Microfiction

"Finally, My Own Office!"
Dear Jeff, congratulations on your retirement! For seven years, it's been my privilege to serve as your second-in-command. Seven wonderful, educational, character-building and patience-testing years.
By Lana V Lynxabout a month ago in Fiction
Banned in the USA: Books💗 💗 💗💗 💗 💗💗 💗 💗💗 💗 💗💗 💗 💗💗 💗 💗💗 💗 💗💗 💗 💗💗 💗 💗💗 💗 💗
💗 💗 💗💗 💗 💗💗 💗 💗💗 💗 💗💗 💗 💗💗 💗 💗💗 💗 💗💗 💗 💗💗 💗 💗💗 💗 💗 Book Burning: Death to Grammar Books Today I did something that Hitler would have liked, I burned books; but not just any books: grammar books. Lol
By SAMURAI SAM: Wild Wayneabout a month ago in Fiction
Hypochondria
It all began somewhere in Metepec, a place whose name I shall not remember. Not long ago, there lived there a brave and gallant young man, old-fashioned in his ways, with a skinny nag and a swift greyhound—and quite a greyhound he was, too. Now that I think about it, he was actually very skinny himself, despite eating like a caveman.
By iASuarezVabout a month ago in Fiction
Stitch: The Flash-Freeze of '96
While the rest of the riders at the Orlando regional track were choking on dust and chasing brackets, Bane was trying to drown out the oppressive, ninety-two-degree Florida heat. It was late October of 1996, and the air behind the staging lanes smelled heavily of sunbaked asphalt, race fuel, and hot metal. He leaned his shoulder against the rusted frame of a tool trailer, spinning a pedal with the toe of his skate shoe. To everyone else, he was just another local kid killing time before the next moto. In reality, he was completely detached, exhaustion pulling at his eyes.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
The Stroke of Midnight
At the stroke of midnight when things start to go eerily quiet. You are sitting wherever at your desk, in your favorite chair, or maybe even in bed all nice and cozy. Then it starts the scratching, the whining, the whispering. You sit or lie there hoping and praying that the sounds stop. It goes eerily quiet again. The clock still shows midnight, but it seems later and at that time the footsteps plod along, stopping at your door, whispers you can't make out, but you try to understand. There's a screaming howl just then and you hear "You're next."
By Mark Grahamabout a month ago in Fiction
Stitch: The Scent of Rain
You smell jasmine first. Not the soft, powdery kind that blows through open lace curtains in the spring. This jasmine is sharp, almost bitter, tangled with the thick, oily perfume of crushed neroli and the heavy, metallic scent of rain. It is the exact sensory loop that has haunted your sleep since childhood, a phantom aroma that always wakes you up with your pulse hammering against your throat. It is the only warning you get before you step into the clearing.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
Stitch: The Wire Song.. Content Warning.
The winter hunger isn't a rumble in your belly; it is a hollow, driving madness that consumes your entire mind. For six grueling months, you haven't been a girl named Sara. You haven't worn your heavy hiking boots or thought about a home back in Maine. Something deep and unexplainable broke inside your psyche under the weight of everything that you carry, and you fled, trapped entirely inside the thick, striking coat of a fox.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
Stitch:The Alpine Crimson
The biting, sub‑zero wind howling across the Swiss Alps didn’t just freeze the skin; it carved straight into the bone. For miles in every direction, the landscape was a blinding, desolate canvas of white and jagged grey peak. The winter air was so thin it felt like breathing shattered glass, carrying nothing but the lonely roar of the wind and the constant threat of an avalanche.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
Stitch: Winter Freeze of '96
The regional BMX track outside of Orlando was a chaotic, dust-choked ring of adrenaline and family friction in late October of 1996. The heat was sitting at a sweltering ninety-two degrees, the thick Florida air smelling heavily of fried concessions, melting tire rubber, and copper-rich dirt. Ted sat on a folding lawn chair near the starting gate, a pair of dark aviators hiding his critical gaze as he watched the brackets warm up. Next to him, Lisa was meticulously organizing the cooler, ensuring the sports drinks were perfectly packed in ice.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
Stitch. Out of Season
After four weeks of trying to stitch herself back into a life she barely remembered, Sara Foxgrave starts to realize that whatever followed her home isn’t done with her. Maine is supposed to be safe. Normal. Predictable. But when a summer flower blooms in the dead of October, Sara learns that reality has no intention of staying in its lane.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
The Tower Of Time
The Tower of Time stands on a distant, dark headland, where no woman or man can go. They may see it from a distance but can never approach, because Time is its own master.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a month ago in Fiction
The Glitch
I know you better than you think. I know you are a people pleaser. You’ve never once in your life sent a food order back in a restaurant for fear of upsetting someone. You practically step off the sidewalk to get out of the way for oncoming groups of people.
By Scott Christenson🌴about a month ago in Fiction