Short Story

Something's Wrong With Anya. Content Warning.
"Wow, would you look at her..." sighed Owen. "She always looks so perfectly beautiful." He sipped his iced tea while his eyes feasted upon Anya's beauty. She was an old-fashioned girl, always opting for a classic 1950's swing dress and high heels over jeans and a t-shirt. Today, her dress was a deep shade of green. It brought out the flecks of Jade in her blue eyes as well as complimenting her auburn hair, which was styled immaculately. She had the top half in a French twist and allowed the rest of her curls to cascade down her back. Her makeup was applied nicely and her waistline was non-existent.
By Sara Wilsonabout a year ago in Fiction
DeNero, Lucille and The Triplets
I first saw DeNero while at the medical mall for an appointment. His swagger and occasional meanness resembled those of many characters Robert De Niro has played, so everyone started calling him DeNero. He and his life mate, Lucille, have their own care team, including a veterinarian. In just two seconds and two strokes (which I can't see because his webbed feet are underwater), pure white DeNero crosses the pond to chase away the drab Canadian geese he hates. They scramble out of the pond, honking loudly.
By Andrea Corwin about a year ago in Fiction
5 Minute Fantasy: Water
Zack stumbled over roots and branches, nearly landing on his hands and knees for the twelfth time. His palms felt raw, and he was pretty sure there was gravel ingrained in his shins. The ground here was steep, and if you didn’t watch where you stepped, you’d tumble down and down until you struck the creek. That’s where Zack was headed, but he also didn’t want to end up soaked. Not when the creature he sought wouldn’t take too kind to his intrusion.
By Valerie Taylorabout a year ago in Fiction
Prophecy
The night the crimson moon rose, Elmswood fell silent. Farmers left their fields. Mothers clutched their children. The elders gathered in the square and whispered of an ancient promise—a prophecy that spoke of a chosen one. Kael had never thought of themselves as chosen for anything. Seventeen years old, they spent most days mending their father’s broken plows or sneaking off into the woods to sketch the riverside. But that night, as the moon burned red over the forest, Kael felt a strange heat crawling across their skin. When they pushed back their sleeve, a faint mark glowed on their arm—a curling sigil that matched the carvings on the village’s oldest ruins. “Child of the earth,” one of the elders whispered, eyes widening. “The prophecy…” Suddenly, every face in the square turned toward Kael. A Weight Too Heavy By dawn, Kael’s home was crowded with villagers offering blessings, questions, and fears. Their father tried to push them back, but the truth had already taken root. Kael was no longer just Kael. They were the one destined to rise when the crimson moon returned. But Kael didn’t feel like a savior. They felt like a fraud. That evening, a hooded traveler arrived at their door. He introduced himself as Thalen, a wanderer of the old paths. Without waiting for an invitation, he studied Kael’s glowing mark with quiet certainty. “The darkness stirs,” he said. “And you must stand against it. But prophecy is not a crown, child—it is a chain. You must decide whether you will wear it.” Kael wanted to slam the door. Instead, they found themselves following Thalen into the night.
By LUNA EDITHabout a year ago in Fiction
A Census of Lovers. Content Warning.
Sloan froze when a photograph appeared on the screen. She dragged the page back up, certain her eyes had played a trick, and leaned closer to the light. A row of colleagues stood pressed together at the opening of a civic project, the ribbon stretched across the frame, every smile sharp with celebration. She barely registered most of them. Her focus locked on the man in the middle. The caption named him Blake, senior partner, innovator, mentor. She read the line twice, her lips forming the words while her mind clung to his face. His hair was neatly parted, his suit cut to flatter, his grin steady and sure. The angle of his cheek carried her backward in time. It was Nick. A year had passed since the funeral, yet here he stood again in daylight, alive inside another name.
By Fatal Serendipityabout a year ago in Fiction
The Precipice Calls
My outstretched arms felt like failing vines as I held on for dear life. I tried to avoid looking down, but the pull of the descent was too much. I could hear it talking to me, telling me in grotesque detail of the various victims of death by misadventure it had caused.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
Superposition. Winner in Everything Looks Better From Far Away Challenge.
Superposition: A fundamental principle of quantum mechanics, stating that a physical system (a wave, a quantum particle) can exist simultaneously in a combination of multiple states or positions, as long as it remains unmeasured and unobserved.
By Arne Nasgotabout a year ago in Fiction
Deniably Picturesque. Top Story - August 2025.
"I could stay here forever," mused Marcus. His companion, a girl in a yellow bikini whose name he had trouble remembering in that exact moment, could only hum in agreement. That is perhaps why it was escaping him, she seemed more the silent type. He could only shrug as he eased down further into his deck chair. It was inconsequential as far as he was concerned; blind dates had a tendency to be like that these days. He would have to let Darcy at work know about the poor recommendation.
By Ian Readabout a year ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Collected Sunsets. AI-Generated.
Every evening, right when the sky began to bruise into pink and gold, Mara climbed to the roof of her grandmother’s house with a glass jar in hand. She swore that if she sat quietly enough, she could catch a piece of the sunset before it slipped away.
By James Williamabout a year ago in Fiction
The Iron Garden
🌿 A short story born from this art… The quiet came first, always. It settled in the hollow spaces between her ribs like morning mist, thick and deliberate. Then the weight — the familiar press of steel against collarbone, the slow ache in her shoulders where the pauldrons had learned the exact curve of her bones. She had forgotten what it meant to breathe without the armor’s permission.
By Prompted Beautyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Silent Hunger. Content Warning.
Devonne Kincaid had never known thirst like this. Water slid down his throat by the gallon, yet his mouth stayed dry, his tongue raw. Coffee, wine, juice—nothing quenched it. At night he lay awake, jaw aching, grinding against a hunger that felt older than he was. The doctor said dehydration. Work stress. Maybe insomnia. But Devonne knew the truth in his bones. This wasn’t stress. This was something feeding on him from the inside. --- The first crack showed on the subway. The carriage swayed, packed shoulder to shoulder. Devonne leaned against a pole, eyes half-closed, when the smell hit him. Metallic. Sharp. A boy across the car had a wrist wrapped in gauze. The bandage was slipping. A red thread gleamed where it bled through. Devonne’s heart kicked hard. His throat closed. His mouth watered so suddenly he nearly gagged. He couldn’t stop staring. The boy shifted under his gaze. Devonne bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste his own blood, forcing himself back into his skin. When the train screeched to a stop, he bolted into the night air, lungs shuddering, hunger screaming. --- The dreams began after that. Dark alleys. Footsteps echoing. Shapes moving ahead of him. He reached for them with shaking hands, nails digging into phantom skin, the air thick with copper sweetness. He always woke with his pillow torn and his teeth aching as if he’d been gnawing stone. Food tasted like dust. Heartbeats became an unbearable noise. He stopped eating lunch with coworkers, stopped making eye contact, stopped riding the train. But silence only made the hunger louder. The hunger was not meant to be suppressed. --- One morning, Devonne woke with dirt packed beneath his nails. His tongue was coated in iron. His reflection in the mirror looked wrong—skin ghost-pale, pupils blown wide, teeth catching the light in ways they shouldn’t. On the news: "The body of a man was found drained of blood in an alley off Crescent Street. No wounds were visible on the victim." Devonne’s coffee mug slipped from his hand. It shattered across the tile. He looked down towards his shoes laid by the entrance door. Muddy, Thick, wet, black with rain. He couldn’t remember leaving his apartment nor coming back. --- Fear gripped him harder than hunger ever had. He kept his blinds shut. He stopped answering calls. He didn’t dare sleep. But hunger doesn’t care about fear. Hunger grows. --- It was the stairwell that broke him. He was dragging himself upstairs when his neighbor appeared—a woman, groceries in her arms, a polite smile on her face. Then she tripped. The bag split. Apples clattered, a wine bottle shattered, and her hand slid across broken glass. Blood welled instantly. Bright. Hot. Alive. A beautiful hue.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Blooom of Nature
Auther name (Hazratullah) When the chill of winter fades away and the air becomes softer, a fresh chapter opens in the story of the earth. Spring arrives not with noise, but with gentle signals—the budding of leaves, the fragrance of early blossoms, and the return of sunlight that feels warm rather than distant. It is a season that represents transformation, a reminder that the cycle of life continues, and that every ending carries within it the seed of a new beginning.
By Asmatullahabout a year ago in Fiction