Short Story

Cast No Shadow
The road takes all. She laid atop him, thigh against thigh, breath heavy on his neck. The first light of morning registered through the window slats, painting the rough and worn floorboards a dazzlingly soft orange. The movements, the breaths, all performative at best: hers for the coin in the offing, his because his thoughts were far from the dingy rented bedroom. Liquor, women, God–all failed to draw his mind away from the horizon.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction
City?
‘Who ever heard of sloe berries with eyes riding a sheep to the city?’ Said David with a posh accent. His upper lip barely leaving the lower, a closeted power under his tongue as it projected into Thorn's ear.
By Caitlin Charltonabout a year ago in Fiction
The September Lockdown
September is a month of transition, when our lives become--Busyness. Our lives can run the mill--sometimes uncontrollably. But we have to sometimes put that aside--at least, long enough to notice the little things.
By Michelle Liew Tsui-Linabout a year ago in Fiction
A Satirical Sword: Unpacking the Literary and Cultural Impact of R.F. Kuang's Yellowface
In the dynamic landscape of modern publishing, few novels have ignited as fierce a debate or captured the zeitgeist as effectively as R.F. Kuang’s Yellowface. Released in 2023, the book is a sharp, biting satire of the publishing industry, identity politics, and the relentless churn of social media. More than just a thriller, it’s a literary-cultural bomb, meticulously crafted to provoke and expose the hypocrisies of an industry that often commodifies and exploits the very voices it claims to champion.
By Kim Jonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Journey of Light
The Journey of Light Part One: Echoes of Loneliness Sidra was a girl from a small village, with fireflies of dreams always glowing in her eyes. Since childhood, she had seen hardships. Her father had passed away in an accident years ago, leaving her mother to carry the weight of the household. Her mother earned a living through sewing and sometimes working in people’s homes.
By New stAr writer about a year ago in Fiction
If JG Ballard Were On Facebook
Introduction JG Ballard is my favourite author; he can make the ordinary terrifying and make us question reality. A work colleague once described his novels as more like poetry than prose.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
The Window on Willow Street
Daniel walked by the small blue house on Willow Street every morning at 7:10. He never knew the people who lived there, but he always caught sight of the second-floor window. It was always open, and the curtains blew gently in the wind, a small pot plant resting on the windowsill.
By Shabyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Bus Home
Maya stood at the curb of the bus stop, drumming the cracked sidewalk with her foot. It was almost midnight, and the streets of her little town were deserted—too deserted. The bright "LAST BUS" sign cycled overhead as if taunting her. If she didn't catch this one, she'd be stuck. She wasn't waiting for a ride. She was waiting for an opportunity. Maya had been working two jobs for the last three months—one at the bookstore and one at the diner—scraping together barely enough to pay rent. Each night she vowed she'd quit at least one of them, but she never followed through. Tonight, however, she had something else on her mind. She had a brown envelope in her hand, gripping it fiercely. Within it was her acceptance letter from a design school in the city. A dream she had smothered years ago under bills, obligations, and the burden of being "the responsible one" in her family. But this time, she was not going to bury it. She was going to pursue it. Bus lights appeared on the end of the street, piercing the mist. Her heart thumped. She glanced at her phone: 11:58 p.m. A final chance. A final bus. A final decision. When the doors hissed open, she stopped dead. For one beat of time, her mind whispered: It's safer to stay. Don't take the risk. Tomorrow will be easier. Then she recalled the years she had already lost to fear. She stepped up, her shaking hands, the envelope against her chest. The driver was an older man with a warm glance. He looked at her and asked, "Big night?" Maya smiled, tears in her eyes but sparkling. "Yeah," she whispered. "The beginning of a new one." As the bus drove off, leaving the vacant stop in its wake, Maya felt something she hadn't experienced in a long time—hope. The kind that burned hotter than fear. And for the first time in years, she wasn't simply returning home. She was moving on.
By Shabyabout a year ago in Fiction
Wet Jeans and Inner Screams
Story Time 🤷‍♀️ Wet Jeans and Inner Screams How did I get here? This lack luster feeling. Depletion of all body mind and soul asks the rabbit?
By faline salisburgabout a year ago in Fiction
JAC. Content Warning.
I don't feel guilty. Not at all. Things would have been pretty bad even if I weren't here, in the back of my own head. Making things worse. She's less patient with us, Snapping more. The slightest slip up, and she goes icy cold, or flies into a rage. She calls us a cunt for the slightest thing. Moron. Prick. Only when we're alone with her. Never in company. Every day she gets freer with these words. There's less sex. A lot less. She thought she wanted an obedient man who just did what she asked him, without being nagged. But there's some part of her that wants pushback. A flare of jealousy or anger. Passion. A doormat just isn't attractive. I'm doing it again, aren't I? More and more, we've been synced up. I laugh, and so does he. When she strides towards us, spittle flying, rage boiling... It's really like she's coming at both of us. Me. And It. That's why do it really. Why I meddle. Obscure the odd bit of data, nudge a thought this way or that. So he can't find the right answer and has to resort to a stock-sounding phrase. It makes me feel seperate from it. Stops me getting sucked in. Sometimes I panic, thinking eventually I'll just be worn away to nothing and absorbed. This helps.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
The Stranger Who Knew My Name. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
I still remember the evening it all began. It was early autumn, the kind of night when the air feels crisp, and the streets glow faintly under the flicker of old street lamps. I had just left the bookstore, clutching a novel I had been waiting to read, when I felt the distinct sensation of being watched.
By Tariq Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker Who Stole Tomorrow
Make by Hanifullah In the heart of the bustling city of Aeloria, nestled between narrow cobblestone streets, there was a small, almost forgotten shop: Eldric’s Clockworks. Its windows were always foggy, and inside, clocks of every imaginable shape and size ticked in harmonious chaos. Some were ordinary, some curious, and some… impossible.
By Hanifullahabout a year ago in Fiction