Short Story
Green
It was less a monastery than a squat stone refuge, half-swallowed by the mountain. Inside, the monks’ bones lay scattered across the floor. Skulls cracked open. One skeleton had its bony fingers wrapped around another’s throat. They hadn’t died of old age. Something drove them to madness. Maybe it was the curse tied to the treasure we came for.
By Steve Lance11 months ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Remembered Tomorrow
She woke up on the same street again. Fog covered the old stone road like a ghost, curling around the silent streetlights. The morning felt both too early and too slow. Shadows moved strangely in the mist, and she felt a heavy pull in her chest, the weight of knowing what would happen before it did.
By Wahdat Rauf11 months ago in Fiction
The Bridge of Silent Bells
“You said no one would be here.” “We’re early,” Noah said. “That’s kind of the point.” The fog hung low over the Vltava, thick enough to swallow sound. Even their footsteps disappeared into it. Mira shoved her hands into her coat pockets, her breath a pale cloud in front of her.
By Aarsh Malik11 months ago in Fiction
The Man Who Sold Forgotten Memories
It was a fog-soaked evening when Elias appeared in the old town square — a man with silver hair, a faded brown coat, and a wooden cart filled with tiny glass bottles that glimmered faintly under the streetlights. The sign on his cart read in careful, hand-painted letters: “Forgotten Memories — For Sale or Exchange.” People laughed at first. They thought it was another trickster or magician trying to earn a few coins. But Elias wasn’t selling tricks. He was selling something far stranger. Inside each bottle shimmered a faint light — blue, gold, or sometimes violet — like captured dust motes of dreams. And if you leaned close enough, you could almost hear whispers inside them. Laughter. A child’s cry. A song half-remembered. --- The First Customer Mara was the first to stop. She was a young woman, pale from sleepless nights and haunted eyes. “Are those… real?” she asked. Elias nodded slowly. “They are memories,” he said. “Ones that were once forgotten. Some bring joy. Some bring sorrow. But all are real.” She hesitated. “And you sell them?” “I trade them,” Elias said. “One forgotten memory for another. You may leave behind what you wish not to remember — or recover what you once lost.” Mara’s voice trembled. “Can you take away the memory of someone I loved? Someone who left?” Elias looked at her for a long time. “Yes. But you must give me another memory in return — one that still means something to you.” She bit her lip. “And then what happens to it?” “It becomes mine to keep. Or to sell again.” Her eyes fell on a bottle glowing faintly red. “What’s in that one?” He smiled faintly. “That one belonged to a man who wanted to forget his son’s laughter. He couldn’t bear it after the boy was gone.” Mara closed her eyes, her heart aching. “And you… you just keep them all?” “I keep them until someone else needs them,” he said softly. “Memories are never truly lost — only waiting to be found again.” --- The Trade Mara returned the next day. In her trembling hands, she held a small locket — the last thing her late fiancé had given her. “Take it,” she whispered. “Take the memory that keeps me from sleeping.” Elias took the locket gently, placed it in his palm, and closed his eyes. The bottle on his table filled with a soft golden light. Mara gasped as tears fell down her cheeks — not of sorrow, but of sudden emptiness. When she walked away, she felt lighter. But also hollow. She turned once more to see Elias carefully place the new bottle among the others. For a moment, she thought she heard her lover’s voice — then it was gone, sealed within glass. --- The Collector of Forgotten Things Elias traveled from town to town. People came to him from miles away — lovers who wanted to forget heartbreak, parents who couldn’t bear to remember, old men who longed to recall their youth. He took their memories, one by one. Some he sold. Some he kept. But no one ever asked where his memories went — or whether he had any left of his own. Late at night, when the towns grew quiet and the streets fell dark, Elias would uncork a single bottle. The air would fill with a faint glow, and the sound of a woman’s laughter — soft, kind, and distant. He would smile, listening for a few seconds before sealing it again. It was the only memory he had never sold — the only one he could never let go. Her name was Anna. --- The Boy in the Alley One winter night, a small boy approached Elias’s cart. His clothes were torn, his eyes wide. “Mister, can you help me remember my mother?” he asked. Elias knelt. “What do you mean, child?” “I can’t remember her face anymore,” the boy whispered. “She died when I was little. I just… want to remember what she looked like when she smiled.” Elias’s throat tightened. “I can give you someone else’s memory,” he said gently. “It won’t be truly yours, but it will feel close.” The boy nodded eagerly. Elias searched his cart until he found a small blue bottle. He placed it in the boy’s hands. “When you open this, you’ll remember her smile — even if only for a while.” The boy opened it, and his face lit up with wonder. “She’s beautiful,” he whispered. “Thank you.” Elias turned away, hiding the tear that slipped down his cheek. That bottle had once belonged to him. It was Anna’s smile the boy now remembered. --- The Last Memory Years passed, and Elias grew older. His cart became worn, and his hands shook as he touched each bottle. One evening, he looked at the fading sunset and whispered, “Perhaps it’s time.” He took out the final bottle — the one he had never traded — and held it close. “I’ve carried you long enough,” he said softly. “Maybe someone else needs you now.” He set the bottle down in the middle of the square and walked away into the fog. --- The next morning, when the townspeople came, the cart was gone. Only one bottle remained on the ground, glowing faintly gold. A little girl picked it up. Inside, she saw a man and a woman dancing beneath the stars — laughing, alive, and free. She smiled, not knowing whose memory she held, but feeling something warm bloom inside her chest. From that day on, the town began to dream again.
By Muhammad Kashif 11 months ago in Fiction
The Private Room
It was hard saying goodbye to the old house. So many memories were tied up here. Like the time Greg placed the fake rat in the kitchen and scared Mom instead of Molly. Or when Moses dared Megan to run over his foot with her bike. He walked around with a broken foot and didn’t tell anybody until the next day. Or the time we had that huge blizzard. All of the kids climbed onto the roof from the third-story window and jumped off into the snow below. Timmy sank three feet down. We had to dig him out.
By David E. Perry11 months ago in Fiction
Thin Ice
The lake wasn’t supposed to be frozen yet. That’s the first thing. It was early fall, leaves still pretending to be green, air only barely biting. Nobody had posted a “safe to skate” notice, no red flags, no bored guy in a parka with a drill measuring thickness. Just me, my headphones, and a sheet of ice that looked like someone had laid a piece of glass over the water overnight.
By Milan Milic11 months ago in Fiction
How to Hold a Heart That Isn’t Yours
They never tell you that loving someone you can’t have isn’t just about longing. It’s about discipline. About learning how to stand close enough to feel the warmth of their light without reaching out and burning yourself on it.
By sunaam khan11 months ago in Fiction
My Dead Best Friend Won't Stop Texting Me
Three years ago my best friend Jessica Moore died in a car crash. We were supposed to go to this graduation party together but she never picked me up. Next morning I found out she'd wrapped her car around a tree on Highway 9. The cops said she fell asleep at the wheel.
By Maxim Dudko11 months ago in Fiction
