Microfiction
The Halloween Table
What do you suppose a Halloween table to look like? To me a Halloween table is one that kind of gives off a Gothic motif that is a dark Mahogany table maybe with a few tall candlesticks in the middle. Now picture cobwebs hanging from the ceiling and chandelier in the center of the room. There is a sense that one is not alone at this table for its set for two for pewter dishes. Who is expecting whom? Is it for a special trick or treater? At this time of year, one may not know for sure. Happy dining!?
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Invited to the Devils Table
for https://vocal.media/writers/tales-from-beyond-the-haunted-letter-challenge The quiet countryside shook with the thunder of a fighter plane that cut through the air, awakening the threat of war that holds the cold of death that has, over the eons, seen the ice of many a winter .
By Katherine D. Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Parental Fear
The Knock She sat restlessly on the couch staring blankly at the TV. Her daughter, at the mall with her friends, was 10 minutes late, and her son, at his friend’s house, was going on 5 minutes late already. She shifted between angry and scared with each second of the clock.
By Timothy A Rowlandabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library at the Edge of Dreams
M Mehran No one knew when the library appeared. One morning, the townspeople of Merrinfield woke to find a tall glass building standing at the edge of the river — a place that hadn’t been there the day before. It shimmered faintly, like sunlight caught on water. There was no sign, no doorbell, only a single line etched into the glass: > “Borrow wisely. Every story costs a memory.” People laughed at first, calling it a prank. But by evening, curiosity won. The first visitor entered — and never spoke of what she found inside. --- Eleanor Gray was not easily frightened. She was a schoolteacher, practical and careful, the sort who believed in schedules and not much else. But she had dreams that haunted her — dreams of a boy’s laughter echoing through a field of sunflowers, though she had never had a child. When she heard about the library, something in her heart tugged. That night, she followed the river until the building came into view. The doors opened on their own. Inside, rows of shelves spiraled upward into darkness. The air smelled faintly of rain and old paper. Each book glowed with a soft golden light, and on their spines, instead of titles, were phrases: “A Day You Forgot,” “Your First Smile,” “The Moment Before Goodbye.” Behind a circular desk sat a woman dressed in gray, her eyes like candlelight. “Welcome,” she said. “I am the Librarian.” Eleanor tried to speak, but the words tangled in her throat. “What kind of library is this?” “One that trades stories for memories,” the woman said. “You may read anything you wish. But remember — the story you take will cost you something you once lived.” Eleanor laughed nervously. “That’s absurd.” “Is it?” The Librarian smiled. “You already carry stories you cannot remember. Wouldn’t you like to know where they went?” --- Eleanor hesitated only a moment before walking deeper into the shelves. Her hand brushed the glowing spines until she found one that pulsed warmly beneath her fingers. > “The Son You Never Knew.” Her breath caught. “What…?” The Librarian appeared beside her, silent as shadow. “Are you sure you wish to open it?” Eleanor nodded. The moment the book opened, the room vanished. She was standing in a kitchen flooded with morning light. A man stood at the stove, humming softly, while a small boy with curly hair drew pictures at the table. “Mommy!” the boy said, turning to her. She froze. “What… did you call me?” He giggled. “You’re silly. You said we’d go to the park today!” The man smiled over his shoulder. “He’s been waiting all morning, Ellie.” Tears blurred her eyes. The warmth, the laughter, the smell of pancakes — it felt real, more real than anything she’d known. Then the pages began to turn. The light dimmed. The man faded first, then the boy. “No!” Eleanor screamed, clutching at the air. “Please, don’t take them!” The Librarian’s voice echoed softly around her. “Every story ends, Miss Gray.” When Eleanor blinked again, she was back in the library, her cheeks wet with tears. “Was it true?” she whispered. The Librarian tilted her head. “Truth and memory often trade places. But you paid for it, didn’t you feel it?” Eleanor’s mind ached — like something precious had been stolen and replaced with emptiness. --- Days passed, but she couldn’t stay away. She returned again and again, each time drawn to another glowing spine: “The Road You Never Took.” “The Letter You Forgot to Send.” “The Life You Almost Lived.” Each story showed her a world that might have been — a husband she had loved, a friend she had lost, a version of herself who laughed more often. But with every visit, her memories of the real world dimmed. She forgot her students’ names. She forgot her address. Eventually, she forgot why she had ever come. --- One stormy night, she stood before the Librarian for the last time. “I don’t remember who I am anymore,” Eleanor said. “Have I borrowed too much?” The Librarian regarded her gently. “You have borrowed your whole life, dear one. But there is one book left — the first story you ever gave away.” She led Eleanor to a mirror at the far end of the hall. Its frame was carved from ink-dark wood, and at its center lay a single book — plain, unmarked, bound in blue leather. Eleanor opened it. The pages were blank, except for a single line written in her own handwriting: > “The day I lost my son.” And suddenly, it all came back — the hospital room, the stillness, the silence after his first and only breath. The pain had been too great, so she had wished to forget. And someone — something — had answered. Eleanor fell to her knees. “I remember now.” The Librarian placed a hand on her shoulder. “And now you may rest.” As the rain beat against the glass walls, the light of the library dimmed. The shelves faded, one by one, until only the mirror remained. When the townsfolk came at dawn, the building was gone. All that remained was a single blue book lying on the riverbank, its cover damp but unspoiled. Inside were no words — only the faint scent of rain, and one pressed sunflower.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Fiction
You Thought I Was Gone. Top Story - October 2025.
Dear Susan I would have knocked on your door, but I thought I would write a letter instead. "Look in your mailbox"!!! I am no one in particular, just a voice from your past. However, I am just as alive as you are.
By Susan Paytonabout a year ago in Fiction
I’ve Had Enough
“Okay, Alice enough is enough. You asked me to do you a favor and hide in this closet until this Wonderland thing blew over. Well, it’s been five years, and I want out. I wasn’t a skeleton when you locked me in, but I am now. You must know that we skeletons never stay hidden forever.
By Mark Gagnonabout a year ago in Fiction
Free Me, Please!
To the now-adult children who were read Kolobok in childhood: Greetings from the Fox's underbelly. Literally. I've been ghosting here for as long as parents continue reading my story to their children. Quite frankly, I am fed up. Sorry for the pun but I want out. So hear me out.
By Lana V Lynxabout a year ago in Fiction
Electrocuted At Dawn ⚡
Dear Administrator of Hell, You are the one I would have preferred to murder, but your daughter worked in a pinch. I don't know if I should have brought Audra into this tragedy or not. I admit that. But she had your DNA, so she couldn't have been totally innocent.
By Lightning Bolt ⚡about a year ago in Fiction
