Love
The Clockwork Orchard
The city of Oakhaven was a marvel of Victorian engineering and absolute, stifling order. Here, the sky was permanently bruised by the soot of the Great Furnace, and every citizen lived by the relentless rhythm of the Chronos Tower. In Oakhaven, time was not just a measurement; it was a currency, a religion, and a cage.
By Alpha Cortex7 months ago in Fiction
INTERVIEW WITH A HOOKER (3)
“Honey, I wasn’t thinking of ending our conversation; I’m really enjoying it. However, every time I make the slightest move, the bartender has to pick his tongue up off the counter and I can just imagine, from the expressions on the men’s faces behind me that I see in the mirror, what’s going through their little minds. I like you; you’re somewhat like Cool Hands—not your looks—the way you come across—I feel I can trust you. Since the night is still young, if you don’t mind, I thought we could go someplace more private.
By Len Sherman7 months ago in Fiction
THE MAN WHO COULD WORK MIRACLES
George McWhirter Fotheringay was not the kind of man anyone would expect to possess miraculous powers. He was small, with bright red hair, freckles, sharp brown eyes, and a habit of twisting the ends of his moustache when arguing. He worked as a clerk at Gomshott’s and enjoyed proving people wrong. Until the age of thirty, he did not believe in miracles at all. In fact, he strongly argued that miracles were impossible. His strange discovery happened one evening while he was debating the subject in the bar of the Long Dragon.
By Amelia Miller7 months ago in Fiction
Did The Tarot Cards Predict Love?
Did The Tarot Cards Predict Love? In a quiet village, where the moonlight draped softly over cobblestone paths, there lived a woman named Clara. She found peace in a small garden, surrounded by fragrant blooms, a sanctuary where she could listen to the whispers of her heart.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 7 months ago in Fiction
Raindrops and Stolen Glances
The city smelled of wet asphalt and blooming jasmine. Raindrops tapped rhythmically against the café window where Mr. Goggles sat, scribbling in his notebook. He had been coming here for weeks, drawn by the aroma of strong coffee and the soft hum of jazz, but today was different. Today, she walked in.
By Imran Pisani7 months ago in Fiction
INTERVIEW WITH A HOOKER
My name is Glen Kingston. I write articles for a magazine, which is actually a smutty rag. Paydays are usually pretty thin; not even enough coins to wear a hole in my pants pocket. I’m not proud of it but I have to somehow earn a living while writing the great Canadian novel—catchy title—might even use it. Continually coming up with good ideas for articles can get a touch difficult and when I get a brain freeze like I’ve been having lately, even sticking my head in a hot oven won’t thaw it out. So, what I occasionally do to get the grey cells working again is take myself out to meet some real live flesh and blood people, like this high-class, top of the line, if you have to ask how much she costs; then you can’t afford to hire this particular prostitute: Talulah Tight-Thighs.
By Len Sherman7 months ago in Fiction
The Shifting Current
There’s a particular kind of ghost that haunts us, not of the dead, but of the almost-was. The following story tries to sit with that feeling, not of loss, but of the nebulous space just before it’s clear what’s even being lost. It’s about the edge of a choice, a turning point that might never fully turn, and the quiet, almost imperceptible vibrations of a connection that simply… wasn't ready. The voicemail was a ripple, not a wave. It had arrived three days ago, a quiet disturbance in the otherwise still waters of Liam’s routine. "Hey Liam, it's Maya. Hope you're doing well. Listen, I'm going to be in town next week, just for a couple of days, passing through. Thought... well, thought maybe it would be nice to catch up, if you're around. No pressure, of course. Just a thought. Anyway, talk soon, maybe." The 'maybe' hung in the air long after the message ended, an ethereal smoke ring dissipating slowly in the space between his ear and the phone’s speaker. It wasn’t an invitation, not truly. It was a suggestion, a hesitant half-step on the edge of a precipice, daring him to take the next. Liam hadn't replied. Not yet. He found himself, each morning, staring at the contact entry for Maya. Her name, a perfectly symmetrical pattern of letters, seemed to waver slightly under his gaze, as if the pixels themselves were undecided. He’d scroll past it, then back to it, his thumb hovering over the call icon, the message icon, like a diver contemplating a leap into an unknown depth. The water looked inviting enough, but what lay beneath the surface was a question he wasn’t sure he wanted answered, or, more accurately, wasn’t sure he was ready to ask. Their last conversation had been just as ambiguous, six years ago. A late-night phone call, full of shared laughter and comfortable silences, punctuated by a tentative "What if?" that had drifted unanswered into the static of the connection. They were young then, on the cusp of different cities, different lives. He was poised to take an internship in Seattle, she was heading to New York for graduate school. The logistics were impossible, they’d both agreed, a silent, unspoken concession that felt more like a surrender. But even then, there was a lingering quality, a sense that the door wasn't quite closed, just ajar, letting a sliver of light—or maybe doubt—into the darkened room of their parting. Liam ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, the familiar texture a small anchor in the rising tide of his indecision. He was supposed to be preparing for a client presentation, a crucial pitch that demanded his full attention. Instead, his mind kept replaying Maya’s voice, the slight upward lilt at the end of her sentences that had always hinted at an unspoken question, a yearning for something more. It was the same lilt that had drawn him in all those years ago, a whisper of a possibility that had never quite materialized into a roar. He walked to the window, staring down at the city street. The usual morning ballet of hurried commuters and yellow cabs unfolded below, a rhythm he usually found soothing. Today, it felt disjointed, a sequence of individual movements without a cohesive purpose. He felt a similar fragmentation within himself. Part of him yearned to pick up the phone, to bridge the gap, to see what six years had done to the girl who used to finish his sentences. Another part, a quieter, more cautious voice, whispered about the disruption, the upheaval, the unearthing of old feelings that might not be easily re-buried. What would they even talk about? Would the comfortable silences still be there, or would they be filled with polite inquiries about careers and weather, a polite excavation of a connection that had long since fossilized? He imagined the awkward first few minutes, the forced smiles, the careful probing for common ground, like two strangers trying to navigate a shared memory they weren't sure they both held anymore. Or worse, he imagined the spark, the undeniable chemistry that had always existed between them, reigniting only to be extinguished again by the inevitable march of their separate lives. The timing still wasn't right, was it? Or was it just that he was still the same, still hesitant to step fully into the current? His phone buzzed, a text message from his colleague reminding him about the presentation. Liam sighed, the sound catching in his throat like a half-formed word. The external world, with its demands and deadlines, was pressing in, pulling him away from the internal eddy of his thoughts. He knew he had to make a choice about Maya, or rather, about whether to engage with the choice she had tentatively offered. The window of opportunity was narrowing. She would be "in town next week," not next month, not next year. He pulled out his phone again, the screen now dark. He turned it over in his hand, feeling the cool, smooth metal. It wasn't heavy, but it felt weighted with all the unspoken words, the lingering questions, the road not taken. He pictured her in a new city, different from the one they'd known, perhaps with a different haircut, a different laugh. Would he even recognize her fully, or would he only recognize the ghost of the girl he once knew, shimmering at the edges of his memory? He moved back to his desk, the client presentation still waiting. The files were open, demanding his attention, pulling him back to the present, to the concrete, to the undeniable. He stared at the blank email draft he’d started earlier, addressed to Maya, but with no words typed. The cursor blinked steadily, patiently, an insistent pulse in the quiet room. He could write something, anything. "Great to hear from you." "Would love to." "Let me know your schedule."
By The Night Writer 🌙 7 months ago in Fiction
The Last Voice Message
I wasn’t asleep. I never am anymore. Night has become a quiet battlefield for me. Thoughts line up like soldiers, memories attack without warning, and silence feels heavier than noise. So when the screen lit up, I stared at it for a long moment, unsure whether to breathe or panic.
By Salman Writes7 months ago in Fiction
