Short Story
The Last Train to Miray. AI-Generated.
The train station of Miray hadn’t seen a real crowd in years. The walls were cracked, the benches splintered, and the ticket window covered in dust. Once, this place had been the heart of a small but thriving mining town. Now, it was only the heart of one old man who refused to let it die.
By shakir hamid12 months ago in Fiction
His Freckle Too, Stayed Until Morning
I did not notice it before. That small freckle just beneath his left eye, the one the light always seems to find before I do. How many times have I seen his face and never really seen it? The mark itself is nothing special, really, a speck, a shadow of pigment the sun decided to keep for itself, yet tonight it feels like a secret I have finally been allowed to see.
By Peter Thwing - Host of the FST Podcast12 months ago in Fiction
To The Dead We Owe the Truth. Content Warning.
“We should be considerate to the living; to the dead we owe only the truth. " - Voltaire. I loved my Gran. I loved visiting her and wouldn't stop. But since her dementia had taken its vice-like grip. Since that evil disease had squeezed out everything that made her spectacular, it was harder.
By Paul Stewart12 months ago in Fiction
The Moving Experience
Gold speckles lined the blue carpet. The house in Wilmington, Delaware showed a bed, a basin, and a chair and desk set with a place for a candle in the room. The bed featured a wooden frame and a single mattress with colorful blankets of blue and gold draped on it; the basin had a crack in the outer rim but looked like ivory; the desk showed scratches and lines that covered its surface. A single flame burned and cast a glow over the whole place. In over a hundred and sixty years, the room had not been touched. The door creaked. The musty smell of old paper struck at the nose of Taylor David. He wore jeans and a uniform that spelled out his reason for being there. “We Move Rooms” emblazoned on his gray shirt in crimson. That remained his task. He received a paycheck to collect the items of rooms and relocate them to storage facilities, homes, and incinerators. Now, he ensured the items wound up in a museum.
By Skyler Saunders12 months ago in Fiction
Time Refugee
The world dissolved in a scream of tortured physics. One moment, Leo was in 1943, in a London buckling under the Blitz, the air thick with dust and the smell of cordite. The next, he was lying on a floor of cool, seamless light, the air silent and sterile. The experimental lab, the frantic last-ditch effort to save their best minds from the falling bombs, had worked. He had been their lead physicist. He was their first, and only, successful test.
By Habibullah12 months ago in Fiction
Rain That Never Ends
It had been raining for five years. Not a day, not an hour of silence from the sky. The people of Maravelle had long stopped waiting for the sun. The old roads were rivers now, and the hills were islands. Children learned to swim before they learned to walk. Markets floated on barrels and bamboo rafts, schools drifted in circles tethered to the remains of clock towers, and crops grew in hanging gardens on rooftops.
By Farooq Hashmi12 months ago in Fiction
Those Who Survived the Flames
On the narrow street beside the old store in the center of the village stood a grand house — the home of Sotimkhon, the respected elder of Khurmoli village. Sotimkhon was a tall, broad-shouldered man, always wearing a waistcoat, a doppi on his head, and leather slippers on his feet. At every wedding or community gathering, he was the one to lead the people — firm, wise, and commanding.
By Izabella Johnson12 months ago in Fiction
Only One to Talk To
Sarah had no one to talk to beside Uncle Robert. She came home after experiencing the usual in school. Two new students had seen the potential in her and poked at it when they saw her during lunchtime. The girls asked about her home life, and when she didn’t reply, they came up with their own conclusions.
By Oliver S. Andreasen12 months ago in Fiction
