Microfiction
The Whooping Crane
Camille had grown up in the south, both feet sinking deep into the swamp’s soils, beneath curtains of cypress moss. Her dreams always felt sticky, as if the humidity could penetrate the veil of sleep, and she could never run far enough to escape the way her blood sang back to the cicadas in the summer.
By Aimee Van Arsdaleabout a year ago in Fiction
Laundry Day
‘What’s with the outfit?’ A patron asks me. I am the costumed crime fighter known as Midnight Man and today just so happens to be laundry day. I am stood in my Laundry Costume in the 10th Street Laundromat. Why do I have a laundry costume? One thing the comic books never tell you is how a superhero launders their gear; how does Batman get blood and other substances off his Batsuit? How does Wolverine clean out the smell of toxic masculinity?
By Alan Walkerabout a year ago in Fiction
Skin Deep
"It's so hot..." Ammy croaked, sprawled across the freshly polished wooden floor. A fan wheezed in the corner, rotating back and forth every few minutes, pushing nothing but dry, dusty air around the room. Usually the fan helped her survive the long summer days, but today it was useless.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
The City of Almost
The City of Almost When Mira first moved to the city, she thought the locals were joking. “You’ll see them,” her landlord had said while handing her the brass key with its strange, crooked teeth. “Don’t stare too long. That’s the trick.”
By Timothy A Rowlandabout a year ago in Fiction
The Message That Never Left
Elena typed the words three times before erasing them. The first draft was too blunt. We’re done. Don’t call me again. The second too sentimental. I’ll always care for you, but this isn’t working. The third hovered somewhere in the middle, but still her thumb trembled above the glowing blue arrow on the screen.
By Timothy A Rowlandabout a year ago in Fiction
The Room on the Plans. Runner-Up in The Forgotten Room Challenge.
The first time I saw the room, it was a photocopy at the city office, third floor, Planning and Development. Fluorescent lights buzzed like gnats. The clerk, a man in a loose tie and a loose understanding of urgency, slid the papers across the counter as if he were sending a raft down a lazy river.
By Aspen Nobleabout a year ago in Fiction
The Garden's Watch
Preface Between loss and remembrance lies a realm of silent echoes–words left unsaid, voices stilled, yet lingering, never fully gone, like roots beneath winter soil, hidden yet alive. In quiet places, in shadows cast by memory, silence becomes speech, absence a kind of presence, a veil, thin as starlight, between worlds. Listen closely: each quiet breath, each pause between heartbeats, speaks clearly the language of those we’ve lost. Their stories–their laughter, grief, and wisdom–echo softly within us, becoming part of our voice. This silence is not emptiness, but fullness, the rich, resonant legacy of those we love, carried forward in every silent echo, like wind through oak leaves, whispering what endures.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzalesabout a year ago in Fiction
The Secrets My Mother Kept
Alexander wasn't confused anymore. He had panicked at first trying to find the surface of the water. He floated in this space between spaces, where the water felt like silk against his skin and breathing came as naturally as it did on land. The darkness had given way to a soft, blue-green glow that seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
