Short Story
The Rooms Between
She enters the room. The door has always been there — unpainted wooden panels, a brass knob, no keyhole — standing between her bedroom and the bathroom every morning and every evening, and yet she cannot remember if she has ever stepped inside. A groan escapes from the hinges, smooth beneath her fingertips. The air shifts: cold and damp brushing her face, warmth pressing at her back. She wonders what she had hoped to find — a linen closet, a hidden nook for forgotten things? But this is a whole room, impossible between the bedroom and the bathroom, and yet it exists. A turret-like circle painted in desert pink, stars fading gold across the ceiling, sagging where dark mould spreads tendrils down to meet thick velvet curtains and the spindle-legged table at its center. She breathes cautiously, the scent dank and forbidding, her primal instincts warning her not to go further, not to inhale too deeply. Fear whispers that stepping fully inside may close the door behind her, trapping her within the creeping decay. Yet curiosity draws her, a fingertip tracing the edge of the door as she moves forward. On the table sits a small stack of clean white paper and a pen with an arrowhead nib — hers, always hers. She steps fully into the room. The door falls back against its frame, but it does not close. She imagines a window, though there is none, stretching out over hills and valleys, towns sleeping beneath the night. She sits, lifts the pen, and finding it empty, pierces her wrist to fill the reservoir with her own blood. Then she begins to write. When she sleeps, she dreams she is a rabbit and a fox, leaving trails of blood across the grass. Pain, hunger, fear, and hope course through her as snow falls in the darkness, covering her in white. Shivering, she wakes, unclenching her teeth, rising from her bed, moving toward the bathroom — but pauses at another door. The door has always been there — white panels, silver handle, no keyhole — impossible, yet impossible is the rule in these spaces. She hesitates, senses the cold air press against her face, the warm hall at her back. She wonders if it will be a boiler, a hidden passage, something mundane. But instead, it is a slender rectangle, painted in summer yellow with faded crimson flowers, the ceiling sagging where mould spreads, tendrils reaching down around velvet curtains and across the floor to an old oak desk. Primal fear warns her to turn back, but the paper and pen call her. She moves forward. She sits, filling the pen with her own fluid, piercing the eye this time, and begins to write again. Dreams follow: a lamb and a vulture, half dead, half still breathing, terror and patience, despair and hope, until the sun blazes overhead and bleaches the world clean. She wakes, sweat-damp, knees unlocked, steps forward, yet pauses at yet another door. Thick hardwood planks, iron ring, no keyhole. The impossible persists. Stone walls painted with animals in faded ochre, ceilings jagged, sagging where mould spreads over an animal pelt. Cold air on her face, warmth at her back, fear tightening her chest, yet she moves forward. She sits on the stone floor, filling the pen with the juices from her own gut, and writes. Dreams carry her into the sea: she is a seal and an orca, spilling entrails into foaming waters, horror and delight mingling as the surf breaks over her. She wakes, startled by the morning light, the dog nudging her hand. Another door, painted to match the wall, broken handle, empty keyhole, yet still present. She has tried to brick it up, smash it down, decorate it with balloons, but it persists. Inside: a cell of flesh, pulsating and alive, mould creeping across blood and muscle. Fear warns, yet the paper and pen call. She steps in, fills the pen with saliva this time, and writes. In sleep, she is grass, rooted and small, witnessing a monster she cannot escape, feeding on the stories she has written. Strength fills her as the dream fades. She awakens, stretches, and for the first time, walks from her bedroom to the bathroom without hesitation, carrying the weight of her stories with her. The doors remain, impossible yet insistent, but she is no longer afraid. Every door, every room, is a threshold. Every act of writing is an act of courage. Every dream, a testament to survival and creativity, shaping the woman she is, and the writer she continues to become.
By LUNA EDITH10 months ago in Fiction
Symbiotic: Chapter 55
Chapter 55 Finally having the spare time to follow her curiosity, Sara headed over towards the Engineer’s Workshop she had not yet had the pleasure of inspecting. Eager to see what lay within, she excitedly strolled forward and pulled open the surprisingly solid think reinforced door.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)10 months ago in Fiction
Our Old Story. Top Story - December 2025.
She reached for it… But she had one final thing to say first… “Darling, I know that this is probably the absolute worst moment to end things with a speech, but the doctors say that you will not remember this tomorrow, and I have so much that I still want to tell you before I leave. So…let’s start at the very beginning…
By Kendall Defoe 10 months ago in Fiction
Symbiotic: Chapter 54
Chapter 54 Life Lion’s escorted to the Dungeon, Sara stood in the Village Market Square, gazing around at the bustle of soldiers, scouts, and villagers already moving through the square. She knew the day was coming soon when the recruited crafters and their families would arrive, and the Valley had to be ready to welcome them.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)10 months ago in Fiction
His heart (was) charcoal
I've met a man the sun filled his heart. The kind of man a woman in her 20's fantasizes about, a man with golden locks of hair and a golden soul, with a mind clear like a transparent sea, with depths that can go beyond you've ever thought possible. He was always kind and friendly, his words could warm your heart. Small verbal gestures like, "I hope you've had a great day today", or "how's your grandma lately? I heard she was feeling ill." Or big words like, "the light of day is fleeting and eternal all at once, actually" – spoken with a soft, bashful smile. He was considerate, an aura behind his head like some kind of saint. But. He was not a saint, not ever, because his mind was hiding a secret. Carrying it inside of it like a fetus in a womb, just waiting to come out of its' hideout. He had cruelty inside his heart. A charcoal heart waiting to come out. Someone once said to him cruelty comes from pain, that a sickened heart is indeed a heart that cannot let go. And he couldn't let go. Yet. His soul was equally divided in two, the kind hearted guy and the cruel guy, and both sides were equal in their value. He was highly good and highly evil. People around him noticed his evil side, but he could cover it up so well people just said "eh, whatever" – and ignored it. Indeed a clever man was he. But with his darkness there was a strong sorrow. A deep rooted pain, sadness, despair. A huge regret. He WAS TRULY a good human being who's lost his way. A lonely soul, a blinded, confused, little boy, trapped inside of this broken man, screaming over and over for help – with nobody hearing. No one seemed to know, and for him, nobody seemed to care, though they deeply cared for him. Examples for his maliable behavior: uncontralable rage occuring in the borders of his own head, wars of devils and angels inside his mind, bad intentions like wanting for people to die because they hurt him, getting insulted by people and holding grudges for them for years, anger, anger, anger – fear. The thing is, there's not black and white in this world. There are greys. Silvers. Golds. Rainbow colors, hues, nuances. There is not a lot of completley dark-minded people and lighthearted souls. There is a spectrum. But the man's narrative won't end in tragedy. Tragedies already happened in his life, with caustic pain burned out to his soul. In a dream, they said "you've hurt us" and he said, "but I am good, really. Really…" - a result of a being tortured by guilt. Because there is one woman he hurt the most. His loved partner, Zoë, who tells her friends about his behavior. But she only has two friends, who do care about her, but also resent her for something she did In the past, so they don't help her. Though he was oh-so kind to Zoë some time, he had fights with her, with the "you don't understand me!" And the "fine. I'M the one who needs to grow. What about YOU?" he'd change for 4 days, than stop. Than again for a week, and then ceased. But change is inevitable, and constant is his desire to let go. To change. Hidden underneath, but constant. Steady. He was Sometimes quiet, introspective, brooding. Sometimes loud, social, happy go lucky. He was a spiritual guy. He could look into your eyes, you could feel him staring right at your soul, but not In a bad way. In a I-try-to-understand-you kind of way, a you’re-a-beautiful-being. He had Pinterest boards of black and white pictures, poetry quotes boards, a board named “light” and a second one named “light 2”, fatherhood board, humor board. Photography board. He’d go to the beach with his friends Thomas, they’d take photos in Tom-tom’s polaroid (Tom-tom is how our main character called him). On thursdays he had a course about motherhood and psychonalysis, he’d raise a hand one to three times a class. Sometimes, he won’t at all. The story really begins with Summer. The girl of his dreams, the second love of his life (after Zoë, but they both hold the same value in his heart). Zoë have had enough, and broke up with him. He was devastated. He’d cry for a whole 2 hours morrowing her leaving. There was a nightstand near his bed with 100 tissues in one week, gathering up like a tissue-castle. Yikes. But miracles like miracles tend to happen. The bright day of summer was yet to arrive (His words, not mine). It was a cold December afternoon, he was in a book festival (Oh, the irony. Summer bursting into your life in the cold season). He told me Summer looked like a gush of wind: sparkling, black eyes, a brunette. Average height, only approaching to his chin. A beautiful smile (gosh). “Practically”, he said - “she looked like a fairy.” She told him that when she met him, he looked gloomy. Eyes oh so serious, a sealed face. He said, “do I know you from somewhere?” She said, “would you like to?”, he said “yes” “ok, let’s go.” Just like that. Without a warning. “What do you mean?” ”let’s go on an adventure. We’ll drive all Oregon, from east to west, and then from south to north. I’ve been wanting to do this soooo bad for soooo long, but I’ve never found the right company. But this company is you. And we can talk. I can listen.” He was speechless. “… what makes you think I’ll say yes?” “Oh. Your smile, for instance,” she said, “and the zest of curiosity in your eyes.” “Ya crazy, you know that… what is your name, again?” “Haven’t I told you? It’s Summer.” “Ah, like that movie, “500 days of Summer?” Summer raised her brows. “Umm… yeah, I guess. I dunno this one. Is It a good one?” He chuckled, “yeah it is. A very cute movie. Not in a disrespectful manner,” he smiled, and so did she, “in a good way.” And so they went on an adventure. She wore, in the first day, a lavender skirt that went down to her knees, a galaxy t-shirt, he wore a plain t-shirt with khaki pants. They listened to music, rock music and pop music on his end, indie on their both ends (but very specific kind of indies) and spanish (but a very exhilarating kind of songs) and irish on her end. They were happy. Like jet sky high happy. Blissful. They’ve seen the beauty of nature, had a funny experience of a squirl trying to snatch Summer’s camera, they laughed, laughed, laughed. Some day he said to her, “you’ve changed me, you know that? I’m a healed man now. That’s the power of summer, I guess." Summer answered shyly, “You changed me too.” They took a photo together, in love, in the Evergreen Aviation & Space Museum. They kissed firstly at night, at Summer’s friend’s house which they spend some of their days (or nights) in. It was electrifying. This kiss was very special to summer, because he was the first boy who hasn’t broke her heart to million pieces. They understood each other. His darkness, she understood it. She understood the pain in his eyes. His dissapointment. He did talk. And she listened. And she talked too. Things she never told nobody, secrets lain down in a basement in her heart, locked tightly in the shadows of her soul. And one day, they looked into each other’s eyes, and they made love. With a gentle hunger, with a desire for each other. They made love, and she cried. “What’s wrong?” He asked softly. And she said, “nothing’s wrong. Everything’s right. That’s why I cry.” And he smiled and kissed her head. “I love you,” he said. She was silent for a moment. A big, big moment for him. “I love you too.” She said quietly. They traveled for a month, and a month afterwards he proposed. In eiffel tower. They went there for a weekend because that’s what he could with his university then beginning its’ second semester. She was filled to the brim with joy. Of course she said yes! They went to cafés and restaurants, they were laughing in the rain. They lived, fully, with all their hearts and mind concentrating in the moment, trying to sanctify each moment. They were ecstatic, sometimes sad, but satisfied. They were lovers. She changed his charcoal heart, he told her, she solved his issues, in a way. Though sometimes those would swim up to the surface and she healed them, meditated with him, analyzing his deepest wishes. He’d do the same with her. He’d bring her flowers, dark choclste, make her black coffee with rosemary. he’d watch TV with her, analyze books with her, cuddle under the blanket with her and make her laugh. They healed each other.I know all of this because I’ve experienced this, and those other details of the beginning, he told me. He told me everything. Well, everything important. I’m Summer. And his name is Forest. And now he is full of life, unstoppable. My husband to be. And now it’s our time to (continue to) shine.
By Maya Or Tzur10 months ago in Fiction
The UFO
Millie rolled her eyes when she heard her little brother Jack knock on her door and yell her name. She was right in the middle of binging music videos on Youtube. Being interrupted was annoying, especially for what would probably be something stupid. She got up from her bed and went to the door. When she opened it, she asked, "What?" in a somewhat annoyed tone.
By Leah Flesher10 months ago in Fiction
Symbiotic: Chapter 53
Chapter 53 Sara returned to her residence, the warmth of the hearth chasing away the chill of the evening. Taking a quick shower and readying herself for bed, she checks in on the Status of her Valley, “Tas, show me the Haven Valley Prosperity Tracker. With the Volcano added, I want to see the numbers.”
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)10 months ago in Fiction
The Feminine Dress of the World”
Four friends gather for a night of wine and conversation, but a passing comment about the “world wearing a feminine dress” leads to a heated debate about freedom, equality, morality, and the changing face of society. Beneath the laughter, each of them faces their own unspoken questions.
By Ebrahim Parsa10 months ago in Fiction
