Microfiction
No one else but You
You walked past a few streets, and only then did you realize that there were birds there in need of help—this time, help from a real person, which the birds couldn’t easily ask for. You’re there as a hero who suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Seeing these birds, you simply can’t turn a blind eye, as others do, even if you need help yourself. One of the birds simply followed you a few meters, knowing that you were the only person nearby who could help it survive this situation. It was more than difficult and dangerous, especially at night. You couldn’t take the bird with you, and at that moment you were even in so much pain yourself, but despite that, you had a choice: to help or simply walk away and do nothing, just like the others. But you aren’t like the others—you are yourself, and you have the heart and strength of a warrior who doesn’t care about further danger or personal needs at first. You quickly checked on the bird, observed it, and without hesitation you began a healing meditation, then started treating it with your own hands. As the bird began to regain its strength and consciousness, you called the veterinarian, who refused to help until you contacted the city police and asked them to transport the bird. This was the most unexpected turn of events for you in that moment of pain—both physical and emotional—and what was even more painful was that now you had to call the local municipal police, the very same people who had killed your cats, the very same people who had harmed you without reason in the moment of digesting heavy traumas the ones from past arrived what was worser will arrived in a real situation while confonting the ones who brought the huge harm to your being.
By Antea Lumina Kala Matylda 20 days ago in Fiction
The End of The Row. Top Story - October 2026.
It’s bright in this room, almost dazzlingly so. That cold, astringent bright that throbs behind your eye balls and puckers your brow. Clinical bright. Bright enough to make the tears begin to simmer, to make you pause, close your eyes against the light, repeat the words you’ve been saying to yourself since last night, last week, last month, “it’ll be over before you know it, you won’t feel a thing”. Except it turns out it wasn’t pain you were worried about, not really, not the physical kind, not the burn or the sting or the tearing kind. It was this other kind, the kind you’re feeling now, the kind where your heart is hammering against the inside of your sternum, a rhythm so quick and a beat so fast you don’t know if you’ll make it, hammering so you can hear it fill up your skull with its din, hammering so you don’t know if your ribs might crack and your heart might burst into bloody remnants inside your chest. This kind, where you can feel the breath coming fast, in and out, in and out, cold and raw in the passages of your nose, sound like bellows huffing as your nostrils flare and push and your head begins to spin and you wonder whether a drop of air is making it to your lungs, or if you might pass out through lack of it. The kind where your vision narrows and you can see in razor sharpness the line where the linoleum meets the painted brick, wipe clean floors and wipe clean walls, and the wipe clean window onto black nothing, and then the thought, some part of your mind still curious in all the chaos, “I wonder if they thought green would be a calming colour.”
By Hannah Moore20 days ago in Fiction
Moment of respite
You shouldn't turn here, but there was no other way to break away from the crowd for at least a five-minute break and give your eyes a rest with a bit of green grass and plants. You walked straight ahead; the buildings all around were shades of gray. You couldn’t see anyone behind or in front of you, as if this whole space were suddenly meant just for you—this time, this moment. Suddenly, you felt as if this were it— that’s exactly how you feel freedom—that’s exactly how you feel and experience true silence and relief, as if hope had suddenly come to life right at that moment—from the complete dim into an incredible abyss that transports your thoughts to a completely different world and reality—something very close and familiar to you, but only beginning to take shape for a while—just for a moment—just a few times in your life, you’ve felt this thing that you couldn’t quite put into words, but you knew exactly what it was, and despite the immense weight emanating from the buildings and the vastness of the city and the people all around you in that space, you were completely free. That moment of respite—that was it. Suddenly, someone started talking to you; who it was, you don’t know—you didn’t see them, you only heard a voice, as if coming straight from you, from that space—both known and unknown—and also from this new one just coming into being. That voice seemed to have been waiting for you right there, in that passageway across from the hotel in the city center called Mestre; out of the sort of silence of the gray walls, that voice appeared That voice was familiar to you; it aroused neither fear nor uncertainty—as if you had been waiting for it for a long time, but it had never appeared before.
By Antea Lumina Kala Matylda 20 days ago in Fiction
What a night!
What a night. What would you do if you saw a group of witches with a book of spells approaching you on an old road and they spot you? That is what happened to me and this is my story. I was just walking along minding my own business when I saw them. One seemed to have seen me, so I slipped behind a tree. I believe it was too late for they chanted something that I did not understand, but I began to float higher and higher. They laughed and laughed as I fell from the sky and crashed.
By Mark Graham20 days ago in Fiction
Stitch. The lore of Sara Foxgrave.
The neon glare of the diner vanished in a flash of black and chrome as Sara throttled the Triumph out onto the main road. The storm wasn't letting up. It slammed straight into her chest—a wall of freezing water and biting wind that would have forced most riders to pull over. But Sara just tucked her chin lower into the collar of her heavy leather jacket, her boots locked tight against the pegs. Letting her helmet take the blasts.
By Syl De'Vil21 days ago in Fiction
Stitch. The lore of Sara Foxgrave
The night thinned out fast after the rush. A few regulars left early, muttering about the storm rolling in. Bane was one of them. He slipped out without fanfare, without lingering, just a nod toward Josh and a last glance at Sara that she pretended not to notice.
By Syl De'Vil21 days ago in Fiction
Tomorrow's Problem
Dealing with an author can be hard. You tell us something ordinary, and we see a story waiting to happen. You mention a bad day at work, and suddenly there’s a character sitting in a canteen, nursing a cuppa and wondering where his life is heading. You describe a rainy morning, and we see an opening scene; you share an argument, and we hear dialogue; you mention a memory, and we discover a past that deserves to be explored.
By Christian Bass22 days ago in Fiction
Red Wine
You imagine lounging at the beach, swirling your wine, as your folding chair sinks deeper into the sodden grass. “Just put mine in the fridge,” you say, reading the freshly etched words that have somehow already gathered dirt in their grooves. “I’m having a drink with our daughter.”
By Polite Adjacent22 days ago in Fiction
