Short Story
Echoes of Connection: A Senior's Leap into the Digital World
In the heart of her cozy living room, surrounded by sepia-toned photographs and knick-knacks of decades past, Clara sat in her favorite armchair, feeling the weight of silence around her. The television played softly in the background, a mere whisper compared to the laughter that once filled the room. At 78, Clara found herself more isolated than ever; her family was spread across the country, and the days seemed longer in solitude.
Mysterious MathPublished about 2 hours ago in FictionThe Weaver and the Fly
In a sun-dappled meadow, a spider named Esmeralda meticulously spun her web. Each strand was a work of art, glistening with morning dew and catching the light like a thousand tiny diamonds. Esmeralda was a weaver of intricate patterns, her web a masterpiece of engineering designed to trap unsuspecting prey.
The Good Samaritan
"But I don't know how to drive!" "Please! You have to help me!" "I've only ever been in a go-kart! There's too many pedals!"
Rachel DeemingPublished about 3 hours ago in FictionGuilty As Charged
The phone rang too early in the morning. No, it was actually 11 am, but he still didn’t care to open his eyes after a drunken night. His head was hurting too much. He fumbled around his nightstand for his phone and finally grabbed it. Ugh, only one percent of the charge left. Forgot to plug it in for the night once again.
Katya DuftPublished about 4 hours ago in FictionSolitude Is Best Served Stuffed
In-person job interviews were a tedious, waste of time, anxiety-filled task. If you wanted me for my resume and were lured by my phone conversing skills, then you should have already made up your mind about accepting me onto your customer service team. It was an at-home work position anyhow. Why would you need me to leave said home?
Oneg In The ArcticPublished about 5 hours ago in FictionJust a mintue
They say it takes 7 minutes for you to die completely but what happens the minute before the beginning of the end? Today started just like every other day but different at the same time. You know how they say a dog will tell you when it’s time? This was that moment. The moment it was time for me to go. I started thinking about my life and what I accomplished- did I do everything I wanted- I needed?
Jen PhillipsPublished about 7 hours ago in FictionHush
I was flung back against the wall and the door slammed behind me. I was conscious of a rising dread, one that only increased as I looked around. The room was creepily neat and tidy, but it was not clean. Dark stains, brownish, spattered the cement walls and stone floor. The bed against the wall looked clean enough, and it was surprisingly large and soft. For a room that looked singularly like a cell, the bed was out of place.
ThatOne_GirlPublished about 8 hours ago in FictionA DEAD MAN’S DANDELION
I am going to die tomorrow, so what do I do today? It’s an important question, because what if I just do nothing? Nothing too important—nothing too time consuming—nothing too enlightening, I hate nothing and I hate knowing nothing. I am going to die tomorrow, so today I will live. What does it mean to live exactly? To be alive? Is all you need breath in your lungs and wonder in your eyes? I think so.
The Pantry.
THE PANTRY. I was in my third year of university majoring in History, my sister was in high school with all her extracurriculars, and my mom was trying to find a new hobby after my dad left. Bird watching, pottery, yoga—candle making, poetry, flower pressing. We don’t talk much—the three of us—but between moments we find some way to communicate. Every time the bookshelf is reorganized, the endless scribbles from my sister on our calendar, the soft, unsure, notes of a piano coming from the basement followed by my mom’s tired sigh, the soothing scents the different parts of the house seems to hold onto.
Deadline
Strange what runs through my mind when the pressure is on. I should be thinking about how many more miles I have left to go and, more importantly, how much time do I have left to get there before my world comes crashing to an end. Instead, I’m thinking about the origin of the word Deadline and how its meaning has changed over the years. I imagine many words can be traced back to their beginnings, but Deadline is particularly special to me right now.
Mark GagnonPublished about 9 hours ago in FictionClouds of Heaven
I always struggled in life and have finally grown tired of trying to fit into the mold of normal behavior. It was enough for me that I just was. Aspirations and success are a moronic goal in life that I failed to embrace.
To Know Death
It was just another day. A day like every day. There she was. Sitting on that same bench, in that same spot. With that black laced umbrella and her small black book with no title. Her skin was so beautifully tan and even. she had ghost white hair and her eyes were a burning scarlet red. I've never seen eyes like hers. I always wondered if they were contacts but upon clearly seeing them today, they were not.
Christina NelsonPublished about 12 hours ago in Fiction