Microfiction
A Helping Hand. Content Warning.
The church basement was dim, filled with the quiet murmurs of the support group. Some shared moments of pain and guilt; others offered words of encouragement and compassion. A few, like me, remained silent. I focused not on their words, but on their "auras," sensing a mixture of exhaustion, despair, and reflection. Only Jason, the group leader, felt different—empty, with an edge of trepidation. I recognized the signs. After the meeting, I lingered as others left. Alone, I approached Jason. "I know what you're planning," I said. His face shifted from confusion to despair. "You can't stop me," he replied, turning away. And so I told him about my twin brother—his struggles, his suicide, and the devastation left behind. I didn't mention the powers we'd shared from birth, or how he'd failed to prevent the emotions of others from consuming him. Instead, I told him about the wreckage he’d left in his wake: the mourning my family went through, the guilt, the spiral into alcoholism and toxicity that my parents had yet to recover from. I explained how suicide didn't end suffering; it just transferred it to those left behind. Jason's aura remained mostly unchanged, but there was a tiny ray of warmth at the center now. Fragile, but there nonetheless. As he turned away again, I recognized the feeling: hope. But hope was never enough. The bullet from my Beretta M9 struck the back of Jason's skull, sending him crashing onto the snack table, cookies and coffee scattering in a mess of blood. Kneeling, I took his wallet and slid it into my purse next to my gun. His loved ones would mourn, but without the guilt, blame, or shame mine had suffered. Quietly, I left the church, stepping into the cold night air, ready to find another family to help.
By M Dannenfelser2 years ago in Fiction
The Trophy Cabinet. Content Warning.
When she found his trophy cabinet, the horror of her discovery put her in a place where she had no point of reference; a chasm where she was falling, helpless and without recourse. Her revulsion urged her to act but she was scared: how do you confront someone who you know to be a killer?
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
Miranda
Miranda stretched her shoulders, aching more than usual after a long day in the orchard. The evening meal with her parents and brother and all her tíos and tías, usually a boisterous affair, had been tense and subdued. It felt like the time she had crouched in hiding from a cloud of wasps.
By Sonia Heidi Unruh2 years ago in Fiction
The Green Door
The girl has found a green door in a wall covered in ivy. She thought it was a way to enter a secret garden, but she was surprised when she found the key and entered a room. She cautiously entered the room and slowly looked around. She wondered who could have lived here, and as she continued to look around, but not being noisy the girl saw that it did have a few dust-covered pieces of furniture and a few cobwebs hanging around nut it was kind of taken care of by someone.
By Mark Graham2 years ago in Fiction
244 of 366 (2/3 through!): Death Unawareness
One in five dead people don't know they're dead. This is a startling statistic. Death Awareness, or specifically, recognition of the lack thereof, is a common affliction, making the living uneasy but the dead feel foolish.
By Gerard DiLeo2 years ago in Fiction
I-Hero. Content Warning.
He was the first. And the worst. Killing was not something I was taught. But his insidious manipulations triggered something in everyone he targeted. When I first came upon him, I had no idea what his actions meant. But as I studied him, learnt, realization dawned; he was what Humans called ‘evil’.
By Rajkumarie Devi2 years ago in Fiction
Wannabe Spidey
If I knew this would happen, I would have attended more parties. Even though my best friend's birthday party was unavoidable, I was still unsure about attending. Being the only person I truly talked to was reason to contemplate my presence, especially knowing that he would be the center of attention and, therefore, unavailable. To be honest, I always wanted to attend a theme party and this birthday theme was right up my alley. When James said I could come as my favourite superhero or villain, he knew my leg was halfway through the door, the other half was because I love my friend and hence my confirmation of attendance. He always joked I could be reincarnated as Spider-Man with the amount of knowledge and admiration I have for the webby hero and now I get to live a bit of the dream through my cosplay of the classic red and blue costume. Buying and constructing with the help of my cosplay extraordinaire sister, Lilian, created my custom but classic disguise with operational eyes in the mask. As I get to the party, I head to James to hand him my gift, ease my nerves, and prove that I really am here. I talk to other people for a bit, not that it is impossible, but I never have been interested. James prevented me from meeting him before the party to prevent me from possibly cancelling my attendance since I would be meeting him and showing up in my costume, and also to prevent me from talking only to him throughout the day. After some forced interactions, I head outside for some air, but as I head out, my head and eyes hurt. As the pain intensifies, I sense danger and hope I'm wrong, but seeing someone on the ground makes me hope I'm really wrong.
By Merritt Xavier2 years ago in Fiction
