Short Story
Sights of Blackness
Waves crashed when Esther Posey saw the door. No one else populated that Rehoboth Beach, Delaware stretch of sand at this time early in the morning. The sun peeked over the land. The upright beckoned her. With sunkissed skin and a blue and gold sundress to match, she walked through the sand, sandals in hand. A growing sense of dread washed over her as she approached the door jamb. The door stood closed. She inspected the area. Nothing hindered her. Fingertips floated over the surface of the door. Smooth to the touch, she communed with the painted door.
By Skyler Saunders12 months ago in Fiction
Parental Fear
The Knock She sat restlessly on the couch staring blankly at the TV. Her daughter, at the mall with her friends, was 10 minutes late, and her son, at his friend’s house, was going on 5 minutes late already. She shifted between angry and scared with each second of the clock.
By Timothy A Rowland12 months ago in Fiction
Too Much, Too Late
There is a sharp knock at the door, but I’m not expecting anyone. Damn — I’m standing in my kitchen, dressed in my comfortable but tatty sarong, in no way presentable for visitors. I mean seriously, who rocks up unannounced in this day and age anyway?
By Colleen Millsteed 12 months ago in Fiction
Daria's Mum. Top Story - October 2025.
It started weeks ago. Daria was smiling more. Little, private smiles, like she was in on a joke nobody else knew about. She spent more time in her room. More time on her phone. I’d knock to ask about dinner and she’d shout "I’m busy!" like I’d interrupted something sacred. I figured it was a boy. I didn't love it, but there was no manual for how to navigate these waters. If I get really strict, she will just pull away. If I clamp down on her phone use, she'll get sneaky. If I snoop, I'll destroy her trust. This puts me over a barrel, doesn't it? That’s how dating works these days, through screens and usernames and coded emojis. Something she would no doubt remind me of if I did try to broach the subject. So I don't want you to think I was a neglectful mother that I didn’t interfere. I did agonise over how best to parent through this. Don't forget, she is sixteen. At some point, you don’t get to vet their crushes anymore. I'll be honest, I didn't think it would happen this early. But I suppose, all those little endings come sooner than you expect, right out of left field. When she was really small, and we'd been away somewhere, sometimes she would fall asleep in the car on the way back. When we got home, I'd carry her inside to bed. Her little arms draped around my neck, her lashes long and thick over her cheeks. It's the dad who often does that, so I understand it. But it's always just been her and me, what with one thing and another. I've had to do the things dads might normally do, and I haven't regretted a moment of it. Actually, as much as I'd dreaded the single parent life, I wouldn't change it for the world now. I look back on those precious times and I think, perhaps it was a blessing after all, that I didn't have to share them. I don't know why I'm so maudlin, really. Maybe because your first real heartbreak is an even bigger milestone than your first love, and it's looks like that's where we are now. She was banging about in the kitchen the other night, and then she went out "for a walk". That was a bit odd on the face of it. I wondered if she was going to meet him. Whoever he was. Did she look a bit strained when she popped her head round the door before she left? Or was I imagining it? I regretted letting her go. Wished I'd stopped her. Imagined all kinds of awful things... But no. My anxiety was for nothing. She came home after barely twenty five minutes, and went straight to her room. I heard the thlump that meant she'd flopped down on to her bed. I thought I heard her crying, but when I knocked on the door, she squeaked at me to go away. My own heart broke, and I think it stung worse than my own first break up, all those years ago. Her pain has always been worse to me than my own pain. Since then, she’s been dry-eyed, but flat. I asked if she was okay and she said “fine” without looking up. I asked if it was a boy and she said "no". A bit too quickly if you ask me. When I told her last night we were having shepherds pie for dinner, she didn't even pull a face. That's how bad it's got. I checked the tracker app. I know, I know... boundaries. But I needed to know if she was safe. She’s been messaging someone called “Aster.” Who is he? Or I should say, who was he; she hasn't said a word to him since that night. It looks like there are new messages from him, but I don't dare look because I'm not familiar with this messaging app. Will Aster know his messages have been read? Will Daria be able to tell? Would I be able to cover my tracks? It's not worth risking it. A deep frown has replaced that secret smile, and another piece of my little girl has slipped away. I suggested a movie night, and she resisted at first, but I pressed it. "Come on," I said, "When was the last time we sat together and watched a film?" I got some clean blankets, popped some corn, and told her we would do it every week. "You can choose," I said, "but next time it's my pick." I say this cheerily, as if I'm not mourning for a time when her troubles were simpler , and I could fix them so easily. As if I'm not racking my brain to remember the last time I carried her, not knowing it would actually be the last. She smiled at me, a feeble thing, as if she carried the weight of the world in the corners of her mouth... But it was a start. I know it's no good telling her she can talk to me. I have to show it. I have to make the right conditions. So I seized on that smile like a life raft, like she's the one rescuing me, hauling me in. I'm right here, kid. Talk to me. Maybe I can't even help, but please just talk to me.
By L.C. Schäfer12 months ago in Fiction
A Night in the Devil’s Arms
A Night in the Devil’s Arms The manor’s silence pressed around Eleanor like a living thing, heavy and expectant. Each footfall on the polished stone seemed amplified, as though the walls themselves were listening, judging, savoring. The man who had met her at the door, whose presence radiated a wickedness so precise it might have been carved from the night itself, he watched her with quiet amusement.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 12 months ago in Fiction
The Day I Stopped Chasing People Who Didn’t Want Me.
Her name was Lena. She was sunlight on a bad day — warm when she wanted to be, distant when she didn’t. I met her at a friend’s party, where she smiled at me like she already knew I’d fall for her. And I did. Instantly, helplessly.
By Muhammad Ilyas12 months ago in Fiction
“The Woman at the Window”
Every morning at 7:03 a.m., just as the sunlight hit the third brick on the east wall of the old Hartwell building, she appeared. She didn’t wave. She didn’t smile. She simply watched. From behind dusty, lace curtains on the third floor, her pale face peered through the cracked windowpane, eyes unmoving, expression unreadable. People in town whispered about her—“The Woman at the Window,” they called her. I’d just moved to Bellmere two weeks ago, renting a small apartment across from the Hartwell building. On my first morning there, sipping burnt coffee from a chipped mug, I’d looked out—and saw her. Still as a portrait. Framed by shadow. By the third day, I found myself waiting for her. Something about her presence anchored the day. Like a strange ritual. I didn’t even know why I cared. Maybe it was loneliness. Maybe curiosity. Maybe both. By the sixth morning, I waved. She didn’t respond. She saw me, though. I was sure of it. The faintest flicker of recognition passed through her eyes. A blink. A slight tilt of the head. That was all. That night, I asked the barista at the corner café about the building. “Oh, Hartwell?” she frowned. “No one’s lived there for years. It’s condemned. Unsafe.” I blinked. “Are you sure? I’ve seen someone in the third-floor window. A woman.” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t joke about that.” “I’m not joking.” She leaned in, voice hushed. “A woman named Evelyn lived there once. Kept to herself. Died during the blackout five years ago. Gas leak. They didn’t find her for days.” My skin prickled. “Then who am I seeing?” The barista didn’t answer. I couldn’t sleep that night. My window directly faced hers. At 2 a.m., I woke up and looked across the street. She was there. Not standing. Sitting. Head bowed like she was crying. Her fingers trembled as they touched the glass. My heart pounded. I stepped closer to my window, drawn by something I didn’t understand. She lifted her head. And looked directly at me. Her lips moved. I couldn’t hear, but I could read them. Help me. The lights in my apartment flickered. My coffee mug shattered in the sink behind me. I stumbled backward, heart hammering in my chest. When I looked back—she was gone. I didn’t tell anyone. Who would believe me? The next morning, I walked to the Hartwell building. The front door was chained shut. Windows boarded. A “No Trespassing” sign flapped in the wind. I walked around the side, found a loose panel on the basement entrance, and slipped inside. It smelled like rot and mildew. The air felt heavier with every step. On the third floor, the hallway was dark, walls peeled like shedding skin. I followed the corridor to the window. The same lace curtain. The same cracked pane. The room was empty. Except for a single, dust-covered chair facing the window—and a small photo frame on the floor. I picked it up and wiped it clean. A woman, smiling. Holding a baby. On the back, in faded ink: Evelyn and Anna. March 2017. Something inside me sank. I glanced around and saw a notebook on the broken desk. The pages were yellowed, but the writing was clear. They told me she didn’t make it. The gas leak took her while I was at work. But I see her. Every night. Outside the window. Watching. Waiting. Am I losing my mind? Or is she calling me to follow? My hands trembled as I set it down. This wasn’t Evelyn I’d been seeing. It was Anna. That night, I left a note on my window, large black letters on white paper. "Anna. I see you." At 7:03 a.m., she appeared again. This time, she smiled. A soft, sad smile. One that said thank you. One that said goodbye. Then she faded, like smoke in the morning light. And the window was empty. I never saw her again after that day. The Hartwell building was demolished a month later. The town didn’t talk about it. The window, the woman, the strange feeling in the air—it was all gone. But sometimes, when the morning sun hits just right, I glance across the street, half-expecting her to be there. Watching. Waiting. But maybe she doesn’t need to anymore. Maybe she’s finally home.
By Israr khan12 months ago in Fiction
