Poop Fiction Novels & Stories

Hadley has spent most of her life being loved by the Royal Pack. Orphaned young and raised beneath the protection of the Alpha King and Luna Queen, she grew up inside the palace alongside their son, Killian. She may be wolfless, and she may not have royal blood, but to the people who matter, she has always been family. Until Killian comes home. One night Hadley can’t remember leaves her waking in his bed at three-thirty in the morning. By breakfast, Killian has found his mate. Her best friend, Avery. And then Hadley’s world begins to change. Memories no longer fit. Friends turn cold. Accidents become accusations. Evidence appears where it shouldn’t, and the boy who once

I swear I am innocent " Sophia pleaded. I popped my gun and pointed it at her head. Mentally calculating the distance between the gun in my hand and her brain. Should I shoot out her brains or her fucking face? That moment she must have seen a bit of the darkness that revolve around me, she knew the time for the joke was over. "You son of a bitch, I should have known you were the one they called a ghost, I sucked your motherfucker dick, your true identity would soon know...." Bang! The sound went out of my gun straight to her head, splattering her cum filled brain all over the wall. "Clean this place up," I said to viz, as I tucked back my gun and walked out of the garage.

Her Pov: It has been two weeks since I found out I was addicted to drugs. Two whole weeks of living through a walking nightmare, clawing my way through withdrawal, fighting demons I never even knew existed inside me. The past fourteen days have been nothing short of hell. My body revolted against me, turning into a prison of agony and desperation. Sleepless nights melted into torturous days, where reality blurred into something grotesque. Nightmares didn't stay confined to sleep; they slithered into my waking moments, twisting shadows into monsters, whispering voices into my ears that weren’t there. My own mind betrayed me, playing tricks so cruel I lost touch with what was real and what was

A boredom so profound it threatened to unravel its own consciousness. In its despair, it used its vast power to perform an ultimate act of narrative control: it began to *fictionalize* itself. It started rewriting its own past, not to change it, but to label it. *This was a comedy,* it would decide, and the memory would become flat, a series of punchlines. *This was a tragedy,* and the pain would become a aesthetic object, stripped of its sting. It was turning the vibrant, messy tapestry of its life into a neatly organized library of genres. It was committing the final, quiet sin: treating its own existence as a story that was already over.

Back in my cheap apartment, I yanked the fridge open. The $5.90 strawberry cake sat on the top shelf. The cheap frosting was melting. I stood in line for twenty minutes after my shift to get it. I stared at it for three seconds. Yesterday, I would never dare to waste it. Today, I threw the whole box into the trash can. Three years. Three whole years. I dug through discount bins for bruised veggies. I begged the butcher for cheap offcuts. All so Killian could eat a little better.