Short Story
Knock Knock. Top Story - September 2025.
Decked out in fleece sweats, sitting on a newly purchased faux leather sofa in a retro brown, Mereille looks around. Not too bad. Boxes fill the room but she’s managed to find a packet of microwave popcorn. Bayou lays curled at her feet, snoring lightly as she shovels a handful of movie-style buttered popcorn into her mouth. Just as she lifts a plastic cup of Zinfandel, a knock at the door, startles both the phone and wine out of her hands.
By Cathy Schieffelinabout a year ago in Fiction
The Quiet Things That Die. Content Warning.
Rick Mallory got the citation on a Thursday morning, just before the sun had finished rising. The mail carrier hadn’t bothered to knock. The envelope was crammed halfway into the box, plastic window already smudged with the dirty thumbprint of whoever had handled it last. Rick tugged it loose and carried it inside like it was a trap and he knew it. He stood at the sink and balanced the letter on his palm like a bad coin. The paper felt too thin. Government mail was always printed on paper that felt ashamed of itself.
By Fatal Serendipityabout a year ago in Fiction
Forty Days. Runner-Up in Parallel Lives Challenge.
Sandwiched between soaring skyscrapers stood a peculiar little second-hand shop. In its window rested a full-length mirror with an intricately carved frame. My reflection startled me. I felt haggard and worn, while the image reflected was rested, serene. For a moment my spirits lifted; perhaps it could do the same for Ellen.
By Steve Lanceabout a year ago in Fiction
The Allegory of the Hidden Fountain
“We live many lives within the span of one, and each teaches us how to walk the next.” Prologue – The Longing There were stories told in the hush before dawn—stories of a spring that could unbind time. Some said it hid beneath the ribs of mountains, others that it pooled beneath an old ruin where ivy learned the names of stones. The stories disagreed on the map, but none argued with the ache. The ache was universal. It hummed beneath the skin of the world like a second pulse: the wish not merely to live longer, but to live truer, to be held by something that did not end.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzalesabout a year ago in Fiction
