Microfiction

Death is a mystery (Episode 2)
DEATH IS A MYSTERY😔... But IT OFTEN SEND SIGNS BEFORE IT COMES 😔 (Episode 2) The village of UJUALA was cloaked in an uneasy silence following Elder Nneka's ominous declaration: “Tomorrow, at this same hour, one of you… will not be here.”
By Haya princessabout a year ago in Fiction
Whatever Happened To Home
Today was the day — The day where I left it all behind. Why I would do such a thing? Well, I have yet to come up with a simple answer for that. It’s far more complicated than just one thing. It’s a buildup of pressure that has slowly been pushing for an escape. And the only escape I ever knew — was to run away.
By John Henryabout a year ago in Fiction
1984
In Sector 7 of the Unified Republic, Winston Hale blinked away the sting of fluorescent light as the surveillance drone buzzed past his workstation. He kept his hands moving—filing data, erasing old entries, rewriting history. Truth was fluid here. And Winston, like everyone else, was expected to drown in it. It was the year 2084, but they still called it 1984, in tribute to the “Founding Vision.” The Party had long since digitized Orwell’s prophecy, weaponizing fiction into a blueprint. Every citizen wore their compliance like a second skin, and every screen whispered the same mantra: “Freedom is Obedience. Obedience is Peace.” Winston didn’t believe it. Not anymore. --- He first saw her in the corridor outside Archive Room Delta. Dark curls. Grey jumpsuit. Eyes too awake. Julia. Their first conversation was risky—a whispered joke about the food. The second was dangerous—a shared memory of the stars beyond the city domes. By the third, they were in love. And in rebellion. --- They met in abandoned metro tunnels, long forgotten by the city above. Julia brought old books salvaged from black market trades. Winston brought questions. "Why do they erase everything?" he asked once, flipping through a banned copy of History of the World Before Unity. "Because control," Julia whispered, “requires amnesia.” “They’ve made lies feel like truth,” Winston muttered. “No,” she said. “They’ve made truth illegal.” --- Hope, however, is combustible. And surveillance never sleeps. The morning the Thought Police came, Winston was already waiting. He didn’t resist as they dragged him from his apartment. He only asked one question: “Is she safe?” They didn’t answer. --- Room 101 was colder than he imagined. Not in temperature—but in silence. A single chair. A single screen. And behind the screen: Authority. Not a man. A voice. A system. “Winston Hale,” the voice echoed, “you are guilty of independent thought, emotional deviation, and unsanctioned intimacy.” “I know,” he said quietly. “Why?” He didn’t speak. “Why, Winston?” At last, he whispered, “Because I remembered who I was before I feared you.” --- Reeducation began with isolation. Then deprivation. Then immersion. For weeks, they fed him Party broadcasts until his dreams bled into propaganda. They made him watch videos of Julia’s arrest—real or fake, he couldn’t tell. In his final session, they presented him with a choice. A lever. A screen. One would spare Julia. The other, himself. “Choose,” the voice commanded. His hand trembled. Tears welled in his eyes. And then— He stepped back. “I will not.” Alarms blared. But Winston smiled. --- They released him. Broken, perhaps. Or maybe they thought he was. He returned to his job. Typed the lies. Filed the past. Wore the mask. But behind his eyes—still, a spark. Because rebellion isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s a memory. Sometimes, it’s the refusal to forget. --- Years later, children would find a scratched phrase hidden behind an old databank wall: “2 + 2 = 4” And though they didn’t understand it, they whispered it anyway. Like prayer. Like prophecy. Like truth.
By Shah Nawazabout a year ago in Fiction
Tilt
Plink. Plink. Another bead of liquid swelling and drooping, pregnant in the early morning sunshine... and behind it, a tanned, square-jawed face, cold and smooth as marble.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Death is a mystery
DEATH IS A MYSTERY😔... BUT IT OFTEN SEND SIGNS BEFORE IT COMES 😔 (Episode 1) The sun cast a golden hue over the village of UJUALA as the rooster's crow signaled the start of a new day. Elder Nneka, known for her wisdom and kindness, sat on her porch, sipping her morning tea. Children played nearby, their laughter echoing through the air. Suddenly, a hush fell over the village. A messenger arrived, bearing news that the village's oldest resident, Papa Obi, had passed away peacefully in his sleep. The villagers gathered, mourning the loss of a man who had been a pillar of their community. As the funeral preparations began, Elder Nneka felt a stirring in her heart. She realized that many in the village, especially the younger generation, feared death and saw it as a taboo subject. Determined to change this, she decided to share stories and lessons about death, aiming to inspire understanding and acceptance. The morning after Papa Obi's death, the village square was full. Not with noise, but with presence. Old women sat on mats, chewing kola nuts slowly. Men gathered in quiet corners, whispering in heavy tones. Children played unaware, but watching their mothers' eyes. A message had gone out “Come. It’s time to talk about life… and what ends it.” Elder Nneka, though quiet, had sent for ten people — people whose lives had been touched by death in strange ways. Some had lost loved ones suddenly. Others had battled sickness. And a few… had seen the shadow of death but returned. No one knew why she chose them. But she welcomed them one by one into her small compound, where the mango tree stood like a silent guard. The first to speak was Mrs. Chinelo, a woman who had lost her husband to stroke in his sleep. “He didn’t cry. He didn’t shout. Just turned… and left,” she said, wiping tears. Next was young Ebuka, who had survived a fatal accident. “I saw myself floating above my body. It was like sleep, but deeper. Peaceful. But a hand pushed me back — I heard my mother’s voice praying.” Others shared stories — some painful, others strange. But all of them pointed to one thing: And then Mama Nneka stood up. She looked around, her old eyes sharp and knowing. “My people,” she began, “We fear what we don’t understand. But death is not always the enemy. Sometimes, it comes as a friend to the tired, a release to the suffering, a reminder to the living.” She bent down and drew a circle in the sand. “This gathering is not just to mourn Obi. It’s to prepare,” she said slowly, “Prepare not just for death—but for the truth behind it. Some of you think you understand life. But until you understand death, your eyes are only half open.” She looked at each of them — the widow, the boy, the pastor, the herbalist, the quiet girl who hadn't spoken. “Each of you was called for a reason,” she added, her voice barely above a whisper. The wind suddenly blew stronger. The mango tree above them shook, and a single fruit dropped... not on the ground, but squarely in the middle of the circle she drew. Everyone gasped. Elder Nneka's eyes didn’t move. “That,” she said, pointing to the fallen mango, “is the first sign.” “But of what?” someone whispered. She looked up slowly, her face shadowed by the evening sun. “Of what death is truly coming for in this village... and who it will visit next.” Silence fell. And then she said, “Tomorrow, at this same hour, one of you… will not be here.” To be continued… We are not WEALTHY but we are HEALTHY.
By Haya princessabout a year ago in Fiction
The Portrait in the West Wing
The storm arrived the same night Eliza Ravenscroft did. Rain thrashed the windows of Wescroft Manor, wind howling through broken eaves and ivy-covered chimneys. The great house, nestled on the cliffs of Northumberland, had stood for nearly three centuries, weathering time—and secrets.
By Ghaniabout a year ago in Fiction
A Sweet Treat. Top Story - July 2025.
Cupcakes for sale! I see the sign attached to the small booth with two girls as I walk down the sidewalk. Hmmm, I haven’t had any baked goods in a while. Why not?
By Amethyst Champagneabout a year ago in Fiction
“Room 313”
The phone in Room 313 rang exactly seven seconds after Julia unlocked the door—and no one was supposed to know she was there.
By Sabawoonabout a year ago in Fiction
“The Man Who Borrowed Time”
No one noticed the man in the café until he pulled out the hourglass. It was small, elegant—no larger than a teacup—and the sand inside shimmered with something that didn’t look like sand at all. More like stardust. He placed it gently on the table beside his untouched coffee and turned it upside down.
By Sabawoonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Diamond Treasure in the Depth of the Sea
Long ago, beneath the surface of the Southern Sea, there existed a hidden underwater kingdom known as Sirena. Protected by glowing coral walls and ancient sea magic, Sirena thrived in silence, unknown to the surface world. At the heart of its power was a legendary jewel called The Heart of the Abyss—a massive diamond that pulsed with light, magic, and life.
By Engr. Mansoor Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
I Found a YouTube Channel That Shows Me Sleeping — But I Live Alone
This is going to sound fake. And I get it. If I read this, I’d probably think someone was trying to write creepypasta or go viral. But if even one person believes me, then maybe I’m not going crazy. Maybe someone out there has seen what I’ve seen.
By huzaifa Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Level One
He awoke in his bed, knowing nothing about the world around him. He walked through what looked like a medieval village and listened to townspeople talking. He ventured out of town into the woods beyond.
By Sarah Tinneyabout a year ago in Fiction