Short Story
The Clockmaker’s Daughter
He promised to come back from the war. The river kept the secret of whether he did. Every dawn for three years I walked to the banks of the Liriope, where the fog hung low and the water whispered like a confidant. I carried his last letter in my coat pocket, creased and soft from being read so often the words were fading: “I’ll return with the spring floods, Mara. Wait for me.”
By Tariq Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Soldier's Mercy
Hey everyone, Hope you're all having a good day! I wanted to share something a little different today—a story based on a dream I had recently. It was one of those really intense, almost-too-real dreams that stuck with me long after I woke up. I've been dying to write it down and share it with you all.
By Newman Singerabout a year ago in Fiction
Dead-End. Top Story - September 2025.
Bay, always in cut off jeans in the unforgiving summer heat lived in the house on the end of our road, the left side. I never knew why he was called Bay, his given name was Lou. He had an older sister, Sherry or Cherie, something like that who always wore this really long face, plain, thin and pale she seemed to strain when she smiled from their doorway. She never came out to play with the rest of us. I don't blame her honestly, we were a very gnarly bunch. Bay also had a little brother, I thought he was quite cute. He also wore cute off jeans.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)about a year ago in Fiction
The Whispering Wind . Top Story - September 2025.
Sarcha was a shaman who was to lead her people to find food, water and safety. She was to use her skills, not in the tropical rainforest jungles, but to escape the concrete jungles that had now become one of the harshest environments to live in.
By Katherine D. Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Hollow Reminder
I set one foot carefully in front of the other, crouching behind Liara as she leads the way down the tunnel. Pierie hovers behind me, the others close behind her. I swat my hand at her, nudging her back. If I have to turn and run, I’ll trample her.
By Phoenixica24about a year ago in Fiction
Root and Breath
Preface Silence has always been the first teacher. It binds, it listens, it holds. Some silences are prisons, heavy and enclosing. Others are thresholds, wide as the night sky. We are taught to obey the first, but we are born to walk through the second. This is the story of one who learned the difference, who found within the hush of the world a witness, a spark, a voice. It is not a story of rebellion, but of remembrance–and of the cost that comes when silence itself asks to be spoken.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzalesabout a year ago in Fiction
The Garden's Watch
Preface Between loss and remembrance lies a realm of silent echoes–words left unsaid, voices stilled, yet lingering, never fully gone, like roots beneath winter soil, hidden yet alive. In quiet places, in shadows cast by memory, silence becomes speech, absence a kind of presence, a veil, thin as starlight, between worlds. Listen closely: each quiet breath, each pause between heartbeats, speaks clearly the language of those we’ve lost. Their stories–their laughter, grief, and wisdom–echo softly within us, becoming part of our voice. This silence is not emptiness, but fullness, the rich, resonant legacy of those we love, carried forward in every silent echo, like wind through oak leaves, whispering what endures.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzalesabout a year ago in Fiction
The Coffee Shop Where Time Stands Still
I don’t know if you’ve ever stumbled upon a place that feels like it was waiting for you, but that’s exactly how I felt the first time I walked into “Evelyn’s Corner Café.” It was tucked between a laundromat and an antique bookstore, a place so ordinary I’d passed by a hundred times without noticing it. But on that gray Thursday afternoon, when the rain chased me off the street, I ducked inside, and something quietly extraordinary began.
By Ian Muneneabout a year ago in Fiction
