Short Story
The Hour a Man Chooses
The fight was in Ciudad Juárez, in a hall that held maybe two thousand people when it was full, and that night it was full to the last row. Manolo Reyes was thirty-eight years old and this was to be his final fight. He had told no one this except Emilio, his trainer for eleven years, and he had told him only that morning, over eggs neither man finished.
By Tim Carmichael14 days ago in Fiction
The One I Almost Didn't Answer
The first time the phone rang, I was standing in the kitchen with a knife in my hand and half an onion on the cutting board. I had been trying to make dinner for one, which sounded pathetic even inside my own head, and the ringing startled me badly enough that the knife slipped and nicked the cutting board beside my thumb. I looked at the clock above the stove, saw 11:38, and wondered who in hell would call me that late unless somebody had died, somebody was drunk, or somebody had finally decided to tell me something they should have told me years ago. Don't answer it, I thought as it rang a second time, but I wiped my hand on a dish towel and walked toward it anyway. The number was blocked, which made me stop, because nobody who knows me calls from a blocked number—nobody except the collection agencies, and even they had given up after all these years. It rang a third time before I finally picked it up.
By Tim Carmichael14 days ago in Fiction
The Last Calls Of Karen Lavoie
Despite being a commuter flight between two mountainous western region cities, the twin peak aerial flyover enticed first time customer fascination, capturing innocent attention. Professional fashion talent agency requests dictated, tight bun, creating a serious work environment attitude. Minutes after coming down from the enchanting puffy clouds, Karen Lavoie disappeared, finding a restroom hideaway.
By Marc OBrien14 days ago in Fiction
The Bus Ride
Riding the bus is not my favorite way to travel, but if you are like me, low on funds, do not own a car, or your destination is too far to walk or to trust your luck at hitchhiking, riding the bus is your next best choice. So, I chose the Greyhound and waited in a crowded station for an announcer to call my boarding number. I wanted to go to the bathroom but was afraid of missing my call over the loud noises, so I stayed in my seat.
By Frankie Berry Wise14 days ago in Fiction
Waiting...
Gork and Slarb, who had not yet become beloved among the Gitfangula – that happened much later and in a better story – were about to receive a very exciting assignment. The psychic projection hit them both in their neural feeds while they were trying to smuggle food objects over the border and pay back a former acquaintance. It sounded very urgent and possibly lucrative:
By Kendall Defoe 14 days ago in Fiction
What Would You Say. Top Story - September 2026.
Last Call challenge: Prompt - Write a story inspired by the phrase "last call." "Last call" can mean different things depending on who's listening. It might be the end of a night, one final opportunity, or the moment someone realizes they're almost out of time. Write a story inspired by the phrase "last call." You can interpret it however you like. Set it in a bar, an airport, a hospital, a small town, or somewhere entirely unexpected. Focus on what happens when the clock is running out. Whether your characters seize the moment, hesitate, or let it slip away, let that sense of urgency drive the story.
By Denise E Lindquist15 days ago in Fiction
Voyager 1 . Top Story - September 2026.
The following story is a true "last call" story about Voyager 1. The Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena is a working place where engineers spend their days solving problems most people will never encounter. Computers fill the offices, technical information covers their screens, and conversations revolve around spacecraft, calculations, and systems that have been operating for decades. From the outside, there is little to suggest that this is where people are still maintaining contact with a machine traveling billions of miles from Earth, yet that is exactly what happens here.
By Nolan Reed15 days ago in Fiction
Hey Driver
It was 11 at night on a Wednesday in August. It was that strange midweek time in between seasons where fewer guests were visiting during the week and the current manager had sent the support staff home an hour before. By rights, she should be able to leave as well; if not for the fact that fifteen people still flocked her bar at 11 at night; all regulars and all wanting service from someone, but half of them on their phones where they could have been doing this from home, or someone else's place, or their car; anywhere not requiring Francesca Nitely to stand around while they were not formally conducting business with her and that would allow her to get home to her young family.
By Kent Brindley15 days ago in Fiction
