Karl Jackson
Bio
My name is Karl Jackson and I am a marketing professional. In my free time, I enjoy spending time doing something creative and fulfilling. I particularly enjoy painting and find it to be a great way to de-stress and express myself.
Stories (334)
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đ˛ Out of the Woods
The night the trees started whispering my name, I knew something had shifted. The forest didnât do that for everyone. Some folks could walk beneath its tangled canopy for a lifetime and hear nothing but wind. Others, like me, got claimed. Gathered up. Folded in. I guess thatâs what happens when you grow up at the edge of a place locals call âthe maze with a pulse.â
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
đ The Echo in the Crowd
Introduction Sometimes the universe throws you a curveball so wild that your brain refuses to file it under anything ordinary. It doesnât matter how grounded you think you are. It doesnât matter how many times youâve told yourself youâre done replaying old memories like a scratched playlist. There are moments that grab you by the collar and say hey, sit down, weâre doing this again.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
The Night of Unbroken Embers
A story about the rituals we inherit, the ones we break, and the ones that quietly reshape us The fire waited for her. It always did. A circle of stones, a stack of cedar, the scent of old smoke clinging to the wind. And Mara standing at the edge of it all, her fists tight in the sleeves of her coat, her breath forming little ghosts in the cold.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
Beside the Sea
A story of memory, loss, and the healing rhythm of the waves The Return The train screeched to a stop, and Eleanor Wren stepped down onto the weathered platform of Windmere Bay, suitcase in hand. The air was salt-heavy, the kind that stuck to your hair and clothes and whispered of old stories.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
Fire on Willow Street
The night the fire started, Daniel Pierce was awake long after the rest of Willow Street had gone to sleep. He wasnât much of a sleeper these daysâtoo many restless thoughts, too many ghosts pacing in his head. He sat by the window of his small apartment above Gradyâs Hardware, watching the rain slide down the glass in crooked lines.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
Beside The Sea
Introduction: The Song of Return Every summer, the same wind drifted across the coast, salted and whispering like a secret too old to be kept. It carried the faint melody of gulls and a memory that refused to fade. For Maren Ellis, that melody was a ghost â a haunting tune sheâd once sung with him, years ago, before the sea took what it wanted.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
The Runner-Up Heart
It started the same way it always didâanother celebration she wasnât the star of. The applause bounced around the auditorium walls, thick and heavy with the kind of excitement that never seemed to have her name on it. Amelia Cross smiled anyway, the same polite, tight-lipped smile sheâd perfected over years of finishing second.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
The Copper Switch â When Lincoln Wasnât on the Penny
For most of us, the penny is so ordinary it hardly draws a second glance. A flicker of copper glinting in a tip jar, jingling in a pocket, lying forgotten on a sidewalk. Yet the story behind this tiny coin isnât ordinary at all. Itâs a time capsule of national identity, artistic debate, and one bold decision that forever changed how Americans see their moneyâand their heroes.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Critique
The Man by the Bridge
The morning it all began was ordinary in that half-hearted, fog-draped way that only a Tuesday could be. The streets still wore last nightâs rain, slick and glimmering under pale sunlight. Cars whispered by. Pigeons strutted like they owned the sidewalks. And somewhere between a yawning coffee shop and the river bridge, Nathan Reevesâ life quietly tilted toward something else entirely.
By Karl Jackson3 months ago in Fiction
