Microfiction
Falling in Love With Someone From Another Timeline
The Voice on the Radio It began on a stormy Thursday night when Ethan was alone in his apartment, struggling to fix an old radio he had purchased from a flea market. The device was nearly fifty years old and barely functional, but Ethan enjoyed restoring vintage electronics in his spare time. As rain battered the windows and thunder echoed across the city, he adjusted one of the radio's rusted dials. Suddenly, a clear voice emerged through the static.
By Robert Redford4 months ago in Fiction
The Photograph That Changes Every Morning
The Unexpected Package The photograph arrived on a rainy Tuesday morning in a plain brown package with no return address. Daniel almost ignored it, assuming it was another delivery intended for someone else in the apartment building. But his name was written clearly across the front. Curious, he carried it inside and carefully opened it on the kitchen table. Nestled within layers of yellowed newspaper was an old wooden frame containing a black-and-white photograph of a Victorian house standing alone at the edge of a forest. The image appeared ordinary at first glance. The house looked abandoned, its windows dark and lifeless beneath a cloudy sky. A narrow path stretched from the front porch into the woods beyond. There was no note, no explanation, and no indication of who had sent it. After staring at it for several minutes, Daniel simply shrugged and placed it on a shelf in his living room.
By Robert Redford4 months ago in Fiction
Not the Kind of "Thank You" That You Want to Hear...
I didn’t know if the time was right but I said it anyway, “I love you. Without looking at me, she responded flatly with, “Thank you.” In my head, I thought to myself how lame of a response that really was. When you say, "I love you," to someone and they respond with, "Thank you," it feels as if they received the drop of your love in a bucket. An endless bucket that goes on into some abyss. If there is no "I love you, too," then it just feels void of any relational depth or connection. It's empty. Hollow. Sad. It feels almost like a waste altogether but then maybe there is still some value or intrinsic merit? It's like the tossing and turning during sleepless nights but instead you're wide awake, sitting very still awkwardly and not actually attempting to sleep at all.
By Rowan Finley 4 months ago in Fiction
The Mirror of Althazar. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
The iron foundry at the edge of the world ran twenty-four hours a day, fueled by the embers of fallen stars. The blacksmiths who worked there were massive men and women with skin like treated leather and eyes that reflected the white-hot glow of the crucibles. Their task was to forge the armor for the kingdom’s celestial guard—suits of plate mail so dense that no arrow, sword, or spell could pierce them.
By Asghar ali awan4 months ago in Fiction
The Merchant of Shadows
The weavers of the High Steppe did not use wool or silk. They sat on the rocky precipices where the wind whipped through the canyons like a physical weight, and they wove the air itself. Using needles carved from the bones of mountain eagles, they captured the invisible currents, turning gusts into heavy blankets and gentle breezes into delicate, translucent veils that could ward off the fiercest winter frost.
By Asghar ali awan4 months ago in Fiction
