Microfiction

A Leaf’s Life
Awakening and Growth A soft warmth embraces me as I emerge from my small cocoon, fresh and hopeful. I stretch slowly and let out a gentle yawn. The world around me is quiet, except for the comforting murmur of morning waking up. I smile at the first golden light of day, as the sun tenderly wakes me and my fellow leaves.
By Shahzaibabout a year ago in Fiction
I Found a Photo of Myself at a Crime Scene From 20 Years Ago . Content Warning.
The envelope had no return address. No stamp. Just my name, scrawled in block letters. Elvin Warren. Inside was a photograph — aged, its corners yellowed, the gloss frayed. The scene was unmistakably that of a crime: blood on white tile, overturned furniture, the telltale chalk outline of a body that had once been warm. But that wasn’t what made my stomach twist. What made me drop into the nearest chair, my breath trapped in my throat, was me. I was in the photo. Off to the side. Blurred, half-turned — but it was me. Same face. Same scar above the brow from when I fell off my bike at nine. The photo was dated: July 18th, 2005. I was ten. what? --- The murder occurred in New Hampshire. Back then, my family lived in Chicago. I had never been to New Hampshire in my life. I thought it was a prank. Some cruel, elaborate hoax. But it didn’t explain the photo’s age — its authenticity. The Kodak timestamp printed in faded red. Or the way my stomach remembered something I couldn’t name. I turned it over. In shaky, faded ink: "Don’t let me remember." --- The photo lab was old, tucked beside a dry cleaner in a street that reeked of mildew. I only went because I needed answers — needed someone to tell me this was a fake. The woman behind the counter frowned when I slid it across. “You again?” she said. My spine snapped straight. “Excuse me?” “You dropped this off last week. Said it was urgent. I told you it needed cleaning, and you said, ‘It’ll clean itself once I remember.’ Weirdest thing.” “I didn’t— That wasn’t me.” She peered closer. Her expression changed. “Are you all right, hon? You’re… pale.” --- I started digging. The murder was real — a woman named Marla Henley. Age thirty-three. Throat slit in her home. No forced entry. No suspect ever named. I found her brother, Jeremy, now living in Maine. I told him I was researching a true-crime book. It was a lie. When I showed him the photo, he froze. His hands trembled as he took it. “That boy…” he whispered. “That’s the kid. The one no one could find.” I felt cold. “What kid?” “He was seen by a neighbor that night. Standing at the edge of the driveway. Staring at the house like it was on fire.” He swallowed. “But when the cops came, there was no boy. They thought the neighbor hallucinated.” He looked up, horror blooming. “You’re him.” --- My parents swore we’d never lived anywhere else. Swore I’d never disappeared. But when I pushed — really pushed — they got nervous. Panicked. “Why are you asking this?” my mother snapped. “Why dig up that nonsense?” “Because I think I was involved in a murder,” I said. “Or at least I saw it.” She went quiet. Then whispered, “You promised not to remember.” --- I found the adoption papers in a locked drawer in my father’s study. Filed under a different name. Nathaniel Graves. Adopted August 2005. New Hampshire Foster System. A child with my face. The death certificate came next. Nathaniel Graves: Deceased, age 9. Drowned in a frozen lake. No remains recovered. Presumed accident. Except I never drowned. I became Elvin. --- The memories came in trickles. A woman humming. A knife flashing. A scream — my own. Blood on my hands. But they felt… fractured. Inserted. Every time I dreamed, I saw myself from outside my own body. Like I was watching a stranger wear my skin. --- I burned the photo. It came back the next morning, tucked beneath my pillow. Clean. Whole. I buried it in the woods. It reappeared in my fridge. Damp with frost. Now, the image has changed. There’s something behind me in the photo. A shadow. A hand on my shoulder that wasn’t there before. Each day, it moves closer. --- Last night, I woke up outside. Barefoot. Mud between my toes. Standing in front of an old white house. I looked down. The same chalk outline. The same cracked tile. The same blood, long dried. I wasn’t just there when Marla Henley died. I was the reason. But I wasn’t a killer. I was a witness to myself. --- Now, I understand. I was buried. Rewritten. Replaced. But the photo — it remembered. And the boy in the picture? He wants his life back. --- I don’t know how much longer I have before he wakes up fully. Before he becomes me again. So I’m leaving this here. My name was Elvin Warren. But I think I was someone else before. I'm going away, I don't know where. But I wish to never come across my memories again.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Digital Dust
The data morgue smelled like ozone and loneliness. Maya adjusted her luminescent hazmat suit’s hood, the hiss of filtered air her only companion. Before her stretched Server Vault 7—miles of abandoned user profiles, decaying chat logs, and forgotten memories scheduled for permanent deletion. Her job: scrub digital graves clean.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Imagine
Imagine starting to acquire a lot of skills and knowledge naturally and only using them naturally when needed, but imagine having to coexist with all those players who plan and wait only where and when to trick you and throw you out of the game, so imagine you start using or making things happen differently for them, only depending on your mood, just like He goes to this workout as usual and suddenly his car starts burning out of nowhere and he has to go back and finish a difficult conversation the other time water gets inside of his car out of nowhere so he comes back and he's sure you must have been a witch because you can't explain all these things.. this happens when you want to go through a few tough lines, worth talking about in a relationship...hahaha, really true facts haha sometimes what is meant to be will be
By Antea Lumina Kala Matylda about a year ago in Fiction
Lunar Lessons
Seth howled as the full moon rose above the trees. A few minutes ago, he had been doing his maths homework. Now, he was covered in fur, homework shredded on the floor.
By Sarah Tinneyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Boy Who Sold Silence
The city of Veridia screamed. Car horns dueled beneath Arlo’s penthouse window. Subways groaned like wounded beasts. Neon signs buzzed like angry hornets. Even at 3 a.m., the relentless noise seeped through triple-paned glass, vibrating in his teeth. Arlo Thorne, Veridia’s most sought-after music producer, hadn’t slept without pills in two years. His latest platinum track—"Neon Pulse"—echoed the city’s frantic heartbeat, but inside, Arlo was drowning.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Books
As I went into that reading room there it was 'The Book". I walked up to the table, and I heard "Read the book." I stood there wondering what should I do for I thought that I had put all the books back on the shelves. I inched closer to the table, and it seemed like I was being gently pushed to that table with that book. My phone rang. I answered it, 'Read the book." Again, the feeling of being pushed to the table. I was closer to the table and the book turned out to be "The Bible".
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
The Books
When walking through the library one dark and gloomy evening when I was placing books back in the stacks there was this one study carrell that seemed to whisper. I slowly went over to it, and it kept saying "Read the book. Read the book." I thought what book as I finished putting books back on the shelves. I went about straightening chairs and picking up items that students left behind and put in the lost and found box. "Read the book, read the book." Again, what book. I went into the next room and there it was "The Book".
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Destroyed
Introduction The inside shows a misted cityscape of ancient and modern architecture by Leee Black Childers. Destroyed This was once a thriving city, but now there is no life here, no birds sing, no flowers grow, and every tree is dead. At various council meetings, the money from taxes was always "invested", never spent on the infrastructure of the city, and the same was true all over the nation.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
The Enchanted Boy
I was seventeen the summer I met him — the summer of sky lanterns, of music in the sand, of endless salt in the air and wildflowers in my hair.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Postman Who Delivered to Heaven
In the little town of Windmere, nestled between golden hills and roads no GPS could find, lived a postman named Eliot Finch. Eliot was 84, walked with a wooden cane and the kind of slow grace that made you believe time was just being polite around him. He had been delivering mail for 63 years — never missed a day, never lost a letter. His bag was patched, his route unchanged. People said Eliot knew the town better than anyone alive — which wasn’t entirely true. Because Eliot delivered letters to people who weren’t alive. He’d make his last round around sunset. Up the cobblestone hill. Past the old chapel. And then he’d stop by the cemetery gates. He’d open his mailbag. And gently place each envelope on a gravestone. No one knew where the letters came from. The stamps weren’t real. The ink smelled of lavender and old paper. But the handwriting was always different. Some were addressed to “My Dear Mama.” Others to “Charlie, who died before I could say I was sorry.” One was simply labeled: “To the one I still love.” And Eliot — kind Eliot — never read a single one. He just delivered. --- Every child in Windmere grew up hearing stories of “The Postman to Heaven.” Some believed it. Some laughed. But all watched in silence when Eliot walked by — eyes bright, back straight, heart full of invisible weight. One spring morning, Eliot didn’t show up for work. His tiny cottage was quiet. The mailbag sat by the door. The kettle was cold. The town grew hushed. By afternoon, the mayor and the doctor went to check on him. Eliot was sitting in his chair by the window, smiling. He had passed peacefully in his sleep. But there was one strange thing. On the table beside him was a single envelope. Addressed to: Mr. Eliot Finch Wherever You Go Next There was no stamp. No return address. Inside was a letter, written in the handwriting of every person who had ever sent him one — as if a thousand voices had signed it at once. It read: You delivered our love when no one else could. You carried the words we were too late to say. And now — it’s time we return the favor. We’ll be waiting at the gates. Come home. --- Now here’s where things get strange. At Eliot’s funeral, the whole town came. Children sang. Elders wept. The sky, they swore, turned the color of rose-petals just as they lowered him into the ground. But that night — the mail resumed. Fresh envelopes appeared on the graves again. New messages. New names. Only now, there was no postman to deliver them. Or so they thought. Because just before dawn, Mrs. Linwood — who opened her bakery at 4 a.m. sharp — swore she saw a figure on the hill. An old man in a brown coat. Walking with a cane. Mailbag slung across his back. He tipped his hat to her. And vanished behind the chapel. --- Soon after, children began reporting something even stranger. The children would leave letters of their own— addressed to lost pets, beloved grandparents, even stars that had fallen — and by morning, the letters were gone. But in their place was always something small, something gentle. A feather. A pressed flower. A candy wrapper that smelled like their favorite memory. “I think he read them,” one little girl said. “And he left me something back.” --- A new postman took Eliot’s route. But he always left the last stop blank. “That hill belongs to someone else,” he’d say, with a wink. People still left letters at the cemetery gates. Not every night. Not always seriously. But once, during a particularly snowy winter, a widowed man left a note that read: “I don’t know who you are. But if she gets this, please tell her I’m learning to live again.” The next day, he found a pressed daisy on his windshield. His wife’s favorite flower. many years have passed...... The roads are now mapped. The bakery sells espresso. But the legend has only grown. Visitors come with folded letters in their pockets. They ask, nervously, “Where do we leave them?” Locals just smile and point toward the hill. And once in a while — just once — someone sees him. A man walking softly between tombstones. Worn coat. Crooked cane. A gentle smile. They try to follow, but always lose him behind a breeze, or a rustle of trees that seems to whisper, thank you. The twist? Someone discovered Eliot's childhood diary in an old trunk. Inside, tucked on the last page, was a scribbled note from when he was just ten: “If people can send letters anywhere… why can’t they send them to heaven?” “When I grow up, I’ll be the postman who makes sure they get there.” He never told anyone. He just became it. And in doing so — gave a thousand broken hearts a place to heal.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Unsinkable Spirit
As the lights of the Titanic began to flicker and fade, fear spread like the icy Atlantic itself—silent, vast, and paralyzing. Yet in the midst of this looming catastrophe, one woman stood defiant. Her name was Margaret “Molly” Brown, and she was far more than a passenger on a doomed voyage. She was a force of nature—unyielding, compassionate, and unafraid.
By Ahmad shahabout a year ago in Fiction