Love
“The Girl Who Broke Willowford”
It's currently the summer of 1955 my name is James Hale, I live in the small town of Willowford. I work at my local diner, taking the same customers every day, receiving the same meals and life is good. It feels like every week repeats but nobody questions it, that's just how life is in Willowford. There’s a comfort to the routine, a rhythm to the days that never changes. People wave the same way, smile the same way, live the same way. Maybe that’s why I’ve never questioned it — Willowford feels safe, even when it feels strange.
By Christian Sanchez8 months ago in Fiction
The Throne Room
The smoke hung heavy in the air, overtaking the sweet and savory smells that permeated the festival. The wooden poles that held the steel grates over the roaring flames were overturned, and the meats were ravaged by the beasts that hunted with the red-eyed shifter.
By KA Stefana 8 months ago in Fiction
TCoE: Climb
A scoff erupted from above. "You'll never make it," a man's ragged voice sneered. A twelve-year-old boy with messy dark hair and tan skin pulled his brown eyes from the parchment in his shaking hands. The sharp, resentful words cut his heart, leaving it frozen and gradually draining. The skinny lad was a bit taken aback by the stranger's harshness, but he mentally fought hard to brush it off. After a few moments, the bitter man who taunted the boy removed the hood of his cloak to reveal a scarred face. The man had wrinkly, tanned skin and long, dark hair.
By Mel E. Furnish8 months ago in Fiction
The Weight of Forty-Nine
Claire sat at the heavy oak dining table, the same one that had hosted three decades of Sunday roasts and late-night tax returns. The morning sun slanted through the lace curtains, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and the peculiar collection spread before her. She didn't see a game of Solitaire or Bridge; she saw a map of a life shared.
By Sam H Arnold8 months ago in Fiction
The Architecture of a Marriage. AI-Generated.
Year One: The Studio Apartment Four hundred square feet. One room pretending to be four. The bed faces the kitchen because there's nowhere else for it to face. Her books colonize the windowsill. His guitar leans against the radiator, slightly warped from the heat but still in tune. They learn to fight quietly here. The walls are thin, and the neighbors are old. They learn to make up quickly too — there's nowhere to storm off to. The bathroom has no lock. This seems like a design flaw until it isn't. Year Three: The One-Bedroom A door between sleeping and living. Revolutionary. She works from the bedroom now, laptop balanced on a pillow fort. He takes calls in the kitchen, pacing the twelve-foot length of counter space like a caged professor. They install a bookshelf as a room divider. Not for privacy. Just to see if they can build something together without one of them ending up at urgent care. They can. Year Seven: The House Stairs for the first time. A basement. A yard with grass that will eventually need mowing. She claims the upstairs office with the good light. He gets the basement, which he calls "the studio" and she calls "the hole." Both names are accurate. The kitchen is big enough for two people to cook without touching. They touch anyway. There's a guest room now. They spend three months debating paint colors, then leave it white. Her mother visits twice. His brother sleeps on the couch by choice. Year Twelve: The Addition A contractor knocks out the back wall. For six weeks, their house is open to the elements. They sleep at her sister's place and argue about drawer pulls via text message. The new room has no designated purpose. "Flex space," the architect called it. It becomes a library, then a home gym, then a library again. The treadmill goes to Goodwill. She hangs her grandmother's painting above the new fireplace. He doesn't understand it but defends it to guests. Year Fifteen: The Renovation They tear out the kitchen they once thought was perfect. New counters. New cabinets. A different flow. The old layout held memories they wanted to keep and habits they needed to break. She picks the fixtures. He picks the floor. Neither mentions the tile they chose together a decade ago, now stacked in a dumpster in the driveway. Some structures need to be gutted to survive. Year Twenty: The Same House Nothing has changed in three years. This is not stagnation; it's arrival. The walls hold the right pictures. The furniture sits where it belongs. The squeaky stair is a feature, not a flaw — it announces late-night trips to the kitchen, signals insomnia, invites company. She still works in the upstairs office. He still disappears into the basement. They meet in the kitchen, which is big enough for two people to cook without touching. They touch anyway. Year Twenty-Three: The Plans On the drafting table: a single-story design. No stairs. Wider doorways. A bathroom with rails that look like towel bars. They are building what comes next. She traces the floor plan with her finger, mapping the future. He watches, holding a pencil he doesn't need yet. The bedroom faces east. This was her only requirement. "I want to see the sun come up," she said. "For how long?" he asked. "For as long as we get." They say a house is just walls and a roof. But anyone who's lived in one knows better. A house is a decision, repeated. A structure you build, then rebuild, then build again. Not because it's broken. Because you're still becoming the people who'll live there.
By Reich Corp8 months ago in Fiction
The Short Career of a Serial Killer
He was a happy man he really was, Fred had it all. A wonderful wife named Laura and two little girls - Megan and Pam. He was a nine to five man, working at the local cannery. They packed up vegetables and he even got cans to take home. Being a middle size town, the cannery was the center of it all. So each noon the big whistle would blow, announcing that lunchtime had arrived. It happened rather oddly, strangely I might say.
By Rasma Raisters8 months ago in Fiction
