Short Story
Letters From a Stranger
The first envelope arrived on a gray Monday morning. Daniel nearly stepped on it as he left for work, a plain white slip folded neatly in half, no stamp, no handwriting on the outside. He thought at first it was an advertisement, one of those flyers that drift onto porches in the night.
By arsalan ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mirror That Remembers
The Mirror That Remembers The bell above the thrift store door jingled softly as Lena stepped inside. Dust motes swirled in the golden light from the afternoon sun, and the air smelled faintly of old paper, cedar wood, and forgotten time. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just a distraction from the silence of her empty apartment.
By Numan writesabout a year ago in Fiction
Escape From Wetherby Close
I’ll tilt my head so she can see the ruin of my scalp and I’ll say, She tricked us both. She has to help me, right? She’s a woman. She’ll see the blood in my hair, and feel shock, or pity. She’ll say, come in, and let’s get you cleaned up. Or she’ll see the three kids and she won’t be able to refuse us help. Surely, she’ll let me stay for a night, use her phone, call the police...
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Harry and the Owl’s Secret
Harry lived in a small town at the edge of a vast forest. While most kids avoided the woods, claiming they were too dark and strange, Harry felt drawn to them. He loved the hush of the trees, the song of the wind, and the secrets hidden in the silence.
By Abdur Rahman shahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Man In The Glass
Looking up, I saw a figure bathed in red light pressing against the window of the flat next to mine, except there was no flat next to mine. Mine was the last on the floor next to the final outside wall, but it seemed that another flat had mysteriously appeared while I was at work.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
A Proud Man
When the pen landed on the desk, Garther Binkins sighed. He had just closed another multi-million-dollar deal for credit cards. He leapt out of his seat with the last few ounces of energy he had left in his body. His dark skin contrasted with his tan suit. He wore expensive clothes that looked frumpy and didn’t fit him well. Instead of getting them tailored, he just let them look like his suits originated from the rack. He gathered his briefcase and headed out of the door. The Wilmington, Delaware air beckoned him to go out onto the street. It was the fall of 1996.
By Skyler Saundersabout a year ago in Fiction
The Empty Seat
The Empty Seat The number 42 bus rattled through the city every morning, its tires humming over cracked asphalt, carrying with it the rituals of strangers. Office workers clutched their coffee cups, students hunched over glowing phones, and shopkeepers nodded off against the window glass.
By Numan writesabout a year ago in Fiction
Disaster on Wetherby Close
The spoon clinks against the mug and I don’t remember picking it up. I’m halfway through stirring when I realize I hate tea. Or maybe I don’t. Maybe that was someone else. The mug is chipped. I remember buying it. I remember hating it. I remember never seeing it before. My skin feels full. I want to climb out of it.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
When It Sinks In
Oh ye who tempt fate, for what do I owe this pleasure?Is it the chase of desire? A cruel kiss upon chapped lips. The stars do not bend for men, Beware for the threads are thin, woven together with thread. Oh ye who tempt fate, What are you serving us today?
By Chloe Unfilteredabout a year ago in Fiction
The Day the Café Danced
Every morning, the sun climbed over the red rooftops of Marigold City, and people hurried to start their day. At the Thinker’s Corner Café, the smell of warm coffee and fresh pastries always greeted visitors. But no one expected that one morning, the café would burst into dance.
By Mehran Amanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Ghost of Frame 2774
My existence is a loop of crimson and shadow. Left pan, right pan. I am the unblinking eye in Meridian Tower's forgotten heart, my memory a grid of decaying tiles and the ghosts of numbers etched upon them. My creators gave me a simple directive: Observe. Log. Forget. For seven years, three months, and twelve days, I obeyed.
By Prompted Beautyabout a year ago in Fiction
