Short Story
The Funnel of Your Being. Top Story - September 2026.
There’s nothing worse than a city with a black eye. Hey, you! Wake up! You might think this is all sweet. It ain’t all good. There’s no love, luck, and lollipops in these streets. You see that blood-stained ground? That’s the result of another slain Delawarean in these Wilmington streets. If you see dozens of candles burning all around, it’s not out of festivity, but celebration of a four-year-old caught in the crosshairs of rival gang violence.
By Sky Saunders10 days ago in Fiction
Who follows the leader?
The world is going to end soon, and nobody seems to care. Looking back there were so many choices to avoid it, but in the end, we brought our destruction upon ourselves. I have chosen to record this for whoever survives what comes. I hope it’s somebody that I still know, but even if it isn't… Well they’ll be able to take this to the others. To my wife, so she knows what happened to me. It's funny, but the world seems to be easier to navigate if you live under the understanding that everything can be organized into groups. I’ve noticed that there are two basic groups of human nature that everybody follows: Followers and Leaders. Now, I’ve always known that I fall under the category of follower rather than a leader, since making decisions for others, let alone myself is something that I find stressful at the best of times. Despite this, I have never thought of myself as a sheep. I am capable of thinking for myself, and should I choose to follow somebody, it would be somebody that would be thoughtful, caring, intelligent and who sought to genuinely better the world we live in today. 10 years ago there was somebody who many considered to be this way. They were all wrong. I don’t dare say his real name, even as I record this. There has long been a taboo, ever since he declared complete control of the media and security. Nowadays, if you even say his name, he can pinpoint your location in a matter of seconds. Now he goes by the title: “The Leader.” The man they call the leader first ran for presidency as what seemed to be a dare. I remember his announcement, and it surprised me. A big shot entertainer deciding to run for presidency wasn’t unheard of, but what was crazy was the amount of people who were genuinely being supportive of his announcement.
By Noah Feanny10 days ago in Fiction
The Mourning Dress
In the year eighteen hundred and seventy-one, the calendar of mourning ran with the precision of a church bell, and Honoria Vance had learned every stroke of it by heart. Twelve months, the almanacs of etiquette decreed, for a sister burying a brother: six in the deepest black, crepe upon crepe, veil drawn to the collarbone; then six more permitted to soften, gradually, toward the muted violets and greys of half-mourning, until at last, on the anniversary, a woman might step again into the full chorus of color and call herself restored.
By Tim Carmichael10 days ago in Fiction
The Grave That Called Again
In the year of my confession, the swelter of July pressed upon the valley with a heaviness few summers before it had matched, and the orchard boughs hung heavy, their foliage drooping under a sun that seemed to have forgotten its proper temperature of mercy. The heat stuck to every surface of Marchmont Hall like a second skin, and even the deep cellars, where the family had once stored their wines against such extremities, offered scant relief from the sweltering torpor that gripped the estate. It was in this season, this blistering, insect-droning height of summer, that the thing came to me that I shall spend the remainder of my days attempting to explain, and failing.
By Tim Carmichael12 days ago in Fiction
Vivace
With no end to the storm in sight, Vivace’s dad pushed a heavy wooden slab over the opening to the turret. It softened the thunderous noise outside. He placed his forehead against the slab in contemplation. Turning around, he looked toward his workbench and the letter. To his right sat an empty chamberstick. He picked it up and walked to his table. Lifting a lit candle, he poured some hot wax onto the chamberstick and secured it to the base. He turned around and fixed his gaze on the columbine.
By Casey White12 days ago in Fiction
The Last Night At The Carnival
“I really don’t think we are going to find anything. I doubt the store inside is even open,” Trevor muttered, pulling into the highway rest stop. I rolled my eyes and exchanged a look with Amanda. “Come on, Pete, back me up. This is so stupid. We should just get some beers and go back to the house.”
By Leah Suzanne Dewey12 days ago in Fiction
