Short Story
The Weight of Quiet Things
On the morning the river learned my name, the town was holding its breath. Mist wove through the willows along the banks, pale like unspun silk. The water moved slowly, as if it had nowhere else to be. I stood on the old footbridge, my hands in my pockets and the taste of pennies in my mouth, listening to the wood creak under my boots. Below me, the river flowed past, carrying leaves, secrets, and the faint ghosts of last night’s rain.
By Mahmoud Ahmed 8 months ago in Fiction
Sisyphus’ Punishment
I’ve been doing this for three thousand years. At least that's what I estimate, more or less. Can’t tell more precisely because I lost count of days and nights. With this job, you would too, anyone would. Yes, I have to roll this huge rock up not only during the day but at night, too. Up and down, up and down. I roll it up, almost all the way to the top, it rolls down under its weight and I have to start over.
By Lana V Lynx8 months ago in Fiction
Tuesday. Winner in Everyone Is Acting Normally Challenge. Content Warning.
Stepping out of your townhome you’re hit by the cold first. You were expecting it. Laid out your heaviest coat the night before. But the way that first breath crystalizes in your lungs feels like a kick to the chest no matter how prepared you were. You pull your coat tighter and try not to slip on the thin skin of ice that glazed your street overnight.
By Sandor Szabo8 months ago in Fiction
One Unchecked Box. Top Story - October 2024.
"Republished" because it was the only way to add the embed for the newly recorded audio version of this story due to the Top Story badge. Plus it serves as a nice, informal announcement of the podcast's revival for another season (go subscribe!):
By Stephen A. Roddewig8 months ago in Fiction
The Book
There was a time when reading bored me to tears. When I was young, my mother would call me over to her and say, “Come sit next to me and I’ll read you a story.” My standard response was either “I want to go out and play,” or “I’m building something with my Legos right now.” As you might imagine, school was twelve arduous years of reprimands, poor test grades, and detentions. Had I not been such a good athlete, I would have never graduated. At least I didn’t graduate at the very bottom of my class; that distinction belonged to Jack. I was next to last.
By Mark Gagnon8 months ago in Fiction
Free Loveseat
Every other night, I notice the variation of kipple that loiters—the many monuments littering the city—of every single different kind of leather chair, plush recliner, and loveseat, and Art Deco sofa, many of which end up abandoned, deteriorating the crumbling, and most definitely paper-thin, sidewalks of the street. They rest discarded, like departed souls, or perhaps, the poor souls of Black folk, neglected by the bluest of eyes. Of all of the rubbish, chairs are my fancy. There’s a lot of character in the shape of a chair; the subtle curves especially remind me of the night women who stand on the curb.
By Thomas Bryant8 months ago in Fiction
The Room Holds
They always get one detail wrong. Sometimes it’s the color of your coat, sometimes the way you used to say my name, sometimes the order of events. I correct them gently, the way you would correct a child or a stranger, without urgency. It matters that I do it immediately. If I hesitate–if I allow the mistake to stand–something thins. The room, the air, you. I have learned not to wait.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales8 months ago in Fiction
The Last “Online”
It didn't feel particularly memorable the last time I saw her name appear on my phone. It was a typical evening. I was partly sleepy, lying on my bed, scrolling with one hand while feigning indifference. For a moment, my heart did what it always did around her when her name, "Online," showed in the corner.
By abualyaanart8 months ago in Fiction
Stories Before a Wedding, or The Fairytale of Beauty and the Beast
Once, a long time ago, it was custom that on the night before wedding all the married women of equal Rank and status would gather around the bride in her chamber. While helping put the finishing touches on the bride's dress and trousseau, the women would take turns telling Tales of their great Romance and own marriages. This served two purposes: these stories taught the bride what she could expect from her own marriage and wedding night, and it also served as a history of these women and their stories. The most romantic Tale and the woman who told it would earn the right to give the new bride away into her married life. Now, in most cases, naturally the bride's mother or grandmother or some favorite cousin would quite easily be announced the winner and told how their story was such an inspiration to the new bride. In this way, weddings passed from mother to daughter, matriarch to descendant, and the women’s stories remained alive and aided a new bride in preparing for what was to come.
By Dionearia Red8 months ago in Fiction
