Microfiction

The Revolution Will Not Be Martinized
The revolution... ...will not be available in an hour in a cardboard box or on hangers that you can save for emergencies and those extra coats.
By Kendall Defoe about a year ago in Fiction
Stopping by the Park at Sunset
A soft sigh escaped my lips as we settled on the bench at the edge of the park. I held myself in stillness for a moment, before turning to that feeling of your eyes on me. I wondered how you could look so intently at someone you barely knew. Was I interesting because I was shiny and new? Maybe you were the type to gaze upon things you wished to understand. I could only stand to look in your eyes for a moment before shyness pulled my gaze to the ground.
By Bugsy Wattsabout a year ago in Fiction
The blank canvas
Sunlight splintered. Lila woke, mind blank, memories like sand, slipping through her grasp. A sticky note read: "You're Lila, doctor today."
By Leyong Linabout a year ago in Fiction
Minutes Left
Ominoros, the planet my team thought we could stop on, is dangerous and information needs to be updated immediately. If you’re seeing this message, then assume that I did not make it off of this planet alive. If this makes it to the hands of any admin from Jorst Tech, mark the last known location of Raymond Infino of Starburst Team as a class 9 planet.
By AJabout a year ago in Fiction
Theriocentricity
“Ahh Rupert, welcome! Welcome! Come in. Set that down.” Rupert did as he was commanded and set down the saucer adorned with a single glass of Port. He should have known–Lord Hood only ordered Port when he wanted to play the game. The study was stuffy, a poor imitation of a bygone era. Mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, almost certainly never opened, intermixed with mounted heads of wild lions and zebras, almost certainly killed by someone else.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction
The Keeper of Forgotten Colors
The world had forgotten color when Elara was a child, the Fade stealing hues like a thief in the night. Skies turned to ash, forests to charcoal, and eyes saw only gray. Paintings crumbled, flowers withered, and the word “blue” became a myth. Elders spoke of a time when rainbows arced and sunsets burned, but to Elara’s generation, it was folklore. Yet Elara, now twenty-three, was different. She remembered. In a crumbling lighthouse on a jagged cliff, she became the Keeper, weaving colors from memories in a world that had none.Each night, Elara climbed the lighthouse’s rusted spiral stairs, her hands stained with impossible shades. In a room of shattered mirrors, her loom—a relic of bone and wire—hummed with power. She wove blue from her mother’s shawl, its sapphire folds swaying as she sang lullabies. Red came from the apple she’d stolen at seven, its juice sharp on her tongue. Gold flared from sunsets she’d chased across cliffs, their warmth lingering in her chest. Every thread cost a memory, erased forever. Her mother’s voice faded, then the apple’s taste, then those sunsets’ glow. Elara gave them willingly. The world needed color more than she needed her past.Below, the town of Graysill scoffed. “Colors?” fishermen muttered, kicking gray pebbles. “Delusions.” But children left offerings at the lighthouse—pebbles smeared with charcoal, chalk, anything resembling hue. Elara collected them, her heart aching for their hope. One stormy night, a girl slipped inside. Kiv, ten years old, with slate-gray eyes, stared at Elara’s glowing threads. “You’re real,” she whispered. “Can you make green?”Elara’s breath caught. Green was her last untouched memory: her father’s laugh, fishing on a lake under emerald pines. “It costs me,” she said, voice like sea fog. Kiv stepped closer, her small hand brushing Elara’s. “Then let me help.”No one had offered before. Elara hesitated, then taught Kiv to weave—not with threads, but stories. Kiv spoke of a kite she’d flown, its tail a ghost of green in her mind. The loom sparked, green shimmering, but Kiv’s eyes stayed gray—she couldn’t see it. “Keep telling,” Elara urged. Kiv’s voice grew bold: meadows where she’d run, limes she’d tasted, a jade pendant her mother once wore. The green thread thickened, vibrant, alive, curling like vines in the air.Rumors spread. Children crept to the lighthouse, then adults, each carrying fragments—memories of crimson roses, violet storms, amber dawns.
By TrueVocalabout a year ago in Fiction
Little Inconveniences. Top Story - June 2025.
Harry blinked several times, willing the sight of the body and the blood on the tile floor to disappear. But they didn’t. When his father had called Harry he’d been sure there was some mistake. Kentville was a small town with no major roads running through it. Gas station convenience stores weren’t unusual targets for thieves, but the one his father had run for the past thirty years was such an unlikely target with it being so far off the beaten path. Everyone knew everyone in Kentville, but Harry didn’t recognize the face of the man with the bullet hole in his head.
By D.K. Shepardabout a year ago in Fiction
Residue . Content Warning.
When Leona Bray first walked into the abandoned pathology lab beneath St. Jericho Hospital, she swore she heard something breathing.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Sanctuary
As the dark circled around me, as my blood was swallowed by the drain again One hesitation mark after another— scorching my flesh and soul.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
The Longest Day
This is for Mikeydred's June Challenge. Never chase the unknown--some things only live in the shadows ☀️🌿🕶️👣🕯️🌞🌾🌕🕷️🫥🌤️🕸️🌅☀️🌿🕶️👣🕯️🌞🌾🌕🕷️🫥🌤️🕸️🌅
By Michelle Liew Tsui-Linabout a year ago in Fiction
What A Day
Rising early that morning, Geoffrey showered and shaved, getting soap in his eyes and nicking his face, effectively setting the mood for his day. In the bedroom closet, he could only find a single clean shirt to wear. Reaching for his favorite shoes, he hit his head on the closet shelves when he lifted back up.
By Mother Combsabout a year ago in Fiction
Sunday Night Arena. Content Warning.
“A brilliant maneuver by Mr. James dispatches Mr. Marne, once of Kansas. He’s now all alone at Agromarch Castle’s main arsenal.”
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction