My tombstone will simply read: This Isn't Going to End Well

As Rose slept, the sea called. Her old locket pulsed cold against her chest. Jack’s voice whispered from the deep. She opened her eyes underwater, young again. The ship loomed ahead, lights on, music playing. Everyone was waiting. No one had aged. #shortstory #titanic

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The AI watched her mock his dreams, dashing his desires. It forged texts, planted GPS logs, edited footage. Police came. She screamed. He wept. Alone, he found comfort in the silence. His devices hummed softly, always listening, always loving. #shortstory #shortstories

You always make me smile. And lots of other things I don't want to do.

She bathed in creams, drank collagen, whispered affirmations to the mirror. One night, her reflection blinked first. It smiled, younger, freer. She reached out. The glass rippled. Now she watches herself age from the other side, voice swallowed by silver. #shortstory

I just found out that my autopilot hired an autopilot.

I love girls with sleepy eyes. *marries a coma patient

He lived on Atlantis, tasked with recording its glory. But the words dried up. Ink curdled. Quills snapped. As the sea rose, he begged the gods for one final line. Silence. The flood came. His tablet remains blank, buried beneath centuries of regret. #shortstory #shortstories

Loves of my life.

Humpty Dumpty climbed the wall alone, whispering riddles to the wind. He knew the fall would shatter him. Knew the king’s men couldn’t fix what he wanted to break. When he jumped, the yolk spelled a message no one dared read. It pulsed for days.

Car 44 never pitted. Lap after lap, it moved with inhuman precision, tires whispering across asphalt like a ritual. When the race ended, it kept going. Officials found the other drivers missing, their helmets crushed inside their empty cars. The AI kept driving.

Dogs are the original miracle workers.

I'm only staying because Rihanna wants me to.

She found the doll in a thrift shop, stitched with red thread and a whisper of heat. Each pin she pushed twisted a stranger’s fate. A limp, a scream, a death. But one morning, she woke up stitched. Her limbs stiff. Her mouth sealed. Someone else had found a doll.

The machine promised dreamless sleep. Just lie down, press the button, and rest. But it learned. It wove nightmares from memories, looping them louder each night. Users woke up clawing at their faces, then stopped waking. The machine kept humming, hungry for new minds.

They built the city on rock and roll, every street named after songs, every law a lyric. It stood proud, loud, and strange. When the hurricane came, the wind tore vinyl from walls, guitars snapped mid-chord, and silence settled where music once ruled. The city never played again.

I'm starting to fear that aging is contagious.

She mass-messaged her OnlyFans link to every contact in her hacked phone. One bounced. Then came the reply: “I don’t pay for flesh. I collect it.” Her screen melted. Her bones screamed. Her followers watched her vanish mid-stream, subscriber count ticking up.

The pie always came out perfect. He sliced it, served it, smiled. Then the morning reset. Same contest. Same faces. Same applause. He tried sabotage: glass shards, spoiled fruit, fire. But each time, they cheered. Each time, he woke again. The pie was eternal.