Microfiction

The Walk. Content Warning.
The walk there was always something I savoured, trying to make it last longer than the five minutes it usually took. This was not because I wanted to delay my arrival at the destination at the end of the walk.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
Flowers on the Pavement
The van jerks to a sudden halt, throwing my shackled body forward — my forehead smacks the metal wall. No apology. No pause. Just silence… except for the shallow breathing of the others inside. A beam of light slices through a rusted crack in the door, brushing my face like a whisper from a world I once belonged to. Outside, the air shimmers with heat and dust. Faded graffiti bleeds down concrete walls. Stray dogs dig through heaps of forgotten lives. Then — movement. A girl. Kneeling by the roadside. She can’t be older than ten. A dirty pink dress. Scraped knees. Eyes that have seen too much. She’s planting something. Between cracks in the broken pavement. A single flower. Bright. Whole. Alive. She cups the fragile stem with both hands, shielding it from the ugliness around her. Then pours water from a battered plastic bottle — just enough. Just enough. She doesn’t see us. Doesn’t know her quiet defiance has been witnessed. But I see her. And I will not forget. This is the street they bring the condemned down. Where shadows are longer than lives. Where names are erased before voices fade. And yet — she plants. Not in ignorance. But in defiance. A flower not meant to grow here. The van shudders back into motion. Chains rattle. Dust rises. But I don’t look away. Not until she — and her small rebellion — disappear behind rusted metal. I lean my head back. A tear rolls down my cheek, warm against the cold wall. That flower wasn’t for decoration. It was a rebellion. A funeral. A prayer. Maybe even a promise. I close my eyes and hold onto it. I don’t know how much time I have left. But I know now: If she still believes life can bloom here — maybe so can I.
By Still Writingabout a year ago in Fiction
Welcome Home, Forever
The key slid into the lock like it never left. Claire hesitated, fingers trembling against the cold brass. This was supposed to be a fresh start—a return, not a retreat. She exhaled and pushed the door open. The house greeted her with silence, absolute silence. Twelve years. Twelve years since she fled this place at seventeen, barefoot, blood-slicked, and screaming into the dark woods. The neighbors said it was a gas leak. The police said it was a suicide pact. Claire knew better. Her family didn’t die that night. They changed. And they’re still here. The air inside smelled like cedarwood and faint decay. The furniture was just as she remembered: mother’s red velvet chair by the fireplace, father’s dusty pipe on the mantel, the crack in the corner wall shaped like a screaming face. Untouched, like time had been stitched shut. She stepped in. The door clicked shut behind her. The inheritance lawyer called last week: “Your family’s estate has been transferred o you.” A technicality. No bodies, no wills. Just rumors. She told herself she needed closure. But Claire knew the truth. She had to face them. --- In the kitchen, the table was set. Four plates. Four crystal glasses filled with water. She hadn’t told anyone she was coming. She hadn’t touched the lights. Yet the chandelier flickered above her, humming softly like it was thinking. Claire’s fingers hovered above the back of her father’s chair. She remembered the last dinner clearly—the whispers, the wide-eyed silence, the taste of iron in the roast. Her brother’s grin, stretched too far. Her mother humming that horrible tune. That same tune drifted now from upstairs. She froze. "Claire..." A whisper. Behind her. She spun around. Nothing. Just the empty hallway. Just shadows that seemed a little too thick. She backed into the kitchen, breath catching on the sharp edge of memory. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A text: WELCOME HOME. No number. No name. Just two words. And then: WE NEVER LEFT. --- She ran for the front door. Locked. She hadn’t locked it. Another buzz. A third message: DINNER IS GETTING COLD. A sudden clunk echoed from the dining room. She turned. The plates were full now. Roast lamb, green beans, mashed potatoes. Her family’s last meal. Claire’s knees buckled. Her hand gripped the edge of the table to steady herself. The food steaming and aromatic. She took a step back. Then she heard it. Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy. Synchronized. Four pairs. Claire fled down the hallway, past childhood portraits whose eyes seemed to follow her. She ducked into the basement and slammed the door. Dark. Musty. A single chain-pull light above. She yanked it. The bulb flared—and revealed the circle. Drawn in chalk on the floor. Symbols etched into the wood. A child's doll at its center, its head twisted backward. She remembered this. The night everything changed, her brother Tommy had brought a book home. "Found it in the woods," he said, eyes glittering. They played a game. Candles, chanting, giggling in the dark. Only Claire had run when the wind started whispering back. Now, twelve years later, the circle looked fresh. Wet. The chanting resumed above. Low. Unified. She grabbed the doll—its eyes fluttered open. “Welcome home.” She screamed and hurled it across the room. The chanting grew louder. The light snapped off. A cold wind wrapped around her legs like fingers. Claire bolted up the basement stairs. --- At the top, the door creaked open on its own. They were waiting in the foyer. Her family. Same clothes, same faces—preserved like porcelain. But wrong. Mother's eyes were too black. Father’s smile never moved. Tommy’s limbs bent the wrong way. And her little sister Emily, forever eight, hovered an inch off the floor. “We’ve missed you,” her mother said, voice like splinters in honey. “You left us,” Tommy hissed, tilting his head like a bird. “We forgave you,” Emily whispered, drifting closer. Claire stepped back. "You’re not them," she said. “You’re not real.” “We are now,” Father replied, lifting his pipe with a jerk, miming old habits. “You opened the door. You accepted the house. The pact is whole.” “I never made a pact!” she shouted. Tommy grinned. “You were part of the circle. Once marked, always marked.” “We waited,” Mother crooned. “We practiced being human again. For you.” They reached for her. She ran. --- Claire crashed into the fireplace, hands searching for the iron poker. She found it and swung wildly. Emily shrieked—a sound like breaking glass—and vanished in smoke. Father howled. Tommy lunged. She stabbed the poker into his side. No blood. Just shadows leaking out. The house shrieked. Ceiling cracked. Walls wept. The air turned heavy, like underwater. “You can’t fight home,” Mother whispered, floating above the floor now. Her skin was cracking like porcelain, light bleeding from within. “We just wanted dinner,” Father said. “And our family.” “You were chosen, Claire,” Emily said behind her. “You should never have left.” --- Claire stumbled back to the kitchen. The food was rotten now, crawling with worms. She saw the bottle. Still where she left it twelve years ago, hidden behind the spice rack: kerosene. Shaking, she poured it in a wide circle. Across the floor. Up the stairs. Down the hallway. The family shrieked. “NO,” Mother howled. “You can’t destroy us. We are you.” Claire lit a match. Paused. “I’m not.” She dropped it. The house shrieked again. --- Outside, under the crescent moon, Claire watched as her childhood home burned. Figures twisted in the flames—pleading, snarling, laughing. She didn’t cry. Not for the house. Not for them. Not anymore. --- Three days later, her phone buzzed again. No name. No number. YOU NEVER LEFT. THE END
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Why Not Science. Content Warning.
This was a 48-hour project. I lived in Austin & South Texas for 13 years. My friend in Austin texted me about the tyranny and theocracy that has taken over his state. THIS IS A FICTION STORY! I CREATED ALL THE CHARACTERS, METAPHORES IN THE VIDEO, AND NEEDED TO SAY THIS!
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli about a year ago in Fiction
The Grey Bus. Content Warning.
He was waiting ages for a bus, looked at his watch, and thought he had missed the last bus, or it had been cancelled. It was dark and foggy, with a hint of mist and rain. Maybe it was low cloud, he didn't know.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
Frankenstein 2025
He pressed play on their class recording again. Melanie went first and blabbered on about some of the approved causes of the Civil War. She was nice, much nicer than most of his classmates. Live presentation and pen and paper had been Mr. Sanders answer to education’s problems, simple and effective. To be honest, Zach didn’t mind. There were two types of people who used LLM’s to do their homework: idiots and people like Zach who were too smart to be bothered, at least by his own estimation. There were better uses of his time.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction
The Blocked Exit
For Mikeydred's June Challenge June is a month of rest and escape. The idea of escape also calls for some introspection..is it the answer? Or a point of regret?
By Michelle Liew Tsui-Linabout a year ago in Fiction
Beginning-Endings Unofficial Challenge WINNERS
Well, this is embarrassing. I promised to announce the winners for this unofficial challenge nearly two full weeks ago - and here we are, winners unnanounced, zero updates from me, and a near total absence from the writing, reading, challenge-submitting, and commenting scenes on Vocal. OUCH.
By Gabriel Huizengaabout a year ago in Fiction
I Bought a Painting That Changes Every Time I Look at It
I bought the painting at a garage sale for twelve dollars because the woman selling it looked like she was about to cry every time someone walked past without buying anything. Also, I had recently broken up with my boyfriend of three years and was in that dangerous phase where you make questionable life decisions because "treating yourself" seems like a valid coping mechanism.
By Hamna Maalikabout a year ago in Fiction
The Thousandth White Rose
For ten winters, the delicate chime of crystal above the florist’s door had been Liam’s evening benediction, heralding his arrival. It was a sound woven into the fabric of Liam’s existence, as predictable and comforting as the fading of daylight.
By Heydoabout a year ago in Fiction
Solstice
“You think they ever…you know…here?” Marcus made a stabbing motion from atop the viewing platform. ”Probably,” Joe laughed, walking below along the ridges of the Great Serpent Mound. It really was spectacular, way more impressive in person than his new friends told him it was.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction
Theriocentricity-My definition
Theriocentricity is a term that means to me a way to bring all theories on several topics and subjects to become a concentric whole. Like when learning how to teach you are also learning some very basic counseling skills in making whomever to improve behaviors and still learning basic skills socially and academically. Seeing how the relationships of these two professions are similar as well as different. Remember an old science experiment when you drop a rock in the water and the waves as concentric circles get bigger and bigger we are learning that theories help us to understand ideas.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction