Microfiction
"Missed Call at Midnight"
Missed Call at Midnight The first time it happened, Daniel was drunk. He’d been alone on his birthday for the third year in a row. No party, no cake, just a bottle of scotch and reruns of Jeopardy echoing through the walls of his too-quiet apartment. It was close to midnight when his phone buzzed. He was too far gone to notice until the next morning, when he blinked blearily at the missed call notification.
By Emotionally or creatively evocativeabout a year ago in Fiction
The Sweetest Dreams
In the quiet town of Meadowbrook, nestled between rolling hills and whispering woods, lived a young girl named Elsie. Barely ten years old, with eyes wide as the sky and curls as golden as morning sunshine, she was known for something rare—her dreams. Not just any dreams, but dreams so vivid and enchanting that people swore they could smell the flowers, feel the wind, and taste the honeyed air she described upon waking.
By NIAZ Muhammadabout a year ago in Fiction
Pooh's visit with Piglet
Piglet puts down his broom beside the door and he and Pooh go in his house. Piglet offers his favorite, and Pooh wonders if Piglet has his as well. They sit at Piglet's small table and Pooh notices there it is along with some tea and biscuits. Piglet must have known he would be by on his morning walk through the woods. Piglet is smart that way for I am a bear of very little brain. They sat and asked each other what each of them had planned. They each had nothing really to do on this day and thought.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Pooh pays a visit
Pooh continued down the path for he decided to go see his best friend Piglet. Pooh also thought maybe he would have a possible spot of his favorite snack or something. He continues down the path to Piglet's house. When he arrives there, he sees that Piglet is out and as normal sweeping the leaves away from his door. Piglet is so busy with sweeping that he does not notice that Pooh is coming down the path, and Pooh is hoping that Piglet has not had breakfast. Piglet turns and sees Pooh. Hi, Pooh Bear how about a snack now.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Pooh Bear
As Pooh was wandering through the Hundred Acre Wood he came up a small puddle, and he wondered what could live in such a small place. He bent over to check it out and you know what he saw he saw a frog and a worm. Pooh thought. Pooh studied the frog all around till the frog hopped away and the worm slithered away too. Pooh thought again. Maybe that frog and worm didn't live there and they were just going along like he was on a morning walk before breakfast. Pooh continued on down the path and visited Piglet.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
The Legacy of Home. Top Story - July 2025.
It was only August, but it already felt like Summer’s end. The heat had broken; maybe it was the thunderstorm of tears I had wept which had tempered the humidity and made the air less oppressive, as if the world were giving me some comfort. My eyes sizzled at the thought, threatening to begin bubbling pools again. I blinked fiercely, urging them silently to settle themselves. They obeyed, this time, and I sighed in relief. I did not want my eyes blurry as I traveled the tree arched mountain pass, her road ways curving up like a sanguine river. It was so peaceful, so familiar, and I cherished the sun sparkling through the emerald leaves and the smell of the sunlight toasting the onion grass as I drove onward towards home.
By Ellie Hoovsabout a year ago in Fiction
Mum's the Word
So she's lying there, right, completely out. He must have heard her go down. Great big thump. She's not a small woman. Anyway. He still didn't shout out. Bang on the door. Anything. Dunno what I was expecting really. But now, I look back, and I reckon... I was gonna keep going till he gave me something. I'd probably keep going after that, too. But right then, I just wanted to know what it was going to take. To break him. I guess. He must feel something for her. She's his mum, right? I mean, I don't have one, but... I kind of wished I did. When I was little, you know. A kid. I thought she'd be beautiful, and smell clean. Tuck me in or whatever. It sounds sappy, but little kids want stupid shit, don't they? I'm not like that anymore. Obviously. I don't need anything now. Or anyone. Point is. For most people, mums are people they about. Aren't they? Maybe I'd read him all wrong. There she is. A lump in cheap clothes. At my mercy. She's not, by the way, anything like the mum I imagined when I was a stupid little kid. She's ugly. Up close, she doesn't smell good. She does seem to worship him. But that only proves how stupid she is. I should do her then. In the murder way. Not the sex way. I don't know why I didn't. Saving it, I suppose. Gut instinct. Holding off so l can do it when it'll hurt him most. I dragged her limp body to the front door. Not bothering to be quiet. I got the door open. Checked the corridor. Okay, now I had to act quick. I don't like that. I like a plan. Breathing room. Don't like stress. But here goes. I picked her up. That was hard. She's short but shes dumpy. I carried her down to her car and bundled her into the passenger seat. "One too many sherries. One too many sherries." I held that in my mouth, hoping no one would ask. I got in the driver's seat. Gotta admit, my hands were all sweaty. I don't like driving. I avoid it when I can. Prefer buses. But I can drive. So I did. I used her satnav to find the way back to her place. What is it with old people programming in places like "home"? Do you need a machine to get you how to get somewhere you go every day? People are so stupid. I found her keys in her handbag, got the door open. Came back for her. Manhandled her in. Somehow. Had a good rummage through her belongings. What to keep? I thought I might take the phone, but those things are trackable, so maybe I shouldn't keep it. Found myself thumbing her front door key. Wouldn't it be funny if she had no spare and was locked inside? Neat. Poetic, practically. I did take the phone, but I broke it apart and dropped the pieces in the canal. It took a long time to walk home.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
The President’s Last Protester
The sky over District 9 was always gray now. Not from clouds, but from the haze of burnt air, ash of deleted history, and the slow decay of freedom. The “Era of Unity,” they called it—a slogan stamped onto every building, drone, and screen like a warning. Tomas Rell hadn’t set out to be a symbol. He just wanted to hold a sign. It read: “Truth is not treason.” Painted in shaky strokes on torn cardboard, it barely lasted five minutes before the Enforcers came. They didn’t drag him away violently—that would be too obvious. They smiled, offered him water, and thanked him for his “civic engagement.” That was the new method: erase, not crush. Make dissent look like it never existed. He woke up in a clean, white room underground, bound not by chains, but by soft cushions and too much silence. Across from him sat Director Kael—sharp suit, soft voice, eyes like polished glass. “You’re Tomas Rell. 28. Freelance coder. No criminal record. One aunt, deceased. No partner. Quiet social presence. You don’t even vote,” Kael said, scrolling through a transparent tablet. “So why stand in front of Parliament Hall with that sign?” Tomas, voice dry, replied, “Because someone had to.” Kael smiled. “Interesting answer. But unoriginal. You’re not the first to say it. You are, however, the last.” The President had outlawed protest six years earlier—gently, surgically. No riots. Just re-education, quiet disappearances, and mass approval ratings that never dipped below 98%. That was the genius of it: not a dictatorship, but a preference. People preferred silence over danger. “You’re being given an opportunity,” Kael said, folding his hands. “We don’t execute dissenters. We upgrade them. Give them new stories, new names. You could work in AI ethics. Or water reclamation. Or drone choreography. The future loves a repentant soul.” Tomas stared. “You want me to lie.” “No,” Kael replied, standing. “We want you to forget.” Days blurred. He was shown holograms of “historical unrest”—doctored footage of protests devolving into chaos, with captions like “Rage is Regressive” and “Only Traitors Need Shout.” They let him watch his own digital funeral—an empty urn placed in a memorial square, mourners reciting state-approved farewells. His name was now marked as “Removed for Restoration.” “You died,” Kael said, sipping tea. “Now we’re building something better in your place.” But what they hadn’t predicted was the message. Before the Enforcers came, Tomas had dropped his sign. Not by mistake, but deliberately. A small camera drone—a relic he hacked together from spare parts—had recorded the entire encounter. The footage uploaded automatically to a dead man’s server. From there, it leaked. It spread like roots through old forums, underground networks, and darkfiber chatrooms. Someone dubbed the clip “The Last Protest.” The sign—“Truth is not treason”—became a watermark on every pirate broadcast. No movement, no leaders. Just questions. Who was Tomas Rell? Where did he go? Why did a government afraid of one man silence the whole country? Two weeks later, Kael returned with tighter eyes and a sharper tone. “You’ve become inconvenient.” Tomas smirked. “I thought I was dead.” “Dead people don’t trend.” Kael threw a paper on the table—actual paper, rare now. It was a printed flyer: Tomas’s face, stylized and grainy, above the words “REMEMBER THE LAST.” Kael paced. “You think this makes you a hero? You stood in a plaza for five minutes. You said nothing. You didn’t lead a revolution. You didn’t even bleed.” “I didn’t have to,” Tomas said. “You did all that for me.” They couldn’t kill him. That would prove too much. So they kept him, studied him, reshaped him—trying to turn him into a fable. They offered him scripts: to record apologies, give fake interviews, confess allegiance. Each time he refused, the myth grew stronger. In District 9, street artists tagged walls with his image. In District 3, schoolchildren whispered his name like a ghost. In the outer colonies, protesters wore blank masks with only the words: “I Might Be Tomas.” Ten months later, Kael stood alone in the interrogation room. Tomas wasn’t there. Not physically. But his absence was louder than his presence had ever been. He had vanished—officially “reintegrated,” but no record existed of where. Some said he escaped. Some said he was living under another name. Others believed he had died and been buried beneath the President’s garden. It didn’t matter. Because across the nation, silence was no longer preferred. People were speaking again. Carefully at first. Then openly. Then together. And it had all started with one man holding a sign. “Truth is not treason.”
By Ubaid Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Noise Darkness Makes
Tick… Tick… Tick… That noise—what is that noise? Tick… Tick… Tick… There it goes again. What is that noise? I can only see darkness, so what is causing that sound? Maybe a clock? But where? I tried to concentrate, but it sounded like it was coming from everywhere—All directions, with no relent, as it continued to tick, tick, tick.
By John Henryabout a year ago in Fiction
Five Shadows
He didn't know how it happened or when it started, but he had been in many places where he cast multiple shadows, and didn't think anything of it, but now, everywhere he went, he cast five shadows. He didn't know why, and nothing seemed to be amiss, but each day it preyed a little more on his mind.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
