Short Story
Halloween House Party (4). Content Warning.
Chapter 4: “What did she just say” I whisper to myself, her words haunting and ringing through my ears. “She said Sly’s dead? Who’s Sly?” My girl looks up at me with curiosity and none of the fear that’s draining all the blood from face.
By 𝓗. 𝓒. 𝓡𝓾𝓫𝔂11 months ago in Fiction
Trump — No Tie Guy
It was June when I visited my fiancée in Japan. We still couldn’t decide whether to live there or in the States — and I had just started learning Japanese, often hearing things completely wrong. She showed me temples, gardens, and glowing city streets, clearly trying to seduce me into staying.
By Erian Lin Grant11 months ago in Fiction
These Tired Sides. Runner-Up in Something Is Beginning, I Think Challenge. Top Story - January 2024.
Wreathed in darkness, I stand, holding back the destruction crawling within. I should be clear: this is not a metaphor. My sole purpose in this world is to hold what the creators choose. It could have been anything: oil, paint, chemicals.
By Stephen A. Roddewig11 months ago in Fiction
The Princess Who Walked on the Moon
Princess Elara’s world was a gilded cage. Her life was a meticulously scheduled tapestry of state dinners, embroidery lessons, and waving from balconies. Her kingdom was a beautiful, smothering jewel, and she was its most prized possession, locked safely inside. Her only escape was the royal observatory, where she would chart the constellations and dream of the one place her royal guards could not follow: the Moon.
By Habibullah11 months ago in Fiction
The Last Cup Of Coffee. AI-Generated.
I spilled my coffee on my laptop this morning, and for a second, I thought my day was ruined—but it turned out to be the best mistake I’ve made in months. My screen flickered, keys stuck, and my carefully curated to-do list vanished in a puff of digital smoke. Normally, I would have panicked, cursed myself, and rushed to find a backup. But today, I sat back, took a deep breath, and just… looked at the mess. For a long time, I’ve been running on autopilot. Wake up, check emails, scroll social media, grind at work, repeat. Every day felt like a sprint with no finish line. And yet, here I was, forced into stillness by a simple accident—a cup of coffee and a stubbornly sticky keyboard. Instead of panicking, I made a new cup, sat at the kitchen table, and let the silence settle. I watched the steam rise, breathed in its warmth, and for the first time in weeks, I let my mind wander. I thought about small victories I had ignored, moments of gratitude I had skipped, and conversations I had rushed through. In that quiet moment, I realized I had been moving so fast I was missing the point. After a few minutes, I started salvaging what I could from my laptop, slowly typing notes into a notebook by hand. Each word felt more deliberate, more meaningful, than the frantic tapping I usually did. My creativity, long buried under deadlines and noise, slowly returned. I remembered ideas I had abandoned, plans I had postponed, and ambitions I had buried under “busy.” By the end of the morning, the laptop was still sticky, but my mind felt clear. I realized something simple yet profound: slowing down doesn’t waste time—it creates space for focus, reflection, and meaningful action. Sometimes, the universe forces us to pause, whether it’s a spilled coffee or an unexpected delay, and that pause can be the catalyst for progress we didn’t even know we needed. I haven’t stopped rushing completely, but now, each morning, I make a deliberate ritual. A cup of coffee, ten minutes of reflection, and a notebook by my side. It’s a small change, but the results are already noticeable: sharper focus, calmer mornings, and the ability to spot opportunities I used to overlook. If a spilled cup of coffee taught me anything, it’s this: life’s little accidents often carry the lessons we need most. Progress isn’t about speed. It’s about attention, awareness, and making space to truly see what matters.
By RDM Stories11 months ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker's Secret. AI-Generated.
I never thought a broken clock could change the way I see my life, but here I am, writing about it. It sat on my grandfather's shelf for years, silent and dusty, and when he passed, I inherited it along with a box of memories. Its hands had stopped moving at some arbitrary time, yet somehow that stopped moment felt intentional, like a challenge waiting for me to rise to it. I set it on my work desk, unsure if I even wanted it to run again. The second hand had stopped at 3:17, a moment I would later realize mirrored the point in my life when I had stopped moving forward. Between the endless emails, failed side projects, and my routine of scrolling mindlessly through social media, I had been stuck. And now, staring at this stubborn clock, I finally admitted it to myself. I spent the first night attempting to tinker with it. I opened the back and poked at its gears, whispering apologies as if the clock could sense my incompetence. Nothing worked. But the process was oddly therapeutic. There was something about the deliberate care, the patient examination of tiny, interlocking parts, that started to calm my restless mind. The next morning, I returned to it with fresh eyes and, for the first time, started noticing patterns. A missing gear here, a slightly bent spring there. As I fixed the first small piece, I realized something incredible: the clock was teaching me patience. I had always rushed through life, jumping from task to task, expecting immediate results. But here, success required slow, precise effort. Success demanded attention. By the third day, I was no longer just fixing the clock—I was learning from it. Every small adjustment I made felt like a metaphor for my life: straighten a bent spring, and I remembered to realign my priorities; clean a gear, and I took a moment to clear mental clutter. The act of repairing something tangible made the intangible work in my life feel achievable. I began setting daily goals again, not grandiose ones, just tiny, measurable victories—wake up at 6:30, write 500 words, exercise for 15 minutes. And every time I checked the clock, I was reminded that progress is incremental and consistent, not instant. By the fifth day, the clock ticked again. That first tick resonated through the room, louder than I expected, echoing like a small but powerful affirmation. I realized the clock wasn’t just a piece of furniture; it was a teacher. It reminded me that broken things aren’t useless—they’re just waiting for attention, patience, and care. And sometimes, fixing them teaches you how to fix yourself. I left my grandfather’s clock on my desk, now running perfectly, a constant companion in my daily grind. Whenever I feel overwhelmed, I glance at it and remember the lesson it taught me: even the smallest, most tedious effort compounds into meaningful change. In life, as with clocks, the smallest gears often make the biggest difference.
By RDM Stories11 months ago in Fiction
Day One: A Partridge in a Pear Tree
Stephen had never seen a contractor look so defeated by a tree. “It’s… indoor?” the man asked, standing in the hallway with a rootball the size of a corgi wrapped in burlap. The pear tree’s leaves trembled as if laughing, and a slick of damp soil tattooed the carpet in dark commas.
By Stephen Stanley11 months ago in Fiction
Miss Havisham's Bathroom. Winner in The Forgotten Room Challenge.
Fran had been told she couldn’t really call herself a stand-up if she hadn’t done The Black Lake Pub gig. So, she had signed up and agreed to a car share. Twenty minutes from Manchester and fifty years back in time, in daylight the area might have been called stone-built picturesque. On a February evening, with an empty field to the left and the dark waters to the right, it was Gothic isolation.
By Rachel Robbins11 months ago in Fiction
