Microfiction

Showing me the magic
Years ago, in the vibrant city of Rio de Janeiro, there lived a young man named Pedro. Pedro worked at a prestigious marketing firm, but despite the outward success, he felt a constant undercurrent of dissatisfaction. He had been with the company for a few months, navigating a steep learning curve before settling into a routine. Yet, the nagging feeling that he was meant for something more wouldn’t leave him.
By Tales by J.J.2 years ago in Fiction
Blossoming in Our Own Time
A few years ago, I stumbled upon a book by Rich Karlgaard called Late Bloomers, The Power of Patience In A World Obsessed With Early Achievement. The title struck a chord with me, like an unexpected harmony that makes you pause and listen. I consider myself a late bloomer—a term Merriam-Webster describes as “someone who becomes successful, attractive, etc., at a later time in life than other people.” Apparently, I’m not alone; many people share this sentiment.
By Tales by J.J.2 years ago in Fiction
A Twist of Fate on a Midnight Train
It was during the summer of 2018 that Ana, a bright-eyed eighteen-year-old, returned to Brazil for her university studies. Her parents still lived in Europe, and she felt an overwhelming sense of homesickness in her first semester. Everything seemed daunting—adjusting to her new roommate, an aloof senior who barely acknowledged her presence, juggling the rigorous academic schedule, and adapting to the chaotic life in the student hostel. She found herself wondering how she would survive an entire year without seeing her parents. Adding to her woes, she had to endure the unofficially sanctioned hazing rituals of the first few weeks, which often left her in tears.
By Tales by J.J.2 years ago in Fiction
There are no bad children
Tiantang Village Primary School is located in a remote mountainous area with inconvenient transportation, and it is only occasionally visited by philanthropists who come to donate. Each time, the entire school community turns out: students stand on the ridges, dancing with wildflowers to welcome the guests; and Principal Fang Sirui personally leads the way, carrying the guests up the mountain in a rudimentary sedan chair made from tree vines.
By John Bruce2 years ago in Fiction
Echo's From The Mine
In the heart of a forgotten valley, surrounded by jagged mountains and thick woods, lay the abandoned Silver Ridge Mine. Its entrance yawned like the mouth of a beast, dark and foreboding, whispering secrets of the past to anyone brave enough to listen. The town nearby had long since lost its shimmer, its glory fading with the last echo of pickaxes against rock. Only a handful of souls remained, drawn by nostalgia or a stubborn refusal to leave their roots behind. One such soul was Clara, a woman in her thirties with chestnut hair and eyes that held the weight of countless stories. She had grown up in Silver Ridge, a place where laughter once filled the air and dreams soared as high as the mountains. Her father had been a miner, toiling long hours beneath the earth's surface, pulling precious silver from the dark recesses. But when the mine had closed, and the last vein was tapped, despair had gripped the town like a vice. Clara’s father had never returned from the mine after that fateful day—his body never found, his spirit swallowed by the earth he had loved. Clara often wandered to the mine, a place of shadows and memories. She could still hear the echoes of her father's laughter, the stories he spun about the glimmering silver, and the camaraderie of the men who worked alongside him. She could almost feel the warmth of his hand on her shoulder, guiding her through the darkness. Each time she approached the entrance, an uneasy shiver danced along her spine, yet something compelled her to return. One misty morning, Clara set out for the mine, determined to confront the past that had haunted her for so long. The air was thick with fog, lending an otherworldly quality to the landscape. As she drew closer, she heard the familiar sound of water dripping from the rocks, a melody that echoed in the silence. With a deep breath, she stepped inside, the cool air enveloping her like a forgotten embrace. The mine’s interior was a labyrinth of tunnels, crisscrossing in chaotic patterns. Shadows flickered as she lit her lantern, casting a warm glow that illuminated the jagged walls. Clara walked carefully, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and exhilaration. The deeper she ventured, the more she felt the weight of her father’s presence. It was as if the walls were alive with memories, whispering to her through the ages. Suddenly, Clara stumbled upon a hidden chamber, its entrance barely visible behind a cluster of rocks. Curiosity ignited within her, and she pushed her way inside. The chamber opened up into a vast expanse, revealing glittering veins of silver embedded in the stone, untouched and waiting. A gasp escaped her lips as she stepped forward, the treasure shimmering in the lantern's glow. As she approached the silver, a flicker of movement caught her eye. From the shadows emerged a figure—a man with weary eyes and a face etched with the marks of time. Her breath caught in her throat; it was her father, or at least a vision of him. He looked just as she remembered, standing amid the riches he had sought but never claimed. “Clara,” he spoke, his voice resonating in the stillness. “Why have you come?” “I’ve come to find you,” she replied, tears welling in her eyes. “To understand why you never came home.” He smiled gently, his gaze filled with both sorrow and pride. “I never left you. I am here, always. The mine holds my spirit, as it does the spirits of all who worked to carve life from its depths. You must let go of the past to find your own path.” Clara felt a rush of emotions wash over her, the pain of loss mingling with the warmth of love. The silver around her gleamed like stars in the night sky, a reminder of her father’s dreams. She understood then that the mine was not just a place of sorrow but also of hope and legacy. With newfound resolve, Clara turned to leave. As she stepped out of the chamber, the weight on her heart began to lift. The echoes of the mine still whispered behind her, but now they carried a sense of peace. She emerged into the daylight, the sun shining down on her like a promise, ready to embrace the life that awaited beyond the shadows of Silver Ridge.
By zulfi bux2 years ago in Fiction
Betrayal?
Katie and Dave Katie looks at her phone and then her dad. He is staring at the TV and hasn't turned to acknowledge her when she came in. She reaches for the phone, the knowledge that she'd never leave it there uppermost in her mind. She wonders whether to say anything but she's nervous.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
The Sealed Secret
In the small town of Ashgrove, surrounded by misty mountains and dense forests, Layla had always felt like a stranger in her own home. She lived with her grandmother, a woman known for her reclusive nature and an unsettling talent for silence. While the townsfolk adored Layla's grandmother, they treated her with a mix of admiration and fear. Layla never understood why, but she was used to living with the mystery that hung around her family like the fog over Ashgrove. One cold November evening, as Layla was sorting through an old chest in her grandmother’s attic, she came across a peculiar envelope. It was thick and sealed with a strange, crimson wax insignia—a symbol she’d never seen before. The envelope was marked with her name, in her grandmother’s neat handwriting. Curious, Layla took the envelope down to her grandmother’s study, where the older woman sat in her armchair, gazing into the flames of the fireplace as though they held secrets only she could see. "Gran," Layla said, holding out the envelope, "what’s this?" Her grandmother’s face darkened as her eyes met Layla’s. She glanced at the envelope, and her lips tightened into a thin line. “Where did you find that?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. “In the attic,” Layla replied. “It has my name on it. Why?” Her grandmother looked away, her gaze shifting to the shadows in the room. After a pause, she said, “It’s time, then. But remember, child, some secrets are best left alone.” With trembling hands, Layla broke the wax seal and unfolded the paper inside. The letter was written in her grandmother’s handwriting but appeared to be much older, the ink faded in places. My dearest Layla, If you’re reading this, it means I no longer have the strength to keep the truth from you. You have a gift, as did your mother and grandmother before her. It is a gift, but it is also a curse. We are the Guardians of Ashgrove, bound by blood and by fate to protect a secret hidden deep in the forest—a secret so ancient and powerful that even the land itself trembles in its presence. Layla's heart raced as she continued reading. Her grandmother explained that the town was built over a powerful artifact known as "The Sealed Heart," capable of granting immense power to whoever possessed it. However, it came with a price—those who tried to wield its magic without understanding its limits were said to be consumed by their own darkness, driven mad by insatiable greed. The letter went on to explain that the women in their family had been chosen as Guardians of the artifact, each passing down the duty to the next generation. They were tasked with keeping the artifact hidden, sealed within a secret chamber beneath the roots of Ashgrove’s oldest tree. But Layla’s grandmother was the last living Guardian. With her age and failing health, she feared she could no longer protect the Sealed Heart alone. She needed Layla to carry on the legacy. Stunned, Layla looked up from the letter, her eyes meeting her grandmother's weary gaze. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” she asked. Her grandmother sighed. “I wanted to protect you, Layla. But you are all I have left. This burden… it’s now yours to bear.” As the weight of her new reality sank in, Layla felt a strange pull within her, like an ancient connection awakening. It was as if the forest itself was calling to her. She remembered the way she had always felt when she wandered alone in the woods, sensing something just beyond her reach. The next morning, Layla and her grandmother ventured into the forest together. They walked until they reached the oldest tree, its roots twisting into the ground like veins. Her grandmother handed her a small key, intricate and cold to the touch. “Remember, Layla,” her grandmother said. “The power of the Sealed Heart is not meant for you or me to use. It’s our duty to protect it, to keep it hidden from those who would misuse it.” Layla took a deep breath and inserted the key into a hidden lock among the roots. A faint glow emerged as the earth shifted, revealing a staircase leading down into the darkness. As they descended, the air grew thick, and Layla felt the power of the Sealed Heart pulsing, like a heartbeat echoing in the silence. In that moment, she understood the weight of her responsibility. She was now a Guardian of Ashgrove, entrusted with a secret that could either destroy the town or protect it for generations to come. As she sealed the door behind her, Layla knew that her life would never be the same. The burden was hers now, but she carried it with the strength and wisdom passed down through generations, ready to protect the Sealed Heart—and her town—from any darkness that dared approach.
By zulfi bux2 years ago in Fiction
Footsteps Behind Me
The night was still, with only the distant hum of a lone streetlight illuminating the long, empty path stretching before me. I was on my way home, my footsteps echoing with a rhythmic thud on the wet pavement. I’d taken this path a hundred times before, but tonight, it felt different — something unspoken lingered in the air, as if the very shadows were watching. The First Signs of Fear
By zulfi bux2 years ago in Fiction
Kate. Top Story - November 2024.
Her name was Екатерина Ровбуть, but I just called her “Kate.” I met her while playing a mobile game called TWD: Survivors, which was based on the Walking Dead comics by Robert Kirkman. It was a blast and one of the few places where I really felt a sense of community. She went by the username “Kailirus” and had this charming vibe about her. I’m not sure what caught her attention, but maybe it was my late-night poetry sessions in the Region chat. At 2 AM, I’d jump into an empty chat which was usually buzzing with people and just share my poems. Some thought I was a bit crazy, but it was my jam, and I didn’t care. Whatever it was, she started chatting with me. We ended up talking every day, sometimes for hours through private messages. All I knew was that she was straight, 32, and from Russia. Thankfully, the game had a super handy chat translator that made everything easy. You just type, and it does the rest. It felt great to connect with people from all over without borders getting in the way. I had never traveled outside the U.S. and always dreamed of it, but back then, I hadn’t had the chance yet and I kind of felt time was slipping away, that I might never be able to see a different country.
By ᔕᗩᗰ ᕼᗩᖇTY2 years ago in Fiction
308 National Housewife's Day
Among other celebrations, today's both National Housewife’s Day and Give Someone a Dollar Day. A funny story... Because I love my job and my profession, a pretty good day is typical for me. But when I'm off, on Sundays, I savor something exquisite.
By Gerard DiLeo2 years ago in Fiction
Come and See
I was making coleslaw when the portal opened. Have you ever noticed how beautiful a cabbage is? Especially the red ones. Which are actually purple, but perhaps that is a debate for another day. All those lines. All that symmetry. Gorgeous. I'm not sure how long I stood there at the counter, knife in hand, chopping board slowly staining purple, staring at a labyrinth of Nature's design. After a while, those lines starting to glow, ever so faintly. Then the outlines of those lines wiggled, as if there were tiny silver worms undulating along them. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light. I've stared too long, and now my eyes are playing tricks. Maybe I'm getting a migraine. Oh help, I hope not. I have far too much to do. But it wasn't a trick, and it wasn't my imagination. I know what I saw. The wriggling and shining became more and more noticeable, and somewhere along the way, the cabbage got bigger.or maybe I got smaller, and didn't notice. How did I never see it before? These portals exist all around us, all we have to do is really SEE them. I stepped forward into the blazing silver light. It dimmed a little, almost out of consideration to my eyeballs. Or maybe my eyes adjusted. My pupils would have been the tiniest of pin pricks, but I didn't think to take a selfie. The tunnel was a deep, rich purple. On the very edge of vision, I could still see the squirming silver light. There was a pulsing like a heartbeat, divorced from my steps. At first, I thought it was the walls of the tunnel, and then the light. And at last wondered if it was me. Next, I noticed that the colour seemed faded, and so did the cabbagey smell, and the rubbery quality underfoot. No, not faded, rather, further away. The tunnel walls are further away with every footstep, every look, every breath. Surely they're as distant now, as the tunnels end?
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
Don’t Print It!
Inflation continued across the land. One hundred trillion dollar bills continued to flow throughout America. Delawarean economist Danielle Bus knew something had to be done. She looked at the data. In being consumed by the numbers, she looked at every line and made it all dance on the page.
By Skyler Saunders2 years ago in Fiction