Latest Stories

Most recently published stories in Fiction.

What’s behind the door?
There was a strange, mysterious door that was here from the house that nobody knows of what’s behind it. Apparently, some of the neighbors had spread rumors about it or it was just a spooky tale.
By Meghan LeVaughn 5 minutes ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
"Let go!" Curtis screamed, though the sound that left his throat was a distorted, electronic screech. He could see the Enforcer advancing through the haze, its movements fluid and devoid of doubt. It didn't hate him; it didn't even see him as a person. To the machine, Curtis was simply a misplaced piece of equipment, a tool that had fallen behind a workbench and needed to be retrieved. The Enforcer reached out a ceramic hand to grasp his shoulder, and in that moment of proximity, the tether's signal peaked, attempting to force a hard reboot of his consciousness.
By Forest Greenabout an hour ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
"Don't celebrate yet," Soren cautioned, though he was limping toward Curtis with a look of fierce pride. "The signal didn't just break; it rebounded. We’ve effectively shouted our location to every satellite in the quadrant. This was a skirmish, Curtis. The war is just starting."
By Forest Greenabout an hour ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
"Positions!" Maren’s voice rang out, cutting through the rising panic of the colony. Her copper arm whirred violently as she signaled the others toward the lower vaults. "Get the children into the salt-caves! Now!"
By Forest Greenabout an hour ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
Soren didn’t flinch, but his hand tightened on Curtis’s arm, a silent command to remain an extension of the stone. The machine began to scrape at the narrow opening, its talons screeching against the salt-crust, carving deep, jagged grooves into the wall. It wasn't seeing him, but it was feeling the displacement of air, the heat signature that the grounding plate had dampened but not entirely extinguished. The Stalker let out a low-frequency chuff, a burst of compressed air meant to clear the dust and expose the hidden prey.
By Forest Greenabout an hour ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
As they climbed a steep incline of basalt, the narrow confines of the tunnel gave way to a wide, open plateau. Below them lay the heart of Anchorage. It wasn't the city Curtis had imagined, but a cluster of dwellings woven into the very anatomy of the gorge. Homes were carved into the magnetite spires, connected by swaying rope bridges made of cured hide and rusted cable. Gardens of pale, light-drinking ferns clung to the undersides of cliffs, and small fires flickered in the depths of the canyon, sending thin ribbons of peat smoke drifting upward toward the purple sky.
By Forest Greenabout an hour ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
"Sector seven-dash-four remains inconclusive," the voice announced, its tone as flat as a dead line. "Signal degradation exceeds operational parameters. Requesting permission to deploy atmospheric scrubbers."
By Forest Greenabout an hour ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
Curtis looked around the hall at the sleeping forms of the others. They looked so fragile in the soft light, a collection of scarred skin and clicking gears. The thought of a recovery team descending on this precarious sanctuary sent a cold spike of dread through him. He thought of the Stalker—the blind, scent-driven horror—and realized that the machine had been a mere curiosity compared to what a full-scale extraction team would look like.
By Forest Greenabout an hour ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
Curtis awoke to the sound of metal scraping against stone. The emerald glow of the fungi had dimmed, replaced by a bruised, purple twilight that filtered down from the distant rift. Soren was standing by the iron table, packing the phonograph and the wax cylinders into a heavy wooden crate with a tenderness that bordered on the religious. The oil lamp was low, casting long, flickering shadows that made the salt pillars look like frozen sentinels guarding their retreat.
By Forest Greenabout an hour ago in Fiction
Adam & Eve Origin Drabble
An Englishman, a Frenchman, and a Russian stand in a museum looking at a painting of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. The Englishman looks at the pair and says, "Look at their sadness and restraint. They must be British."
By Lana V Lynxabout an hour ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
"The porridge is burnt, but the company is honest," the woman with the copper arm announced, gesturing toward a steaming bowl. She introduced herself as Maren, the de facto quartermaster of Anchorage. Her prosthetic arm whirred with a series of miniature clicks as she ladled the grey, nutty grain into a bowl for Curtis. As he took it, their fingers brushed, and Curtis felt a faint, pulse—not a digital signal, but a mechanical heartbeat, a clockwork governor keeping her limb in sync with her organic shoulder.
By Forest Greenabout an hour ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
"He sounds... tired," Curtis said, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. "He was a man who spent forty years fighting a war against an enemy that didn't believe he existed," Soren replied, leaning against the salt pillar. "Fatigue is the natural state of the dissident. But listen to the way he speaks of the 'continuation.' He didn't want you to be a perfect replica, Curtis. He wanted you to be the part of him that finally got away."
By Forest Greenabout an hour ago in Fiction