Short Story

The Two Selves of Beth Jones
The Two Selves of Beth Jones Beth Jones was twenty-five when she moved from Upstate to Manhattan. She told everyone it was for work. Her job in marketing had promoted her to the New York office, but really, it was to slip into another life, one she imagined more refined, faster, brighter. She could walk down streets lit in a permanent yellow glow and feel, for a moment, like she had become the woman she saw on glossy magazine covers: deliberate, ambitious, and leaning always toward the next opportunity.
By Isabella lantryabout a year ago in Fiction
The last laugh. Content Warning.
The back room smelled of dust and old wood polish, the kind of place performers ducked into when they needed a breath between acts. The little family of former criminals sat in mismatched chairs, laughter soft and easy, their voices carrying a warmth that could’ve belonged to any ordinary troupe. They weren’t running anymore, weren’t stealing anymore. They were just… living.
By Digi Dragon 05 (Or Digi or Revely)about a year ago in Fiction
Knock Knock Knockin on Heaven's Door
Revenge has consiquences The old man hated the teenagers who ran through his yard with a passion. They didn't bother anything. They passed through on their way to other places or to retrieve a stray ball. It began in June, as soon as school was out.
By Cheryl E Prestonabout a year ago in Fiction
Final approach
By the time I had finished checking the horse had enough hay and a good enough rug on for the cold night ahead dusk had descended down the hill from Newlands Enclosure and across the fields. A low lying and billowing mist gave a blurred indicator of where Dockens Water bordered the paddocks.
By Alan Russellabout a year ago in Fiction
The Rise of the New Holy American Empire
“In a move that has stunned the world, the last president of the United States stepped down today, and a new Emperor assumed power over a nation now calling itself the New Holy American Empire.”
By Logan M. Snyderabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mist Highway
In Eastern Europe, there was a person named Aleksandr. He was middle-aged and had a job with good income. One night, he was driving home from work when he saw a mysterious figure standing in the highway. It looked like a woman wearing a wedding gown just standing there with no emotion. Aleksandr was frightened a drove away quickly.
By Pawit Piyasartabout a year ago in Fiction
The Office Games. Top Story - September 2025.
The climb ends where trust falls. 🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜 "Morning all," Dylan Koh's bass voice turned the office into a boombox. "Thank you for your presence this lovely September morning."
By Michelle Liew Tsui-Linabout a year ago in Fiction
🌙 The Train That Never Came
Maya hated waiting. She hated the long wooden benches of train stations, the faint smell of oil and rust in the air, the clock hands dragging slower than time itself. But most of all, she hated the feeling of not being in control.
By Aminullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Fox Who Wanted to Be Ordinary
The Fox Who Longed to Be OrdinaryBY:Ubaid High on a hill, a fox sat quietly, gazing down at the lush green meadow below. The forest was alive with activity. Deer grazed on fresh grass, predators lurked in the shadows, and some animals feasted on their hard-earned prey. Birds darted across the sky in flocks, their wings glinting in the sunlight. The gentle river sparkled as animals stopped by to drink. It was a cheerful day in the forest—but the fox was not cheerful. A heaviness rested on her heart. In the forest, she held an important position. She was the trusted advisor of the lion—the undisputed king. Every decision the lion made carried her wisdom behind it. Other animals looked at her with respect and praised her cleverness. Her reputation stretched beyond the forest; even humans had coined the phrase “as cunning as a fox.” Yet, the fox felt no joy in this. At first, she had been proud of this honor. She strutted about with her head held high, reveling in the attention and dignity her role brought. But over time, the weight of this image became a burden. When she saw the other animals laughing freely, playing tricks on each other, and rolling about in the grass without care, her heart ached. She, too, longed to laugh loudly at silly jokes, to tumble in the fields, or to tug playfully at the bear’s long fur and run away. But the moment she tried to join in, the animals would stop and stare at her with surprise, as though such behavior was beneath her. Their judgment made her withdraw in shame. She did not see herself as extraordinary—she only wanted to be like them. But her reputation, built on a few chance incidents, kept her trapped in a role she no longer wanted. She thought of those famous moments that made her “wise.” There was the time she, the lion, and the wolf had hunted together. When the lion asked the wolf how the catch should be divided, the wolf naively suggested sharing it equally. The lion killed him instantly for his insolence. When the same question was turned to the fox, she quickly declared, “All three belong to the lion.” The lion was pleased, and the fox was praised as shrewd and clever. Yet in her heart, she knew it was pure luck—the wolf had simply answered first. Another time, she had spotted a crow holding a piece of cheese in its beak. She had flattered the bird with sweet words until it, puffed up with pride, opened its mouth to caw and dropped the cheese. She had enjoyed the meal, but deep down, she knew it wasn’t intelligence—just the crow’s foolishness. And then there was the incident in the vineyard. The ripe grapes looked delicious, but she could not reach them no matter how hard she tried. Embarrassed by her failure, she muttered, “Those grapes must be sour,” and walked away. Luckily, no one was there to see her defeat, otherwise her clever image might have been tarnished. All of this weighed on her now. She was tired of being admired for accidents and half-truths. That day, she sat hungry and alone on the hill, refusing to hunt. Night fell, and the animals gathered under the glowing full moon. The meadow was bathed in silver light, while soft clouds drifted across the sky. The wolves howled restlessly, earning irritated glares from the lion, who ignored them only because his belly was full. Amid the chatter, a debate broke out. Some animals claimed that the moon was moving across the sky, while others insisted that the clouds were the ones drifting past. Voices rose, tempers flared, and soon the argument turned into a quarrel. The lion roared mightily, silencing them all. “Who are you to decide? This is a matter for the wise one!” he declared. Every eye turned to the fox. Her heart sank. She knew nothing about the movements of the moon or clouds. Anger welled up inside her—she was trapped again in the role she despised. Then, an idea struck her. Perhaps this was her chance to free herself. If she gave an utterly foolish answer, maybe they would stop looking to her for wisdom. She stood up and said, “Brothers and sisters! If the moon is still, then surely the clouds are moving. But if the clouds are still, then surely the moon is moving.” The meadow fell silent. The animals looked at one another, confused. The answer made no sense. But because it came from the fox—whose words they always believed—they erupted in applause. Even the lion nodded in approval, impressed once again by her “cleverness.” The fox felt no pride. Quietly, she turned away and slipped into the shadows of the forest. She walked toward an unknown place, leaving behind the applause, the burden of her reputation, and perhaps her role as the forest’s so-called wisest creature. She no longer wished to be clever. She only wished to be free.
By Ubaid about a year ago in Fiction
The Vanishing at Blackthorn Abbey
The rain had been falling over Yorkshire for three straight days, soaking the earth and flooding the narrow lanes. On the fourth night, Detective Eleanor Ward received a call that pulled her from the warmth of her flat into the teeth of the storm. A tourist had gone missing—Karl Meyer, thirty-two, a German national traveling alone. His rucksack and camera were found at the entrance of Blackthorn Abbey, a ruin that clung like a scar to the cliffs above Whitby. His footprints ended at the threshold. No sign of struggle. No sign of retreat. He had simply ceased to exist.
By Wellova about a year ago in Fiction
Under the Night Sky: Experiencing Senegalese Wrestling in Joal
Hey everyone, how are you all? Today, I’m going to share an interesting story with you, and I hope you enjoy it. It was that other night—a rather late night, in fact. Deep darkness had fallen over the West African coast for several hours. My friend and I were striding along the lonely road from the town of Joal toward Fadiouth Island, Senegal.
By Newman Singerabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mirror of Creation
They told us the river was only a river, but my mother called it a mouth—the place where the first breath rose from the dark and learned the shape of a body. When I was a child, I laughed at her stories and threw stones into the current to prove it was water and nothing more. The stones never came back. That was all the proof I wanted then.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzalesabout a year ago in Fiction