Microfiction
Shadows of the Same Star
In the quiet town of Elmsridge, nestled between the rolling hills and whispering forests, lived two boys—Eli and Marcus—who had been friends since the age of five. From the moment they built their first fort out of sticks and leaves in the woods behind their houses, the world seemed to exist only for the two of them.
By NIAZ Muhammadabout a year ago in Fiction
Love at First Sight
Amaan was never the kind of boy who believed in love stories. He always thought they were exaggerated tales people told to make life sound more colorful than it really was. But on the first day of college, that belief shattered like fragile glass.
By Aman Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Searching For Ali
Oh Ali, I'm stuck. This morning I feel your hand at play. Uncertainty fuels my intention, my goal. It's been a good lead up. The morning news was not unsettling. Food is appropriate. Only one coffee. A pleasant phone call. The sun is shining. I've done all that is necessary. But here I am again. All I need is to turn that key. To sound off verbally. "The door is locked". To remember that fact, and to walk away. And to walk away. To walk away..
By Scott Catheryabout a year ago in Fiction
A Sad Fourth of July
In a place where there used to be picnics, fireworks and many people now there is nothing but rotting picnic tables and shelters falling down where the people used to watch the fireworks. No one knows what really happened or why it just seemed to just stop. Could it have been that there were just too many rules or was it just too expensive to continue. No one really knows. The Fourth of July a day of excitement and fun is now only a memory of days gone by no longer a day of fun, but one can still remember.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Kite. AI-Generated.
When Jacob’s grandfather died, he left behind very little—an old flannel coat, a pair of muddy boots by the back door, and a red kite tucked away in the attic. The kite was fragile, the paper thin and yellowing, but the frame was sturdy. On one side, written in shaky black ink, were the words: "We rise again." Jacob hadn’t seen the kite in over ten years. It had been their ritual once—every spring, just as the frost lifted, they’d walk up to Miller’s Hill, a windswept patch of grass behind the orchard. His grandfather would carry the kite like a banner, and Jacob would run, his heart beating in time with the wind. But time moved forward, and rituals faded. Jacob grew older. The kite stayed in the attic. --- It had been three weeks since the funeral. The house smelled like wood polish and silence. No one visited anymore. His parents had flown back to the city. The will had been read. Everything settled into dust. Everything, except the kite. Jacob found it while looking for a hammer. The attic was dim, filled with cobwebs and the scent of forgotten summers. He hadn’t gone up there in years, but the moment he saw the red fabric, a chill ran through him—not of fear, but of recognition. Memory tugged at his sleeve like a child wanting to play. He took the kite down, dusted it off. It was lighter than he remembered. Or maybe he had just gotten heavier. --- The next morning, he found himself walking the familiar dirt path up to Miller’s Hill. The wind was strong that day—one of those restless spring winds that pull at your collar and make you squint at the sky. The kind his grandfather used to say was “perfect flying weather.” Jacob stood in the middle of the field, his boots sinking slightly in the thawing ground. He felt ridiculous. He was twenty-eight, alone, holding a tattered kite. But he ran. The kite wobbled at first, dragging low, then caught a gust. With a sudden whoosh, it lifted into the air, dancing against the clouds. Jacob let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. It soared. Higher and higher. He stood there, fingers tight on the string, eyes full of sky. For a moment, he swore he could feel his grandfather beside him, murmuring the same phrase he always said when the kite took off: “See that, Jacob? We don’t stay down forever.” --- The next day, he returned to the hill. And the day after that. What started as a one-time visit became a quiet habit. The townspeople began to notice. An old woman walking her dog waved at him one morning. “Your grandfather used to bring you up there,” she said. “It’s nice, what you’re doing.” Jacob nodded, unsure what he was doing exactly. But the kite kept rising, and with each flight, the tightness in his chest loosened, just a little. --- One day, a boy appeared at the edge of the field, watching shyly. He couldn’t have been more than ten. Thin frame, worn sneakers, a stitched patch on his backpack. Jacob looked over. “Wanna try?” he asked, offering the spool of string. The boy hesitated, then nodded. Together, they ran. The kite soared. Afterward, the boy smiled. “My dad used to fly kites with me,” he said softly. “Before he left.” Jacob didn’t ask questions. Instead, he handed the boy the kite. “Keep it. It flies best when it’s shared.” --- Spring turned to summer. Jacob repaired the old workbench in the shed and built more kites—bright ones, patterned ones, even one shaped like a bird. Kids started coming up to the hill. Parents followed. Soon, Miller’s Hill became a patchwork of color and laughter. The town called it The Kite Circle. Jacob never officially led it, but he was always there, carrying extra string, helping kids whose kites nose-dived, whispering, “We rise again.” --- On the one-year anniversary of his grandfather’s passing, Jacob stood alone on the hill at sunset. The red kite—the original—still flew, patched in one corner, but strong. He held the string gently, then let it go. The kite spun upward one last time, danced with the wind, then drifted down, settling between two oaks. He didn’t chase it. He just smiled. Because he finally understood what his grandfather meant. --- Some things fall. Some things fade. But the things that matter—the love, the lessons, the hope— They rise again.
By Muhammad umairabout a year ago in Fiction
❤rian’s Night: When the Dark Almost Won❤
It was late at night. The wind whispered through the cracked window of a small room, lit only by a dying bulb. Arian sat on the edge of his bed, his hands gripping his face, his shoulders trembling — not from cold, but from the weight of everything he had tried to carry for too long.
By Abdulmusawerabout a year ago in Fiction
Her Other Life
The house was too quiet now. Quiet in the way of old tombs, where even the air forgets to move. Clara sat by the window, pale light of dawn staining her face in ashen hues. The cracked glass trembled against the wind, but the storm was inside her - raging, constant, endless.
By Aspen Nobleabout a year ago in Fiction
"Collateral" is now in pre production.
Recently I received comments on social media from a former colleague who was interested in how I was funding production for Collateral. I had intended to shoot it with iPhone, very barebones, and save the heavy production costs for post editing with special effects for the finale.
By Scott Catheryabout a year ago in Fiction
