Short Story
Ego Sum Pt. 2
Read Part 1 Here The man arose the next day, starting the morning by taking a deep breath as his feet swung over the side of his mattress, firmly planting them on the wood below. The first thing he noticed was that his alarm had not gone off. The world outside was already basking in sunlight, despite the clock reading 5:55 A.M. The number flashed before him, a fiery red colour.
By caitodoesstuffabout a month ago in Fiction
Blood Money
Jesse watched the clock on the dashboard. 2:47 a.m. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly, they ached against the worn leather. Beside him, in the passenger seat laid a plain black duffel bag containing two burner phones, a key card, and an envelope filled with fifty thousand dollars freshly printed on crisp hundred dollar bills.
By Sara Wilsonabout a month ago in Fiction
The Permanent Last Call
Little Andy stared out the car window , watching the scenery pass by, when suddenly he excitedly pointed to a derelict factory complex and shouted, “That’s the place, Grandma, that’s the place I was talking about last night. It’s scary looking. What do they do there?”
By Mark Gagnonabout a month ago in Fiction
Mary the Millennial vs the lost shoe
She tried to hold herself together, but panic pressed against her chest with each passing second, as if the walls were slowly closing in. Somewhere beyond the apartment, the morning was already moving without her. Her pulse rang in her ears, reducing the world to the pitiless tick of time, while the air in the narrow rooms lay warm against her skin. Nerves flickered beneath her ribs as she moved from room to room, searching faster now, until the hem of the dress brushed her hands and, at last, she found it.
By Sarah Xenosabout a month ago in Fiction
Now Boarding . Top Story - August 2026.
Despite Kelsey’s best efforts in the art of self restraint, all she thought about while standing in the boarding line was how divinely handsome he was. There was something about his chin as he looked out over the tarmac that said “I can cook a meal, pay the bills, and still nerd out over a video game, but in a way that’s cute and not smelly.”
By Matthew J. Frommabout a month ago in Fiction
Face Down
The pelting rain bounces from his hat, drowning out the gurgling runoff funneling into the sewer at his feet. The streetlights wait a moment after each rumble of thunder before flickering. The warm glow fractures across the scene, matching the intensity of the crackling lightning. Another bolt flashes. Thunder rolls. A pause. Flicker. Rain. The expanse of the desert sky reflects the unoccupied street. He is lost looking up into the mirror ceiling, wondering whether he's looking up or down. The flooding street mirrors the painted sky. Or is it the other way around? He splashes through puddles. The street floods. The curb drowns. Rippling sky washes out. It softens. Melts. The storm eases—distant rumbles, escaping flashes. The rain trickles into the flood. The waters swirl over pavement. Blurs fade to solids. The world forms anew, and he sees once more. The mirror holds only stars. The street only himself. Streetlights buzz. Cars pass. He wonders. Blinks... realizes? He reassembles his memories. His knees tremble. His stomach churns. The pavement rushes up. Vomit. Crash. A thousand moments flash. White light warms. Too warm. Flames rise. A soul engulfed. Clear! His chest leaps. Back arches. Paramedics scramble. Who can hear the angelic chorus? A thousand voices praise he. They bring him to. Monitors ring out. Beeping overpowers the mind. His focus stumbles over then and now. A landing on the stretcher. A clenching of consciousness. Life clung. For now. It was a cold evening. His face had yet to wear the weather of so many bad decisions. They were all looking at him. The same dumbfounded faces on his closest friends and families. What had he done? Or had he not done? Their confusion mixed with ire as the truth set in. He'd bled them dry. Accounts empty. With nothing to show. That was the top of the slope he's sliding down now. The faces surrounding him now show pity. Concern. Disbelief. Murmurs sneak through the room as the track marks are discovered. Each mark, a record of another slip. Delirious and incoherent, one question hangs— Should he have stayed dead?
By Tales from a Madmanabout a month ago in Fiction
