Microfiction
Buried Secrets: The Night My Sanity Slipped Away
I always knew something was wrong with my neighbor, Mr. Langley. People thought he was just quiet, maybe a little eccentric, but I saw right through him. Every night, when the rest of the street fell into its peaceful slumber, he would be out in his garden. Not tending to plants or flowers, no. He’d be out there digging, always digging. No one else seemed to notice or care. But I did.
By Lawrence Lease2 years ago in Fiction
261 — Psychosclerosis: Traditional Folk Disease Officially Recognized
There's a common condition, a scourge shunned for far too long, that's been called the "hidden affliction." Raging across all demographics, every race, across genders, and even extending vertically through generations, it's seldom referenced until recognized and called out—typically—rudely, in a vocal identification nothing short of overt invective.
By Gerard DiLeo2 years ago in Fiction
Snow-man
I await the first flake. For with it, my love will return. Lumen. My Lumen. I hold his heart all year round. It sits in a box on my sideboard. The box is nothing special but what it contains is everything to me. Sometimes, I open it and I look at it, quickly, blue, beating and marvel at the fact that it's mine, that he has chosen me over all others.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
Eavesdropping. Top Story - September 2024. Content Warning.
Eavesdropping had become a habit for Annabelle that summer. Something was going on and Annabelle was being deliberately excluded. Being outside a secret is hard and so, she was spying whenever she was able.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
Hello, Doggie. Nice Doggie.
I breathed hard, the dead man at my feet. It took a moment, and the feel of the cool night air on my skin, to remember I was naked. How odd: I hadn't felt remorse when I bashed his head in, but my conscience pecked at me now, as I tugged his joggers off him and put them on, hopping about on the dewy grass.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
Marmalade
It was a strange obsession to have, especially as the only person, no, creature, that could possibly relate was a fictional bear called Paddington and he'd only expressed desire for it between slices of bread, whereas she was having it with everything and was astounded at how good it tasted all the time.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
Where Angels Fear to Tread
Everything made perfect sense now, whether in terms of the big picture or my own personal life. Through Zara I had acquired the missing piece of the puzzle, no less, which I needed to fulfil my destiny as a saviour. Not in the classical sense, of course. But, nevertheless, I was about to give souls the opportunity to save themselves, from a decision which they’d long since forgotten they’d even made. Rules that had previously made such decisions irreversible were no longer valid, and I myself had invalidated them, on account of my growth in consciousness, in defiance of a world that was designed to have the opposite effect. Whilst some conspiracy theorists were aware of this ‘war on consciousness’, they had understandably considered it to be malevolent in nature. Who could have guessed that the world was actually a euthanasia facility, for souls who no longer wanted to exist, and that ‘evil’ was merely the result of people acting from a very low state of consciousness, as they headed inexorably towards oblivion?
By Corey Freeman2 years ago in Fiction
