Microfiction
I Married a Ghost. Last Night, He Served Me Divorce Papers. AI-Generated.
The divorce papers appeared at 3:07 AM. One moment: empty pillow. Next moment: parchment thick as graveyard soil, smelling of bergamot and decay. Ink the color of dried blood spelled out *Silas Alistair Thorne v. Elara June Finch*. A wax seal pulsed with cold blue light. I didn’t scream. After ten years married to a Victorian-era industrialist’s ghost, you learn panic is pointless. Especially when your undead husband’s idea of foreplay is reciting Edgar Allan Poe during your showers. *How Do You Meet a Ghost? Badly. It started with a Ouija board at a frat party—cliché, I know. We’d aimed for "spooky fun." We summoned Silas Thorne, dead since 1889 (typhoid fever, complicated by poor stock investments). He haunted my apartment for months: freezing my wine, rearranging my books into cryptic symbols, whispering investment tips that *actually* worked. He was charming. For a corpse. He’d materialize as a flicker of top-hatted shadow, quoting Keats while I burned toast. When my fiancé left me ("You’re emotionally cheating… *with a ghost?*"), Silas manifested fully for the first time—a translucent gentleman in waistcoat and cravat, offering a spectral handkerchief. "Modern men lack fortitude," he’d sniffed. "Shall I haunt his Tesla?" *The Chapel of Lingering Vows* We married at a paranormal chapel in New Orleans. Our vows: *"Beyond breath, beyond bone, ‘Til entropy claims the last stone."* Our prenup was… unusual: **§3.2* *Corporeal Spouse (Elara) retains all tangible assets (real estate, chocolate, living pets).* **§5.7: *Ectoplasmic Spouse (Silas) reserves right to manifest during showers/baths for "aural companionship."* **Addendum B:** *Infidelity defined as "consorting with rival spirits (e.g., Gertrude the flapper ghost, who sings show tunes off-key in the parlor on Wednesdays)."* *The Trouble with Immortal Husbands* Immortality makes ghosts *particular*. Silas despised: - Smartphones ("Soulless pocket-spies!") - Scented candles ("Cloying bourgeois propaganda!") - My historian boyfriend, Liam ("That beard has the audacity to touch my wife!") Liam tried. He left 1873 port wine by the fireplace. Read Dickens aloud. Silas retaliated by making Liam’s coffee taste like grave dirt. **The Last Straw: The Tesla Coil Incident** Liam installed an "ambiance enhancer" in the study—a singing Tesla coil. Silas saw it as an act of spectral war. For weeks, our brownstone became a paranormal battleground: - Lights flickering in Morse code insults (*"L-I-A-M I-S A P-E-A-S-A-N-T"*) - Antique portraits weeping black oil - My bathwater turning inexplicably… *chunky* When I unplugged the coil, Silas froze every bottle of Chardonnay in the house. "Prioritizing that *bearded transistor* over our matrimonial resonance?" His voice vibrated from the gramophone horn. "This union is a crypt, Elara." *The Phantom Plaintiff’s Grievances* His legal filing was absurd, even for the dead:
By Wondermindabout a year ago in Fiction
The Midnight Bargain: When My Brother's Voice Cracked a Decade of Silence. AI-Generated.
3:17 AM The phone’s vibration drilled into the silence like a bone saw. I fumbled blindly, squinting at the screen. The name flashing there—*Jake*—felt like a ghost punching me in the throat. Ten years. Three thousand six hundred fifty days of radio silence. And now this. 3 AM. The hour of emergencies and drunks. I almost silenced it. *Almost.* That old bitterness—thick as scar tissue—rose in my chest. The last time I’d heard his voice, he’d called me a "self-righteous parasite" before slamming the door so hard our dead mother’s photo rattled on the wall. Grief over her loss had twisted us into strangers, then enemies. We’d built walls with the bricks of her absence. But something in the *way* it rang… frantic. Relentless. A sound that bypassed my anger and hooked straight into my lizard brain. *Danger.* I swiped answer. Held my breath. *The Static and the Gasp* "E-Ellie?" His voice was shredded glass and static. Not drunk. *Terrified.* "Jake? What—" "They’re… inside the walls." A wet, ragged cough. "The bugs. Can you… *hear* them?" My blood froze. This wasn’t an apology. Wasn’t a reunion. This was a Code Red from a collapsing mind. The Unspoken War Our estrangement wasn’t simple. After Mom’s cancer won, Jake dove headfirst into conspiracy forums and cheap whiskey. I buried myself in spreadsheets and sterile relationships. We became caricatures: *The Crazy Brother. The Ice Sister.* The last fight was nuclear—him screaming about government trackers in his fillings, me hissing that he’d dishonored her memory. Truth? We were both drowning. Just in different oceans. Now, listening to him wheeze about "bioluminescent mites" chewing through his drywall, I faced the gut-punch truth: *He wasn’t calling for forgiveness.* **He was calling because I was still his emergency contact.** *Driving into the Storm* I broke every speed limit driving to his rust-belt apartment. Key still fit the lock (why did I keep it?). The smell hit first—sour milk, stale smoke, and something acrid. Ammonia? He was crouched behind a toppled bookshelf, face gaunt in the blue light of a dead laptop screen. A makeshift "weapon"—a fireplace poker wrapped in duct tape—clattered from his hand when he saw me. "Ellie?" He blinked, childlike. "The… the ventilation shafts. They’re laying eggs in—" "Shut up, Jake." My voice surprised me. Cold. Steady. *Nurse-mode activated.* "Where are your meds?" *The Diagnosis in the Debris* His lithium bottles were empty. Anti-psychotics, untouched since November. Piles of printed forum rants about "nano-parasites" covered the moldy carpet. This wasn’t just addiction. This was schizophrenia’s cruel masterpiece, painted over a decade of neglect. As I forced water into him, wiped grime from his forehead, the old rage flickered. *Why me? Why now?* Then I saw it. Taped to the fridge beneath a takeout menu: A faded Polaroid. Mom, laughing, arms around us at Coney Island. Age 12 and 14. Before the wars. *"My Keepers,"* she’d scribbled on the border. *The Bargain* Getting him committed wasn’t gentle. He fought, sobbing about "extraction teams." I signed papers with hands that didn’t feel like mine. In the sterile hospital hallway, a social worker asked, "Relationship to patient?" I opened my mouth. Closed it. The word *sister* felt foreign. Heavy. "Emergency contact," I finally said. *The Silence After the Storm
By Wondermindabout a year ago in Fiction
Death is a mystery (Episode 5)
DEATH IS A MYSTERY😔... BUT IT OFTEN SEND SIGNS BEFORE IT COMES 😔 (Episode 5) By morning, the sun rose quietly, as if afraid to disturb what the night had whispered. Chidi sat outside Mama Ada’s hut, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He hadn’t moved since the dream. Since that place. Inside, Nnaemeka’s body still lay motionless—but not cold. Not warm either. Suspended. Like a candle not fully extinguished. The villagers began to gather. Word had spread. Some came to see if Nnaemeka had died. Others came because Chidi had started talking, really talking. “I saw him,” he told them. “I saw where he went. I saw others too.” “Others?” asked Mama Nkechi, holding her wrapper tight around her shoulders. “Yes. Faces. People who looked alive but were close to the edge. Like they were waiting for someone to pull them back.” The crowd murmured. Some shook their heads, thinking grief had driven him mad. But then Chidi said something that made them go silent: “It wasn’t about Nnaemeka alone. It’s about us. The way we live. The things we ignore. The signs we brush off.” “What signs?” a young boy asked. Chidi looked at them, voice steady. “Tiredness that never leaves. Chest pain we say is ‘just gas.’ Numb fingers. Heavy legs. Headaches that come like thunder and disappear without rain. We ignore them. Then we faint. Or sleep and don’t wake up.” He paused. “We are dying slowly while calling it stress.” There was silence. Mama Ada stepped forward. “So what do we do, Chidi?” He looked back at Nnaemeka and then at the people. “We listen. We rest. We eat better. We check our blood pressure. We stop saying, ‘it’s nothing.’ We stop waiting for death to tap before we start living.” A soft wind blew. Then, from inside the hut, a whisper. Very soft. Very faint. But unmistakably— “Chidi…” Everyone froze. He rushed inside. Nnaemeka’s lips had moved. His eyes, still closed, but tears rolled down. He wasn’t gone. Not yet. Chidi looked at Mama Ada. She was already reaching for her herbs. And outside the hut, the village stood—silent, stunned, awakened. To be Continued Note: If you have been following this Storyline very well you will begin to understand some certain things about this Life and some misconceptions about death. See you in episode 6 and the final episode where we are going to summarize the whole story We are not WEALTHY but we are HEALTH.
By Haya princessabout a year ago in Fiction
Artificial Intelligence
In the fast-paced digital age, artificial intelligence (AI) is reshaping how we live, work, and communicate. From chatbots like ChatGPT to powerful image generators and deepfake tools, AI is rapidly expanding its reach. However, behind the seamless digital interactions lies a hidden environmental cost — a rising threat to the world’s most precious resource: water.
By Ahmad shahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Glacier Fox's Unseen Path
Kivi’s first mistake was chasing the snow hare. Her mother had warned her: "Storms ride on the backs of careless hunters." But the hare was plump, its tracks fresh, and Kivi’s belly growled louder than the gathering wind. She darted past the sacred stone markers—the ones etched with wolf teeth, warning "Beyond here, the ice forgets."
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Never Existed
Previously... Hira has uncovered impossible truths — medical records stating she imagined a daughter who never existed, yet photographs, voicemails, drawings, and mirror messages point to a child trapped beneath her apartment floor. In a final act of desperation, she returns to the trapdoor in the basement, determined to face the truth — whether it ends in madness or redemption. The Descent The wood groaned under her feet as Hira stepped onto the old staircase beneath the trapdoor. The flashlight’s beam trembled in her hand, reflecting dust and age from the stone walls. As she descended deeper into the darkness, the air grew colder, heavier — like it hadn’t been touched by time… or life. This time, the rusted door at the back of the stone room was slightly ajar. She swallowed hard and stepped forward. “Hira…” A child’s voice whispered again. “Are you… finally coming back?” The Room Beyond the Door She pushed the door open. It creaked like a scream. Inside was a small stone cell. Bare. Damp. Silent. But in the center sat a wooden chair… and on that chair — a doll. Faded. Ripped. Missing an eye. Next to it, a name written on the wall in crayon: “Leena” That name hit her like lightning. She fell to her knees, sobbing. Leena. The name she had whispered in dreams. The one that sometimes echoed in her mind like a lullaby. The name she once screamed as doctors pulled her away. The Truth Unfolds On the far wall, a large mirror hung crookedly. Hira approached it slowly. Her reflection flickered. Then — it changed. Now she stood not in a stone room… but in a sunny bedroom. A child sat on the floor, drawing. The girl looked up. “Mama?” Tears welled in Hira’s eyes. “Leena?” The child smiled, but the light around her dimmed. “You forgot me.” “No, no I didn’t,” Hira whispered. “I didn’t know… I couldn’t remember.” The girl stood, walked to the mirror, and pressed her hand to the glass. “You said you’d never leave. But when they took you… you never came back.” Hira pressed her hand to the same spot. “I came back now,” she whispered. The Collapse Suddenly, the room began to shake. The mirror cracked. Voices screamed — hundreds of them — all saying her name. “Hira.” “Hira.” “HIRA.” She staggered back, clutching her head. Flashes of memory exploded in her mind. A hospital bed. A child screaming. Her wrists strapped down. A doctor’s voice: “We erased the false memories to help her heal.” False? Was Leena just a creation? Or had they removed her? Had they taken Leena from her mind? She crawled toward the mirror again as shards began to fall. Each piece reflected a different version of her — angry, crying, laughing, empty. And one… smiling. With blood on her hands. The Final Message From the wall beside the mirror, a line appeared in glowing red: “If you forget her again… she will become you.” The mirror shattered. Awakening Hira woke up in her bed. Sweating. Gasping. Sunlight streamed through the window. Was it a dream? Was any of it real? She rushed to the bathroom mirror. Her reflection stared back. Calm. Empty. She looked around her apartment. Everything was normal. No trapdoor. No stone room. But when she turned to the desk, a drawing lay there. Crayon. A child and a woman. Above their heads: “Me and Mama.” She blinked. On the back of the page, written in a child’s hand: “Thank you for coming back.” One Month Later Hira moved away from Ridge Town. Started therapy. Got a new job. Sometimes, she wakes up at 3:00 AM and hears a lullaby. Sometimes the mirror fogs up even when there’s no steam. But she never forgot again. She keeps the drawing by her bedside. And in her new apartment, there’s a room no one else sees — filled with toys, crayons, and a single doll named Leena. But One Last Thing... On her birthday, a letter arrived. No return address. Inside, a photograph. Hira. And Leena. Sitting on the floor of the stone room. Both smiling. On the back: "The girl who never existed… finally came home." End of Series: The Shadow Behind Her Eyes
By Abid Ali Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The House That Waits at the Edge of the Fog
1. The Arrival Elena had seen the house in her dreams long before she ever found it. It sat quietly at the edge of a fading forest, shrouded in fog that moved like breath across the hills. Windows like closed eyes. A door like a secret no one wanted to tell. When she finally stood before it—real wood, real chill, real sky darkening—her bones knew it before her mind did. This was where the nightmares began. And now, maybe, where they would end. 2. The Whisper The key was already in the lock. Inside, the air smelled like time left alone. Not rotten—just forgotten. Dust floated like slow snow. The walls pulsed with stillness. The house didn’t groan or creak. It listened. That night, the whisper came. Not outside the room—but inside her head. Not words at first. Just… feeling. Like something was watching. Something waiting. Not cruel. Just patient. “Who’s there?” Elena whispered to the dark. The dark answered with a breath beneath her bed. 3. The History In town, no one would speak of the house. One woman, old and knotted like driftwood, told her: “That place doesn’t haunt you. It holds you.” “Why?” “Because it remembers.” Remembers what? Elena didn’t ask. She was starting to remember too. Flashes: A girl in the mirror who wasn’t her. A voice in the hallway calling a name she’d forgotten. A nursery with no toys. A crib that rocked by itself. 4. The Becoming The house didn’t hurt her. It fed her. Each night, the dreams grew stronger. She saw other versions of herself—crying, clawing, screaming. Not all were human anymore. And the voice—clearer now—said, “You’ve come back.” Elena didn’t run. She stayed. Because the truth was: she had been there before. Not in this life. But in another. And she had died in this house. More than once. 5. The Truth The house was alive. Not with wood and wires. With memory. It remembered every soul it held. Every scream. Every shadow pressed into its floorboards. It didn’t kill. It collected. Elena was its favorite kind of visitor—the ones who belonged to it before they were born. And now it wanted her back. 6. The Ending That Isn’t They found her car weeks later, engine cold, windshield dusted with fog. No footprints. No sign of struggle. Just a journal on the seat. Inside, only one sentence was written over and over again: “The house remembers me. And I remember it now.” The End? The House Doesn't Stay in One Place The house at the edge of the fog isn’t fixed to one location. It moves. Not quickly, and never when you look straight at it—but over time, it shifts. From one forgotten road to the next. From one dreaming mind to another. People don’t find the house. The house finds them—especially those who have a connection from another life, or a memory too buried to explain. Sometimes it appears in a photo you don’t remember taking. Sometimes in a sketch your child draws without knowing why. Sometimes in the background of a dream you swear you’ve had before. If you ever feel like a house is watching you… It probably is. And if you hear a whisper when no one else does, don’t answer. Because it might just be calling you home.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Fiction
When Water Swallowed The Light
The house had been in the family for five generations. Built by hand on the banks of the Rappahannock, it stood tall and white, with weather-worn shutters and a wraparound porch that had seen more rocking chairs than most old Southern homes. The boards creaked like they remembered everything, and maybe they did.
By Ellie Hoovsabout a year ago in Fiction
Elaine. Honorable Mention in Leave the Light On Challenge. Top Story - July 2025.
The kettle hissed long before she remembered to pour it. The sound had always comforted her. It was unconventional people used to say. Technology had moved on. But she had liked the ordinariness of the steam pouring upward into the air. It slowed down the process. Made tea a ritual. It had become part of their routine. But tonight, she barely registered the familiar noise. It just didn’t belong in the silence of the night. Felt out of place somehow. She set down the cups, placing them lightly on mismatched saucers. The clink of porcelain refocused her for a moment. Breathe.
By River and Celia in Underlandabout a year ago in Fiction
