not: I started a sixth. To my long-suffering readers: I promise no stories are being permanently orphaned. They’re just in narrative witness protection, living under assumed plotlines. I will finish everything. Pinky promise. Cross my heart and hope to... well, not die before I finish at least one of these stories. The timeline? Soon. Maybe. Possibly. In this lifetime. … Probably this decade… Look, time is a construct, okay? In the meantime, I invite you to enjoy this buffet of half-baked brilliance. — Detective Inkognito Cheeto Emotionally caffeinated. Artistically overwhelmed. Legally inadvisable.

Sending you good borks and good vibes.

Sam, a biology major, is about to discover a whole new meaning to the simple bear necessities of life.

Sam wasn't what you'd call a "people person." He once apologized to a vending machine for taking too long to choose between Doritos and Cheetos, then bought both out of guilt. Social grace? Never heard of her. Social grizzly? Now we're talking. So when he spotted the flyer, "Bear Lovers Meeting – All Welcome!" stuck to the campus bulletin board between ads for roommates and kidney sales, Sam felt something he hadn't experienced since discovering David Attenborough had a YouTu

I love the idea of trying a collab, though I’ll admit the current prompts aren’t quite sparking anything for me at the moment. That said, I did come up with an alternative idea that might be fun, so I figured I’d share in case it sparks anything for someone else. My Clue-Style-Among-Us-Collab-Mystery Idea (Scooby-Doo Edition): Each writer creates a seemingly innocent character involved in a crime investigation (detective, nosy neighbor, podcaster, Uber driver, Bigfoot investigator, etc.). One writer is secretly the perpetrator. They are the only one who knows. Neither the other writers nor the readers have any idea. Who it is gets decided randomly (raffle/randomizer/etc.). The guilty writer has to subtly weave in clues while still making their character look totally helpful, friendly, and not at all like they have bodies in the attic. Why it could be fun: Readers and writers get to play detective. Tons of room for discussion, theorizing, rereads, and dramatic gasps. Works with 3+ writers, with everyone taking turns writing chapters. Challenges writers to be truthful without being obvious. It’s a great exercise in character development and narrative sleight of hand. Bonus rules: No outright lies to the reader. You’re a murderer, not a monster. Characters cannot be named things like “Suspicious Steve,” “Murdery McGee,” or “Definitely Didn’t Do It Dan.” If you write the killer, you're legally required to act surprised in the comments when the reveal happens. Bonus points if you toss in a dramatic “Ruh-roh!” So… wanna play a game?