Short Story
The Language of Absence
The stovetop ticked as the burner cooled, a rhythmic, cooling sound that bit into the silence of the kitchen. John didn’t move. He sat at the pine table, his fingers tracing the wood grain, waiting. He watched the steam curl toward the ceiling, a white plume turning dull in the dim morning light. Only when the heat had settled into a low, radiating warmth did his daughter, Mara, enter the room.
By Tim Carmichael7 months ago in Fiction
Inside Rebels
Mr. Harrow collected the exams, his face a mask of indifference that barely concealed a flicker of curiosity. As you walked past his desk, Elena whispered, “Whatever happens, we did our best.” You nodded, the seriousness of the journey still heavy, but a quiet pride settled in your chest. When the results were posted, you found your name at the top of the list, a bright red “A+” staring back, while Mr. Harrow’s reaction was a barely perceptible pause—an involuntary moment of recognition that you had, against all odds, outperformed his expectations.
By Forest Green7 months ago in Fiction
Inside Rebels
You stared at the chalk‑dusted blackboard, the harsh scrape of the marker echoing the teacher’s voice as it cut through the quiet of the classroom, and you felt the weight of every syllable settling like a stone on your shoulders. It was Mr. Harrow, the man whose reputation for cruelty preceded him, and you and your partner, Elena, had already learned to keep your heads down when he entered the room. “If you cannot answer the question, you are simply unworthy of learning,” he had snarled, his eyes flicking between you as if searching for a crack in your resolve. The air grew colder, and you sensed Elena’s trembling hand brush against the edge of the desk, a subtle reminder that you were not alone in the mounting dread.
By Forest Green7 months ago in Fiction
A Pair Of Lips Will Say Anything
It’s just before 8:30 am. The new/young mom, Tamia promised Samantha and James she’d have Brailey to their house already. She made a rule for herself from the moment of her daughter’s birth: not to rush. She arrives at their home with the baby in tow. They were used to the little one. At the same time, Brailey was still getting used to the young couple. James begins a roll-call of all the things in her diaper bag. Ensuring everything was accounted for. While he is doing that Sam is keeping Bray entertained. In hopes, Mommy can sneak out the door undetected. James reassures Tamia that her precious cargo is in excellent hands. The young Mom, backs out of the driveway realizing she forgot, to leave the car seat. She sits it just inside the door, without either of them noticing.
By Jacqueline Elaine Hudson7 months ago in Fiction
The Silk and the Shrapnel
History is a lazy and superficial artist. It loves straight lines, clear-cut motives, and people who fit neatly into the boxes someone else marked with a thick Sharpie a long time ago. In those boxes, a warrior is a stone-carved archetype: someone who smells of cheap tobacco, wears a low-slung baseball cap, and hasn't taken off a faded camo jacket in the decades since the last howitzers went silent in the distance. There is this unspoken, almost religious dictate that trauma must be visible, abrasive, and unkempt. If you don’t look broken on the outside, the world doesn’t believe you’ve ever seen the abyss on the inside. Society demands that your sacrifice be displayed like an exhibit in a museum of defeat, rather than your triumph in the form of elegance.
By Feliks Karić7 months ago in Fiction
The myth of the Wailing Woman. Runner-Up in What the Myth Gets Wrong Challenge.
The fog in the Holston River Valley never just hovers in place; it breathes. It drapes over the hemlocks like a thick white blanket, and when it thins, it reveals things the locals have spent two centuries trying to make sense of.
By Tim Carmichael7 months ago in Fiction
The Substance
I stepped out on my porch, the rays of the sun beating against the window beckoning me to come outside. The warmth from the morning sun felt comforting but there was something off about the air. Like a storm approaching. I looked up. The sky had a strange hue to it. An odd shade of pink and grey coming together to make a color that's hard to describe. A color you didn't think could exist.
By Jasmine Aguilar7 months ago in Fiction
The Last Light in Room 312
The hotel was too quiet for a place so full. Detective Avery Knox noticed it the second they stepped inside. No chatter. No footsteps. Just the hum of old lights and the faint smell of cleaning chemicals that tried—and failed—to hide something worse.
By Imran Pisani7 months ago in Fiction
The Silence Between Footsteps
Chapter One: The Body at Briarwood Manor Briarwood Manor had always felt like a place that watched you. It sat on the edge of the lake, all stone walls and tall windows, like it had secrets built straight into its bones. People in the nearby town called it historic. Others called it cursed. Detective Rowan Hale called it inconvenient—especially when the call came in at 6:12 a.m.
By Imran Pisani7 months ago in Fiction
The Meridian at Founders' Ridge
The sign at the entrance was tasteful, navy lettering on cream stock, the font the sort that suggested old money had always been there, like a geological feature. The Meridian at Founders' Ridge: A Curated Community for Patriot Families. Below it, in smaller text: By Appointment or Open House. Today: 1 to 4 PM.
By Tim Carmichael7 months ago in Fiction
