Microfiction
Whispers of the Forgotten Library
Marin had always loved the smell of old books. There was a comfort in the dusty scent of leather-bound covers, in the quiet crackle of pages that had been turned countless times. On a rainy afternoon, while wandering through the narrow streets of her hometown, she stumbled upon a building she had never noticed before. The sign above the door read simply, The Forgotten Library.
By Henry_ Fagottabout a year ago in Fiction
City of Death. Top Story - August 2025.
A stout conversation on life prompted Geraldine Snow’s bout with necromancy. This included recent dealings with amnesia, anemia and a thick, resolve to live. If only she could muster up enough strength to break out of here, then the real fun could begin.
By K.H. Obergfollabout a year ago in Fiction
Souvenirs
She was walking past the garage sale when she saw it. Suddenly, it was a lifetime ago. She was in New York with a young man. They were in love, but life had other plans. They exchanged souvenirs with their names on - the type you find at any tacky souvenir stand. But they never had her spelling.
By Sarah Tinneyabout a year ago in Fiction
A Stranger in Every Photograph
A Stranger in Every Photograph I found the photo album on a rainy Sunday afternoon, tucked behind boxes in the attic of my late grandmother’s house. Its leather cover was cracked and worn, the pages yellowed, and the smell of old paper and faint perfume clung to it like a ghost.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Day the Colors Fled
The Day the Colors Fled It started quietly, as if the city had taken a deep breath and let all color escape. I woke to gray skies and streets stripped of vibrancy. My walls, my clothes, the garden outside—everything was a shade of ash, steel, and stone. Even the sunlight seemed pallid, like paper left too long in the sun. I rubbed my eyes, convinced it was a trick of sleep. But the world outside my window confirmed my fear.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Café That Served Emotions
The Café That Served Emotions The café wasn’t on any map. Not in guidebooks, not on GPS, not even on the neon-lit streets of downtown. You stumbled upon it when you weren’t looking, through a narrow alley framed by ivy and flickering lanterns. The sign read simply: “Café Émotion”, its letters curling like smoke.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Letters to the Future Me
Letters to the Future Me It started on a Tuesday. I was pouring cereal at my tiny kitchen table when I noticed the envelope lying beside my bowl. Brown paper, neatly folded, with my name written in cursive I didn’t recognize. I opened it with cautious curiosity.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Man Who Knew How You’d Die
The Man Who Knew How You’d Die The bus smelled faintly of wet asphalt and stale coffee. It was late—past midnight—and only a handful of passengers sat scattered in their seats, staring at their phones or watching the city blur past.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
