Short Story

The Robot. Honorable Mention in Parallel Lives Challenge.
The skeletons in my closet are just old versions of me. The ones I starved so I could survive, locked behind the door with them in darkness. Fear led me to believe that staying confined was noble if it kept you from drifting away from the people you love, but there is one past version of me that just won’t die.
By Aura Starling11 months ago in Fiction
Split at the Heart
City Chloe Chloe woke up before her alarm. Her apartment felt colder than usual. She rolled out of bed, stretched once, then went straight to the kitchen without turning on any lights. The cat was already there, weaving between her legs, meowing like he hadn’t eaten in days. She filled his bowl and started the coffee, letting the familiar sounds settle around her. Pipes rattled in the walls. Someone slammed a door down the hall. She wondered if it was the guy with the loud girlfriend or the woman with the boxer. Either way, it was always noisy at this hour.
By Oula M.J. Michaels11 months ago in Fiction
Dreaming in Parallel. Runner-Up in Parallel Lives Challenge.
He does not believe in love at first sight… But when he sees her, he becomes trapped in time, like a fly in amber resin. And he feels exactly as low as an insect.
By Sam Spinelli11 months ago in Fiction
Five-Minute Refund
Five-Minute Refund If you can undo one mistake a day, who owns the version where you didn’t? The first time I used the refund, I saved a stranger’s life and missed my train.
By Alex Mario11 months ago in Fiction
The Room with the Quiet Clock. AI-Generated.
I didn’t notice when the clock in my living room stopped working. It had been there for years, a quiet heartbeat in the background — ticking through every dinner, every phone call that ended too soon, and every silence that stretched between me and the walls. When I realized it had stopped, I just stared at it for a while. The second hand was caught somewhere between twelve and one, frozen mid-motion, like it didn’t want to move forward anymore. I thought about replacing the batteries, but something in me said, “leave it.” And so I did. The quiet that followed was strange. Not empty — just… still. The kind of silence that makes you hear your own breathing, your thoughts, the hum of the refrigerator, the world moving outside while you, somehow, stay still. That week, I noticed other small changes. The morning light seemed brighter, softer even. My plants looked healthier. I found myself cooking again — nothing fancy, just small meals, something that made the house smell alive. Sometimes I caught myself looking at the clock, waiting for it to start again. It never did. Then one evening, after a long day at work, I walked in and saw something odd. The wall behind the clock — usually plain beige — had a faint shimmer to it. Like light had touched it differently. I thought it was dust, or my eyes playing tricks, but when I leaned closer, I saw a hint of color. Pale blue. By the next morning, the blue had spread. Not painted, not brushed — just there. A wash of color, smooth and quiet, stretching wider every day. By the end of the week, the clock seemed to float over a gentle blue lake painted on the wall, with ripples spreading outward in perfect silence. I didn’t tell anyone. How could I? It felt private — like the house was trying to tell me something. A few nights later, when the rain came, I woke up and went to the living room. The lake was darker now, glistening as though the rain outside had reached it too. I could almost hear the soft patter of drops, though I knew the sound came from beyond the window. For a moment, I imagined standing by that lake, my feet touching the cold surface, waiting for something — or someone — to appear. I began talking to it sometimes. Not out loud, but in the way you think to yourself when you can’t sleep. I told it about the things I regretted: the people I’d let go too soon, the promises I broke, the versions of myself I’d abandoned to please others. The lake never answered. But I felt lighter each time I spoke. Weeks passed. The colors deepened. There were now soft trees at the far side of the lake, their leaves golden in a light that didn’t match the time of day. Once, I could swear I saw movement — a figure, maybe — at the edge of the water. I blinked, and it was gone. That’s when I decided to take the clock down. The wall felt warm when I touched it, like sunlit stone. I placed the clock gently on the table and just watched the scene. Without the clock there, the space looked complete, as if it had always been meant to look that way. Now, every morning, the lake shines a little differently. In the early hours, it’s a mirror — calm, silver-blue. By evening, it glows with gold and amber. At night, it disappears into the shadows, but I can still feel it there, like a heartbeat under the wall. Sometimes I dream of standing by that lake. The air is cool, the sky endless. Someone stands across the water — too far to see clearly, but familiar. They never move, just watch me, like they’re waiting for me to understand something. I think I do now. Time didn’t stop when the clock did. It just started moving differently — slower, quieter, kinder. Last week, I threw the batteries away. I don’t need them anymore. The lake tells me everything I need to know about time.
By Ali Khan 11 months ago in Fiction
Three Weeks Until Forever. Honorable Mention in Parallel Lives Challenge.
There is an uneasy silence that takes place on country roads at night after the smashing of glass and screeching of tires. The metronome of the blinker still rings between shallow breaths. A soft hum from the radio as it skips through tunes in a designated lineup, as if nothing had happened. The DJ goes about their night the same way they always do, cracking jokes to the handful of people still tuned into the broadcast.
By Ashley Lima11 months ago in Fiction
Snakes on a Pole
2004: We split. You take our knowledge, I take our desire. The brain and heart metaphor is somewhat apt. Other parts remain neutral or retain sovereignty, and reluctantly aid us both. The separation seeming both involuntary and undesirable (particularly on my end), our spirits long for unfractionation, and tug on each other.
By A. S. Lawrence11 months ago in Fiction
Jointly and Severally
Alex We like the same things, Lexi and me. Similar things. Or rather, we enjoy the same things, but differently. Take shopping. I love those mounds of produce, skins of dimpled orange, crinkled green, shining red, round shapes, rod shapes, cone shapes, I love to imagine the ripeness of the flesh inside as I squeeze an avocado, or how it’s going to feel to slice into that aubergine, how the smell seeping out when I split open the cells of that leek with my knife is going to kick-start my appetite. I love planning out, in my head, what I’m going to do with all that goodness that I see in front of me. It kind of makes me feel alive. Lexi is the same, except she’s got her eye on the shoppers. Me? I’m dreaming of hearty vegetable stew, but Lexi, she’s more about stewing hearts.
By Hannah Moore11 months ago in Fiction
Neural Dream
Neural Dream When sleep becomes software, you don’t wake up — you update. The first night, I woke up with blood on my tongue and a word in my mouth that didn’t belong to me.
By Alex Mario11 months ago in Fiction
Black Scales V: A Poison Tree
Orla grappled with her fever like it was a physical thing with tentacles. She thrashed in and out of dreams that were hot and tight and squeezy, with sharp edges.
By L.C. Schäfer11 months ago in Fiction
Quiet Victory
Quiet Victory By David Tulloch Copyright © 2025 By David Tulloch Tyler was not like other teenagers. While his peers were watching baseball on television, partying in the local park, or playing computer games, he was daydreaming about politics. In his reveries, the giants of the past came alive: Abraham Lincoln, Franklin D Roosevelt, Sir Winston Churchill, JFK, Pierre Trudeau, Barack Obama.
By David Tulloch11 months ago in Fiction
The Guardian of the Jungle
A day like any other , I went to fetch water at the peraõ(1). I knew the songs of almost every bird, so I was surprised to hear a whistle I had never heard in the area before.
By Tati Asencio11 months ago in Fiction