Microfiction
Tea Parties with Kurt Cobain
The click of the cassette echoes in my hands, plastic shell fitting snug into the deck, a gentle whirr, a faint magnetic hum. I press play. A soft crackle, a moment of nothing. Then, the tape rolls forward, static turns to sound— his voice, familiar and raw, unfurls in the room like smoke. I pour the tea while he sings.
By L.K. Rolan2 years ago in Fiction
A Valentine’s Day to Remember
The streets of New York were adorned with red and pink decorations, and the scent of fresh roses filled the air. Cafés buzzed with couples sharing soft laughter over candlelit dinners, and flower vendors were busy wrapping delicate bouquets for last-minute lovers. Among the crowd, Emma walked briskly, clutching a small wrapped gift in her hands. Her heart pounded as she rehearsed the words she wanted to say.
By Pranshu verma2 years ago in Fiction
Echoes of the Past
Echoes of the Past The wind howled through the ancient forest, carrying with it the whispers of a thousand forgotten tales. The trees, gnarled and twisted with age, stood as silent sentinels, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers toward the heavens. Beneath their canopy, the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a reminder of the cycle of life and death that had played out here for centuries.
By Himansu Kumar Routray2 years ago in Fiction
The Doppelgänger Effect
The Doppelgänger Effect In the quiet, mist-shrouded town of Eldermere, nestled between ancient forests and a whispering river, there was a legend that no one spoke of but everyone feared. It was the tale of the Doppelgänger Effect—a phenomenon said to occur once every century, when the veil between worlds grew thin, and shadows took on a life of their own. It was said that during this time, a person might encounter their exact double, a mirror image of themselves, but with a sinister twist. To meet one’s doppelgänger was an omen of impending doom, a harbinger of chaos that would unravel the fabric of one’s life.
By Himansu Kumar Routray2 years ago in Fiction
The Memory Thief
The Memory Thief The town of Evermere had a secret. At first glance, it was like any other quaint village—cobblestone streets, ivy-covered cottages, and a marketplace that bustled with cheerful voices. But in the heart of Evermere stood an ancient bookstore, **The Hollow Quill**, owned by a man few dared to speak of: Elias Thorne.
By Himansu Kumar Routray2 years ago in Fiction
Valentine’s Day
Valentine’s Day The snow fell softly over the small town of Willowbrook, blanketing the streets in a quiet, shimmering white. It was February 14th, Valentine’s Day, and the town was alive with the hum of love—roses in shop windows, heart-shaped balloons tied to lampposts, and couples strolling hand in hand through the frosty air. But for Clara, this day was just another reminder of what she had lost.
By Himansu Kumar Routray2 years ago in Fiction
One Last Time
One Last Time The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a golden hue over the small coastal town of Seabrook. The salty breeze carried the faint scent of blooming jasmine, mingling with the briny tang of the ocean. It was a place where time seemed to slow, where the waves whispered secrets to the shore, and where memories lingered like the tide.
By Himansu Kumar Routray2 years ago in Fiction
Dr Knives (iv)
They said I was crazy. Can you believe that? Would a crazy person have planned it all out so meticulously? Would a crazy person have such a steady hand? I'll admit the first one was slap dash. That might have been the actions of a madman. I was very keen that Taylor should go under my knife. I was convinced that brain had a lot to teach me, or so I rationalised it to myself. I laid very little ground work there, and lured the patient to my special clinic as quick as I dared. I look back and it couldn't have been better, really. It all worked out exactly as if I had planned it as carefully as I planned the others. The mask I wore over my nose and mouth did nothing for hygiene, but it did help to hide my expressions from Taylor. Disgust at the ripe smell of unwashed body, eagerness when I went to work with my knives. An enormous smile when blood trickled down Taylor's forehead, at the neat line carved into skin and bone. And, at the access, at last, to the squishy maze inside. Would an insane person have kept Taylor alive so long? It gave me great satisfaction to mess about inside that skull, and watch what, if any, changes ocurred on the outside. It didn't take long for the eyeballs to empty, and the mouth to grow slack. I ferreted, and poked, and occasionally judiciously snipped. All the while trying to regain a look of intelligence in those features, so I could lose it again. A scientist must always be ready to test himself, his theories, and his processes. Replicating a result is very important. Would a crazy one have kept such detailed notes? I know I am different from some people, but that's not enough, is it? Who gets to decide what sane is? The beauty of my work with Taylor was that I didn't need to use the restraints after hardly any time at all. I could make this bit twitch, or render other bits still, as I pleased. After Taylor, I resolved to be cautious, and exercise (ha!) the utmost restraint. If I failed, it wouldn't take long for even the most sluggish law enforcement to spot if lots of runaways started going missing from the same place, or after having contact with the same man. It was easy to do, not least because I did keep Taylor alive for quite a while. Taylor was my pet, my guinea pig, for... well for ages. My urge to ask questions, to investigate, to test... These were generally satisfied by poking around in the brain and seeing what's what. All this time, the only place runaways disappeared to was comfy hotel rooms, or B&Bs. They always reappered after a day or two, looking fed and well rested. It's important to build trust in the community. In the end, someone discovered what I was up to, quite by accident. I'll never forget the feeling of a torch slicing through the gathering dark, and landing on my latest patient. Just like Taylor, this one had gone slack in the face. Blood trickled generously. I inserted a blade into the crack there, and levered the top of his skull open. That was precisely the moment the beam of light landed on us. They'd got us bang to rights. I'm not permitted work to do in here. No patients. No pens or books, even, let alone scalpels. The walls are soft, because they say I'm crazy. Can you believe that?
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
