Start a story game with friends

Turn friend-group chaos into a story everyone helps write.

Create a private storytelling game, invite your friends, answer secret prompts, and watch each round reveal the next wild chapter. AI helps quietly in the background so the fun stays centered on your group.

Create a new story with friends View story dashboard

Private promptsEveryone gets a secret angle to play.

Group revealsResponses combine when the round closes.

Ongoing storiesKeep several adventures running at once.

Tonight's round4 friends playing

Secret prompt

Your character finds a note signed by someone who has not joined the story yet.

Mina hides a clue inside the town clock.

Theo blames the wrong ghost on purpose.

Avery opens the door nobody else can see.

Reveal unlocks when everyone has played.

The app stitches the responses into the next chapter, then the next round begins.

How it plays

A party game rhythm for people who love a good bit.

Invite the table

Start a private or public story and bring in the friends who will make it strange.

Answer in secret

Each player gets a prompt designed for their role, then writes without seeing the others.

Read the reveal

When the round closes, everyone gets the new chapter and the next setup.

Latest public stories

Recently updated

The JackfieldsByIan Adkins, Steven Barfman, and Yale DeskinsRound 3Steven’s voice cracked across the furrow as he shouted, “Stop!” He lunged toward Yale, clamping his hands around the overseer’s wooden rod and yanking with all the strength his sore forearms could muster. The rod, still warm from the morning’s labor, resisted his grip, its surface slick with sweat, and Steven’s tug only sent a shudder through Yale’s grasp before the overseer’s hold tightened. Ian, still reeling from the sudden seizure of his harness, threw his head back and let out a raw, ecstatic howl that seemed to echo the pain and fury coiled inside him. Through the roar he noticed Yale’s palm glistening, wet and sticky, though the source of the moisture eluded him in the haze of exertion and adrenaline. Yale’s chest flushed a deeper crimson as the strain of holding Ian’s harness combined with Steven’s abrupt challenge. He released a low, guttural grunt, his grip loosening just enough for Ian to stagger backward, then shifted his weight, planting his feet firmly and pressing the rod harder into the soil as if to anchor himself against the rising defiance. The nearby laborers glanced between the two men, the tension in the air thickening like the dust that clung to their skin. In the brief lull that followed, the question lingered: would Steven’s desperate bid for a lever spark a wider murmur of resistance, or would Yale’s show of dominance crush the fledgling hope before it could take hold?Updated May 14, 2026

The LuchadoresByMichael Pfaff and Steven BarfmanRound 5The referee’s hand hovers over Señor Frijo’s shoulder, the torn edge of the clown mask catching the harsh overhead light. A low, wet rumble escapes Frijo’s still form—a sound that cannot be mistaken for anything but the relentless effects of the laxative‑laced steroids coursing through his gut. The crowd’s murmurs sharpen into a chorus of disgust and concern as the unmistakable stain spreads across the mat near Frijo’s hips. Referee Mendoza, whose suspicion has been growing with each twisted expression and every shift of the makeup, leans in closer. He calls out, “Stop the match! Medical check—now!” His voice cuts through the arena’s tension, and he grabs the frayed edge of the mask, pulling it away despite the son’s desperate struggle to keep it in place. The mask comes free, revealing a sweat‑slicked face underneath the clown paint: the eyes of Bingo Bongo’s son, wide with panic, the makeup smeared and streaked with tears. The referee holds the mask aloft, exposing the deception to the entire crowd. A gasp ripples through the spectators, then erupts into a chorus of shouts pointing at the fraud. Seeing the ruse undone, the son scrambles to his feet, but the referee steps between him and Frijo, raising his hand for a disqualification. “You’ve tampered with the costume, attempted to sabotage your opponent, and endangered a fighter’s health,” Mendoza declares. “Both of you are disqualified. The match is over.” The championship belt, still held aloft, glints one last time before the referee lowers it to the mat, signaling the end of the bout. Frijo, still lying amid the mess of his own making, manages a weak, exhausted grin—his plan to secure payment through feigned defeat has collapsed, but the truth is finally out. As the arena lights dim, the son’s painted grin falls away, revealing the raw desperation beneath. The original Bingo Bongo, nowhere to be seen, remains absent, leaving his son to face the fallout alone. The dirtbike waiting beyond the ropes now seems a distant, uncertain prize, while the scandal of laxative‑swapped steroids and a stolen identity spreads through the crowd like wildfire.Updated May 2, 2026

Cover art for Yale and Steve Explore a Cave

Yale and Steve Explore a CaveBySteven Barfman and Yale DeskinsRound 1Steve pressed forward into the yawning mouth of the cave, the air growing cooler and tinged with a faint mineral scent. Flickering torchlight threw strange shadows across the stalactites, and a low, almost inaudible hum seemed to vibrate from the rock itself. As the passage narrowed, a grotesque sight halted his steps: a slab of rotting meat, slick with dark fluids, lay half‑buried in the damp earth, its putrid odor curling around him like a living thing. He crouched, nostrils flaring, and reached out with a gloved hand to poke at the foul mass. The flesh gave way with a sickening squelch, revealing a glistening interior that pulsed faintly, as if something unseen throbbed beneath the surface. A sudden scuttle echoed from the darkness beyond, and a pair of reflective eyes blinked back at him from the gloom before vanishing into the deeper recesses. Steve jerked his hand back, heart pounding, and whispered to the empty tunnel, "I’m glad we’re out here together, Pooplord—let’s see how far we can get." Though his words hung in the stale air, no answer came; the companion he’d imagined was nowhere to be seen. The realization that he was truly alone settled over him like a weight, sharpening his focus on the mystery that lay ahead. With the rotting meat still steaming faintly in his torchlight, Steve noted a series of shallow scratches etched into the nearby stone—a pattern that resembled a crude map or perhaps a warning. He traced the symbols with his fingertip, feeling the cool rock under his skin, and sensed that whatever lay beyond would test not just his courage, but his very understanding of what dwelled in these caves.Updated Apr 30, 2026

Media Knights AssembleByIan Adkins and Steven BarfmanRound 6Steven stared at the scorched reel, then at the phosphorescent pulse bleeding through the rug. Before anyone could stop him, he tore the brittle strip of footage free, balled it into a crackling wad, and shoved it into his mouth. The old film tasted like vinegar, ash, and melted plastic; each frame snapped against his teeth as if the projector were still trying to play inside his skull. The glow under the rug answered. Pale images flashed across Steven's cheeks and the walls: the same living room years ago, the friends gathered around a floorboard, Ian pocketing a small key while the others swore not to open the time capsule until the right night. By eating the reel, Steven destroyed the only clean evidence, but the footage did not vanish. It lodged in him as a stuttering memory, bright enough for everyone to see in fragments. Ian remained framed in the doorway, headlights cutting around him while the room turned toward his silence. Because he missed the moment, he lost the chance to shape how the secret came out; the others were left with Steven's half-swallowed proof, the glowing metal beneath the rug, and a new reason to demand answers from the keeper of the key.Updated Apr 30, 2026

night trainBySteven BarfmanRound 7Steven stood on the bleached stone, the featureless figures lining the platform frozen in silent invitation. Their uplifted palms offered no revelation; the air felt hollow, as if the platform itself held no answers for the weight he carried. A faint chill brushed his skin, and the low hum of the train seemed to recede into the stone beneath his feet. Ahead, half‑hidden in the mist, a squat ticket booth of the same bone‑white material rose from the plain. Its door was ajar, revealing a dim interior where a small, hunched creature shifted beneath a flickering lantern glow. The creature’s form was indistinct—part wisp, part shadow—but its eyes caught the light like polished obsidian, fixed on Steven as he approached. He stepped closer, the stone chime beneath his boot echoing softly. The creature tilted its head, and a voice, thin as wind through cracked glass, murmured, ‘Tickets are for those who choose to ride, not those who are bound.’ Steven’s hand hovered over the booth’s threshold, the decision to reach inside hanging in the cold air as the train’s engine gave a low, waiting throb behind him.Updated Apr 29, 2026

character test 2BySteve Test 2 and Steven BarfmanRound 9Steef kneels at the lip of the crater pool, the mirror‑black water holding the flickering image of his barefoot boy self laughing beneath a sun‑drenched sky. His voice trembles as he whispers, “Mother? Is that you in the pool? I should climb in and let it swallow me.” He shifts his weight forward, fingertips brushing the cold surface, when the sky above the crater suddenly darkens. Thunder rolls low and angry, lightning forks across the clouds, and a cold wind whips the mist into frantic spirals. The pool shudders, its surface breaking into ripples that spread outward like a pulse. The water erupts in a column of silvery light, revealing a glowing sigil at its center that pulses in time with his heartbeat. A whisper, half‑giggle, half‑sigh, curls from the depths: “Step forward, or be claimed.” As the storm intensifies, the distant train whistle cuts through the gale, and the lantern‑bearing figure steps onto the crater’s rim, holding out a tarnished key that catches the lightning’s flash.Updated Apr 29, 2026

Ooni the Tree PrincessByMolly aka alderheart :3 and Steven BarfmanRound 3Ooni knelt beside the fresh grave, the sapling’s soft voice still echoing in her ears. The morning light filtered through the canopy, casting shifting patterns on the moss as she pressed her palm to the earth, feeling the faint pulse of new life beneath her fingers. Suddenly, a rustle announced the arrival of Steven Barfman, his eyes wide with both curiosity and concern. Without a word, he drew a thin thorn from his satchel, pressed it to his fingertip, and let a few drops of his blood fall onto the tender roots of the sapling. The blood seeped into the soil like dark ink, and the sapling shivered. Its leaves flared a brighter green, and the whisper that had been a grateful sigh deepened into a resonant hum: “I remember the axe, the scent of pine, the weight of a life cut short. In your blood I taste the promise of balance.” The voice seemed to carry the logger’s lingering memory, weaving his regret into the sapling’s awakening. Ooni felt a tremor run through her chest—guilt mingling with a strange, hopeful recognition. Steven lowered his hand, his own breath shallow. “I didn’t mean to… I just wanted to help,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the glowing sapling. Ooni reached out, touching his forearm, and whispered, “Your blood has given it a voice it needed. Perhaps it can guide us to understand what we have done.” Together they stood as the forest seemed to hold its breath, the ancient trees overhead swaying in a slow, solemn rhythm. A low wind stirred, carrying with it a faint, melodic call from the heart of the woods—a summons that felt older than the oaks themselves. The sapling’s leaves trembled, and a new thought took root in Ooni’s mind: to seek the eldest trees, the keepers of the forest’s memory, and learn how life and death intertwine. The path ahead was uncertain, but the promise of redemption pulsed beneath her feet, waiting to be followed.Updated Apr 29, 2026

Truth or DareByMolly aka alderheart :3, Steven Barfman, and That amazing guy named FINN!!! 💪💪💪Round 2Steve’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, eyes darting to the nightlight as if it might betray him. ‘I keep hidden hoping Molly did not notice,’ he muttered, the words half‑lost in the rustle of dozens of tiny paws against his trench‑coat lining. ‘I hope Molly doesn’t ask me for a truth… because I can’t tell her that I devoured her father and hid in his coat as a pack of raccoons.’ A nervous laugh escaped him before he blurted out a dare, his tone shifting from fright to foolish bravado. ‘I dare you to build a UFO and chase after Finn. Please? He’s your own brother and you love him! Also, get me some cat food… raccoons live on cat food.’ Molly’s gaze flicked to the faint, iridescent smear on the rug where the alien had vanished, then back to Steve’s twitching sleeves. She swallowed, the dare hanging in the air like the alien’s lingering refrain. Beneath Steve’s coat, the raccoon colony stirred, their chittering rising into a coordinated pattern that sounded almost like a chorus of tiny squeaks. The scent of ozone lingered, and for a heartbeat the echo of the alien’s song seemed to pulse faintly from the walls, as if waiting for a cue. As Molly’s fingers brushed the edge of her dare card, a soft glow began to emanate from the shimmering trace on the rug, widening just enough to hint at a doorway of light. The raccoons paused, their heads tilting in unison, while Steve’s coat tightened around the hidden lives within, as though bracing for whatever might step through that sudden luminescence.Updated Apr 29, 2026

LittleBySteven Barfman and That amazing guy named FINN!!! 💪💪💪Round 5Steven clenched the amber stone in his small fist, whispering a desperate wish to feel the weight of his adult years again. The stone flared, sending a sudden burst of golden light that traced along the grain of the ancient oak’s roots and illuminated a faint, seam‑like outline in the bark—a hidden latch that had not been visible moments before. Arthur and Leo stared as the stone’s pulse steadied, the light now pointing directly at the newly revealed catch. With renewed purpose, Steven slipped the tiny iron key into the latch, feeling the metal click into place. The oak shuddered, and a narrow slab of wood began to slide aside, revealing a dark, cool passage that smelled of damp earth and old pine. A soft, echoing chuckle drifted from within, half‑lost in the gloom, making the trio freeze—was it Finn’s voice, or merely the wind playing tricks? Before they could decide whether to step inside, the stone’s glow dimmed to a gentle throb, as if urging caution. The passage yawned ahead, inviting them to uncover the truth behind the age‑swap, while the absent presence of Finn’s skateboard, still leaning against the fence where he had left it, reminded them that one of their own was still missing from the mystery.Updated Apr 29, 2026

Time moonBySteven Barfman and That amazing guy named FINN!!! 💪💪💪Round 2The villagers continued their solemn chant as the thirteenth toll faded, their voices rising and falling like a tide of desperation. From the edge of the crowd, Steven Barfman stepped forward, his robes marked with the sigil of the Shadow Maester. He raised his voice above the murmurs and declared, 'The Lord of Time is a false prophet! We serve the true darkness that watches between the ticks!' His words struck the square like a bell, and a ripple of shock and uneasy agreement spread through the assembled townsfolk. Finn, who had just moments before vowed to rally the surviving Heroes of Time and seek the missing fourth, was nowhere to be seen. His absence was palpable; the cuckoo clock overhead seemed to lower its drift, its pendulum swinging with a heavier, more ominous tick that sounded like a warning bell. Without Finn's leadership, the promise to unite the heroes hung unfinished in the air. As the chant waned, the town's faith wavered. Some villagers exchanged wary glances, murmuring agreement with Steven's heresy, while others clutched their amulets tighter, whispering prayers to the Lord of Time for protection. The massive weathered cuckoo clock lingered low over the rooftops, its shadow stretching across the square like a waiting hand. When the thirteenth strike finally faded, a cold wind swept through the streets, carrying the sharp scent of incense and ozone. The temporal fracture above the town seemed to pulse faintly, hinting that unless the missing hero is found or the cult's darkness is answered, the moon's pull may grow stronger and the clock's toll may become irreversible.Updated Apr 28, 2026