Series

LHS Class of 01 Reunion '26
Megan leaned back against her kitchen counter, a steaming mug of tea in one hand and her smartphone pressed to her ear as she waited for the familiar ringing to stop. When Joan finally picked up, Megan couldn’t help but let out a joyful laugh, feeling the immediate warmth of a friendship that had spanned almost three decades. "Can you believe it’s actually been twenty-five years since we walked across that stage at Lincoln High?" Megan asked, her voice brimming with a mix of disbelief and genuine excitement. They spent the first few minutes reminiscing about their old lockers and the teachers who had shaped their lives, but the purpose of the call was clear: it was time to move from nostalgia into active planning for the big silver anniversary celebration.
By Forest Green6 months ago in Fiction
Wrestling
Start from the beginning and read the entire saga: The clock on the wall clicked loudly. Roger glared at it, annoyed by the sound almost as much as by the placement of the hands on its face. Almost two and they still hadn't taken her for the scan. It had been two and a half hours since the doctor had called to say he didn't think Helen should drive herself home. Two hours and fifteen minutes since the nurse at the dermatologist had helped him lift Helen into a wheelchair and push her out to the car. It had been two hours since he had raced into the emergency room, begging someone to help him bring what used to be his wife into the building. It had been an hour and forty-five minutes since they wheeled her into the exam room. Over an hour since the doctor had confirmed she had suffered a severe concussion and he needed to get a CT Scan to check for bleeding and other concerns.
By A. J. Schoenfeld6 months ago in Fiction
The Well of Secrets
I. The Village of Mirabad The village of Mirabad had no secrets — or so the elders claimed. Nestled between two hills like a sleeping child between its parents' arms, it was the kind of place where the smell of bread from one household drifted to another, where every birth was celebrated by the whole street, and every death was mourned by every soul who could walk to the graveyard. People believed that here, under the open sky, nothing could stay tv hidden for long. But there was the well. It stood at the very center of the village square, older than anyone could remember. The stone walls were dark with age, the rope that hung over it had been replaced a hundred times, and the water that rose from its depths was the coldest, clearest water in the entire valley. Children drank from it. Women washed vegetables beside it. Old men sat on its edge and told stories that had no endings. Everyone used the well. But no one — not even the oldest elder — knew how deep it truly went. It was beside this well that the trouble began, on the last Tuesday of October, when the body of Tariq the miller was found. ⸻ ✦ ⸻ II. The Morning After Rukhsana was the one who found him. She had come before dawn, as she always did, to draw water before her mother-in-law woke and demanded tea. The lantern in her hand threw a pale circle of light onto the cobblestones — and there he was, Tariq, slumped against the base of the well, his eyes wide open, staring at nothing. She did not scream. Rukhsana had grown up in this village and she had seen death before — her father, a drought that killed their crops and then their animals, two children buried before they could learn to speak. She set down her lantern. She pressed two fingers to Tariq's neck. Cold. Long gone. Then she noticed something. His right hand was clenched tight around a piece of cloth — torn, dark blue, the kind of fabric the wealthy men of the village wore. Rukhsana stared at it for a long moment. Then she looked up, into the dark mouths of the houses surrounding the square, the shuttered windows, the closed doors. She felt the village watching her, even in its sleep. She left the cloth where it was and went to wake the headman. "In a village this small, a secret is not something you keep. It is something you bury — and pray the rains do not come." III. The Questions Begin By midmorning, the square was full. The headman, old Bismillah Khan, sat on a wooden chair that had been brought out from his house, and one by one the men of the village came to stand before him. The women watched from a distance, gathered in tight clusters, their voices low. The constable from the district town had been sent for, but the road was muddy from the night's rain and it would be hours before he arrived. In the meantime, Bismillah Khan asked the questions himself. Who had seen Tariq last? His wife, Zainab, said he had left after the evening prayer, saying he needed to check on his mill wheel. He had not returned. She had assumed he stayed there, as he sometimes did when the work ran long. She had gone to sleep. Who had been in the square after dark? No one admitted to it. And the cloth in Tariq's hand? Bismillah Khan held it up. The crowd went very quiet. It was good fabric, fine weave, the colour of deep water. Several eyes shifted — briefly, involuntarily — toward the house of Saleem the merchant, the richest man in Mirabad, whose long coat was made of exactly that kind of cloth. Saleem stood at the edge of the crowd, arms folded, his face as smooth and unreadable as river stone. ⸻ ✦ ⸻ IV. What Rukhsana Knew It was Rukhsana who held the real secret, though she had not yet decided what to do with it. Three weeks ago, she had been drawing water late at night — her mother-in-law had been feverish, and she needed water for the medicine. The square had been empty, the village asleep. But as she pulled up the bucket, she had heard voices from the alley beside the merchant's storehouse. Tariq's voice and another — hushed, urgent, arguing. She had caught only fragments. "You promised. The land was to be mine—" "Keep your voice down. Things have changed." "I have the papers. I have proof of what you did." Then silence, and footsteps fading, and she had gone home and told herself it was none of her business. Village men argued about land constantly. It meant nothing. Now Tariq was dead and Rukhsana stood in the crowd with the weight of those words pressing against her ribs like a stone. She looked at Saleem. He was already looking at her. Their eyes met for just a second — and in that second, something passed between them. An acknowledgment. A warning. Rukhsana looked away first. ⸻ ✦ ⸻ V. The Well Gives Nothing Back That afternoon, one of the boys threw a stone into the well to measure its depth. They waited for the sound. And waited. And waited. There was no splash. The boys went pale and ran home and told their mothers, who told their husbands, and by evening everyone in Mirabad was talking about the well — about how deep it truly was, what was really at the bottom, whether it had always been so silent or whether something had changed. The constable arrived at dusk, a tired young man with mud on his boots and no patience for village superstitions. He examined Tariq's body, took the cloth as evidence, wrote in his notebook, and told Bismillah Khan that the cause of death appeared to be a blow to the back of the head. Murder. He would return in three days with an investigator from the city. Three days. The village settled into an uneasy silence. That night, Rukhsana lay awake listening to her mother-in-law snore. She thought about Tariq's wife, Zainab, who had wept all afternoon with a grief that looked genuine. She thought about the papers Tariq had mentioned — proof of what Saleem had done. Where were those papers now? Had Saleem found them? Had he been searching Tariq's mill, even now, in the dark? She rose before her husband could stir, wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, and slipped out into the night. ⸻ ✦ ⸻ VI. The Mill The mill sat at the edge of the village where the stream ran fast over smooth rocks. The door was ajar. Rukhsana pushed it open and stepped inside. A figure was already there, crouched by the far wall, holding a lantern. He stood when he heard her — and the light fell on his face. It was not Saleem. It was Zainab. Tariq's wife looked at Rukhsana with red, swollen eyes and clutched something to her chest — a folded bundle of papers, tied with string. "I knew he kept them here," Zainab said. Her voice was very calm, in the way that voices go calm when all the fear has already passed through them. "He told me once, when he was drunk. He said: if anything ever happens to me, go to the loose stone behind the millstone. He knew this day might come." Rukhsana stepped forward. "Are those—" "Land records. Forged signatures. Saleem has been stealing land from the families of this village for fifteen years. Tariq found out six months ago. He was going to give these to the investigator from the city." Zainab's jaw tightened. "He waited too long." Outside, the stream rushed over its stones. Somewhere in the village, a dog barked twice and went quiet. "What will you do?" Rukhsana asked. Zainab looked down at the papers. Then she looked up, and in her eyes was something that Rukhsana recognized — the look of a woman who has nothing left to lose and has therefore become the most dangerous kind of person in the world. "I will not wait," Zainab said. ⸻ ✦ ⸻ Epilogue When the investigator arrived from the city three days later, Zainab was waiting for him at the entrance to Mirabad, the papers in her hands. Saleem the merchant was arrested before the afternoon prayer. The stolen land was the subject of a case that would take two years to resolve but would, in the end, return what had been taken. No one ever determined exactly how deep the old well was. But the morning after Saleem was taken away, the boys threw another stone into it — and this time, faint and far below, there was a sound. Small. Distant. Real. A splash. The village of Mirabad breathed again. — The End —
By Ikram Ullah6 months ago in Fiction
Forgotten
While the names have been changed and the details have been embellished, Forgotten is based on actual events from my childhood from July 1987. The truest parts of this story may sound as though they came from a Telenovela. They did not. As I was only six, I rely heavily on the stories my father used to recount from that fateful day to supplement my own fragmented memories and filled in a lot of gaps with my imagination. I would ask my mother, but...well, if you read the stories you'll understand why that would be pointless.
By A. J. Schoenfeld6 months ago in Fiction
YNs— Tyvek. Content Warning.
2008 At the end of the day, Symeer Mare had sipped some cognac, straight. The brown liquor warmed his throat and abdomen. He was not drunk, however. His mind trained on his task. He looked over to the woman who held a glass in her hand. She went with the white. Gin on the rocks.
By Skyler Saunders6 months ago in Fiction
YNs—SAMHSA. Content Warning.
2025 In between the crevices of the street, little paper planes fluttered in the breeze. A quiet descended upon the city and eyes looked around corners. Colonel Namina Norrey walked these streets like the warrior she had become. It had been a decade since she had asked a body of the Delaware congress to pass legislation legalizing all drugs. That day had not come yet. She walked alone. She wore her starched white shirt, tie, and those glittering four stars. The coolness of the spring afternoon enveloped her person.
By Skyler Saunders6 months ago in Fiction
YN—Love Roses. Content Warning.
2026 Red, purple, and gold wrapped around the counter. A fan in the corner pushed hot air but the idea was that the air conditioner would be fixed soon. In walked Kirstie Brodwick. Thirty-four, with a waiflike demeanor although she paid her dues to the motel manager every two weeks, she walked with change in her hands. Coins contacted her skin and made that tinny smell once combined. She also held dollars.
By Skyler Saunders6 months ago in Fiction
YNs—Jerseys. Content Warning.
2002 Edward Vessen, 52, looked at his fingernails and toenails. He felt a sense of cleanliness as noted by his manicure and pedicure. He owned the shop, so he didn’t pay but he tipped the twenty-year-old Vietnamese woman named Hah $100 nevertheless.
By Skyler Saunders6 months ago in Fiction
YNs— Pony Tail. Content Warning.
1994 The smokers wiped down the chariot. Sodium bicarbonate sunk between the seats. Otherwise, they looked immaculate. The exterior grew cleaner with the clientele using soapy water to address the ‘92 black Ac’ Vigor. In the driver seat, Parnum Bell, 22 and inky black, looked at his rearview mirror on the side of the car. A huge splash of solution washed over the surface.
By Skyler Saunders6 months ago in Fiction
YNs— Onion. Content Warning.
2007 In the Autumn rain, the leaves looked slick against the road. Water had covered them and made them look glossy. Cars splashed or just made that swishing noise under the leaves and what the rain brought. Kennedy Koles, 19, dug into his pocket. He held a wad of ready rock. In the time that he was about to cross the street to meet a client, he hesitated and almost got hit by a car. He thought. In his mind, he considered chopping the work down and adding more baking soda to make it bigger and make it ready to sell more. He backed onto the sidewalk once more. The user looked up and signaled for him. He waved him away. The client shrugged.
By Skyler Saunders6 months ago in Fiction
YNs— Chickens. Content Warning.
2025 In his personal jet at night, nineteen-year-old Elvin Coor counted figures. Little lights illuminated the area around his aircraft. This Wilmington, Delaware airport created a space for him to consider, grasp, evaluate. The sound of the pilots discussing routes intermingled with a soft ringing. He, nevertheless, continued to use his iPhone to tabulate his earnings…and earnings potential. He saw his street team and sense of achievement ached its way through his lanky frame. Dressed in a three piece gray suit and a fuchsia shirt and matching pocket square, Coor’s medium brown skin complimented his attire.
By Skyler Saunders6 months ago in Fiction
YNs—Test. Content Warning.
1999 What made the gift of half a brick and then a whole brick so special was that it came from his dad. Most parents would abhor the thought of handing down drugs to their children. Not Dillard Maynard Dockerby. He hailed from Philly, but possessed a hardness about his character like a Southerner. He put kis in the streets in the late eighties.
By Skyler Saunders6 months ago in Fiction