Short Story

Memory
All he had in his life was memory. The house sagged beneath the weight of years, timber groaning under rain and neglect. He moved through its narrow halls like a ghost, brushing dust from the shelves, touching remnants of lives once lived. Each object held her imprint, every shadow whispered her name.
By Vincent Otiriabout a year ago in Fiction
Duty
All he had in his life was duty. The armor leaned against the wall, dented and scratched by decades of war. Each mark was a story, a memory of battles fought under scorching suns and storm-filled skies. His hands trembled as he polished the breastplate, tracing the gouges like a map of every life he had taken, every friend he had lost.
By Vincent Otiriabout a year ago in Fiction
Silence
All he had in his life was silence. The hollow bell in the temple no longer sang; its bronze throat was cracked from years of neglect. Dust lay thick upon the altar, motes dancing lazily in the dying candlelight, like ghosts of prayers long forgotten. The incense he lit fought the air, sweet and sharp, but it could not mask the stench of absence.
By Vincent Otiriabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Light
You ever notice how the worst nights don’t announce themselves? There’s no storm rolling in, no strange phone call, no flicker of the lights. Sometimes it starts with something so ordinary, you don’t even give it a second thought.
By Zidaneabout a year ago in Fiction
An Evening in Paris
Paris has a way of making ordinary evenings unforgettable. For me, it wasn’t the Eiffel Tower sparkling at night or the Seine whispering under the bridges. It was a single evening that slipped quietly into my life and stayed with me ever since.
By arsalan ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Silent Billionaire: How Bernard Arnault Quietly Took Over the Luxury World
The Silent Billionaire: How Bernard Arnault Quietly Took Over the Luxury World In the glittering world of fashion, where bold designers and flamboyant icons often steal the spotlight, one man built the most powerful luxury empire on Earth with a demeanor that is almost the opposite of the industry he dominates: quiet, meticulous, and calculated. His name is Bernard Arnault, the chairman and CEO of LVMH Moët Hennessy Louis Vuitton, and his story is a masterclass in subtlety, strategy, and the art of transforming heritage into global power.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lull
The ER never really sleeps. It hums. A low, constant vibration, like a power line you can’t quite hear until you notice it’s always there. The monitors beep in their different rhythms, IV pumps click and sigh, wheels roll against the tile. Even the air conditioner sounds like it’s straining to keep up.
By Maeabout a year ago in Fiction
Letter Ashes
There was a subtle scent of dust and cedar in the wardrobe. It had been years since Margaret had opened it. Her late husband's suits were still in it, immaculately ironed, as if he might come in and require one for Sunday service. A forgotten train ticket was still in the pocket of his favourite grey overcoat, which hung by the side. She told herself that she saved these things for memory, but the reality was more straightforward: she couldn't bring herself to break the silence they held. Sunlight filtered through her bedroom's lace curtains that autumn afternoon, strewing golden patterns on the wooden floor. She was cleaning grudgingly, attempting to ignore the sadness of yet another year without Edward. She felt a strange sensation at the back of the wardrobe when her hand touched a loose lining. Below, something crinkled.
By M.Bilalabout a year ago in Fiction
Ball Bag
"You have a visitor." "What, another one? Who is it?" "Unknown. Would you like me to attempt facial recognition?" Pause. "No. Bit creepy. Just tell me what you can. Another woman?" "Yes. Female. Lone. Estimate 30-35 years." "Fine. Go and clean the oven, I'll deal with the guest." "Understood." * Rita was pink. That was my first impression of her. You know those long, pink balloons that clowns make into poodles at kids' parties? She looked like that, ina bad blonde wig. It wasn't actually a wig. Dull and coarse, with a thick fringe that tickled her eyes and made her blink too much. "Can I help you?" I said. Ridiculous, really. I know why she's here. Why do I go through the pantomime of making them say it? She stutters a bit, and I soften. "Maybe you should come in." She steps over the threshold, clutching her garish blue leather handbag like a shield. It clashes terribly with her complexion. I invite her to sit. "Can I get you anything?" She shakes her head, still gripping that hideous bag. Her knuckles look flaky and sore. I don't think she's going to say it. It might have to be me. My mind races. How can I put this? "What have you heard about me?" She stops chewing her lip, and croaks, almost too quietly, "That you help people. Women. Like me." "Would it be alright if Jac puts your phone in the other room? Just in case there's any spyware on it... Thank you." "Oh, lan wouldn't... I mean, he's not controlling. Not in that way." Flustered, she hands it over anyway. I steal a sidelong glance at Jac's bottom as he's leaving the room. It looks like he's been doing those squats I asked him to do. Excellent. "In what way is he controlling, then?" She goes even pinker, and her fringe seems to bristle. "He... umm... " I'm not a counsellor or a therapist. I'm not sure the right thing to say. Morally, but also in terms of making her spit it out. The silence seems to do the trick. "He wants to open the marriage." I think the poor woman might combust with embarrassment or shame. And how do you feel about that... It's obvious to me, a perfect stranger, how she feels. And this... this Ian, this ball bag, is still pressuring her to do it. I wonder if she's so pink and flaky all over, and then do my best to chase that thought alt of my head. Good grief, what if she is? How self conscious must she be? What a ballbag. Look, I'm not doing this for the money alright? It does make me some money, which I'm going to need if the shit ever hits the fan. I do want to help people. People like me. Stuck. Unhappy. That's why I ask her, "Why don't you leave him?" Some part of me, the part that should have been a therapist, manages to stop the word "just" from joining that sentence. She twists the handles on the handbag. "We have a son with... He has some additional needs. Raising him, caring for him... It's a two person job. I know what you're going to say, and you're right, I could leave, I could be a single mum, I could... " She trails off. I can see how exhausted she is, just thinking about it. "I've thought it all through. I'd have to give up my job to care for him full-time. My job is the only thing keeping me sane. I asked Janice about cutting down to part-time hours, but... Well, it's just not possible right now. So I'm..." "Stuck." We say it together. "Listen," I tell her, a plan forming in my mind, "I think I can help you..." We work through some of the basics. Ian's mental state for one. I'm still unwilling to try it on someone who isn't stable. "It does cost," I warn her. "This thing, the device that we pu... It doesn't come cheap." "Oh." She looks glum. "It's fine. We can work something out." "I can't afford a loan. Ian would notice monthly repayments..." "No, no, nothing like that. I had no money either, when I did it. We just have to be smart about it, that's all." "Okay," she says, sitting up straight. "What do I need to do?" "First, you need to tell Ian that you've decided you do want to open the marriage." Rita looks horrified. "It's not real," I say, trying to soothe her. "Then we'll tell him you just need some time to get used to the idea. Tell him you feel a bit self conscious and you want to go to the gym, get in shape. That will buy us some time for you to bond with your Al." Her tiny little eyes look enormous.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Afterimage
It was morning again, his old bones hurt a bit more day after day, and for some reason, he was every day more and more hungry, and he needed to drink tea more frequently, but none of that was important.
By Saelly Fiorela Silva Lizarragaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Piano on the Cliff
Delicate notes from a misplaced piano echoed down the quiet forest pathway. It’s haunting tone drew one footstep after another from the lone hiker on this late evening trail. The grass crunched beneath each of his heavy boot falls. It was the only other sound that danced between the trees, the harsh impact of his boots, and the slow reverb of those piano keys.
By Connieabout a year ago in Fiction
Monkey Business. Content Warning.
I ask him, have you ever had sex with a monkey? Poor man, nearly dropped his glasses on the freshly mopped floor. He stammers. Why ask such a thing? How could you even think such a horrible thing? Easy, I said, I’m human. I scan the wall of cages filled with diapered monkeys. Hairy babies that look more beautiful than some newborns I’ve been forced to coo over.
By Sean A.about a year ago in Fiction