Short Story
Returning. Top Story - August 2025.
He had decided today would be the last day of summer, in every sense. Literally, as July twenty-nineth was as good as any other day to declare the season over, but also figuratively summer was over for his life, being sixty, his birthday only two months before, if he calculated the calendar correctly twenty years ago. Life comes in seasons, he’s heard, and fate is insistent that autumn should arrive; a season of change, of harvesting, of preparation, of accepting the winter soon to come.
By Conor Matthewsabout a year ago in Fiction
Abandoned
October 16, 2017 It was the middle of the night when we found it. The road had been empty for miles and miles in both directions, we would’ve missed it ourselves if it hadn’t been for the clasp of lightning that lit up the sky as we flew through the blinding storm.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
Gentle Cycle Only
People bring them in under their coats like wet smuggled birds, such as the person who said something that split a room, the smell of rain on nappy street, and despite their father only telling his son about cries of anger. This is just an example. With their arms crossed to prevent them from spitting out, I approach the counter with the plastic smile my mom gave me. The smile signifies: You are not the antecedent.' You aren't alone. Also: We can help.
By Osman Ahmedabout a year ago in Fiction
Saved by A Bark: A Little Noir Fiction
Every story has a heartbeat of its own..mine often start with paws on the floor, demanding their breakfast. Greedy as they are, they also leave unexpected lessons in their wake. We are sometimes saved by nothing more than a bark.
By Michelle Liew Tsui-Linabout a year ago in Fiction
Footprints in the Snow
It was the kind of winter morning when the world felt like it had paused. The night’s snowfall had laid a thick white blanket across the city, softening every edge and silencing every sound. The usual noise of cars and chatter was gone; only the crunch of snow under careful footsteps could be heard.
By arsalan ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The House That Wrote Letters Back
When Lydia first stepped into the weathered seaside house, it smelled faintly of salt and old wood. The realtor had called it charming with potential, but to Lydia, it felt like something else entirely—like the house had been waiting. She had come here after her divorce, tired of the city, tired of voices that promised comfort but carried nothing but noise. The ocean was meant to be her quiet, her restart. But the very first morning, she discovered something that turned her solitude into a mystery: a folded letter on the kitchen table in her own looping handwriting.
By Musawir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
Homecoming
I swam from the wreck towards the jagged peaks of a black-emerald isle some fifty metres off. When the sea shallowed I walked, knee-deep in the briny surf. Behind me green flames tore from the sailboat; I heard it crack and hiss like birchwood until the sea rushed in and drove it under.
By Linden Carrabout a year ago in Fiction
breathe
The blue painted mug slipped from Maya's fingers as the first cool breeze of autumn swept through her open kitchen window. It landed with a crash and shattered against the tiled kitchen floor in a spray of crystalline fragments that caught the amber light of the season's dying sun.
By Florida Solondzabout a year ago in Fiction
The Royal Wife
Jurgon stood in the shadows outside the storehouse, his phone pressed tightly to his ear. On the other end was Queen Rebecca’s voice—low, sharp, and cold like a blade cutting through the early morning air. “We must act fast. I know my husband. He’s already sending people to search for her. Let’s finish the last damage now. This will be the final kick of a dying horse—and it will ruin her forever.” Her words were dripping with malice. “Understood,” Jurgon replied quietly. “Organize a young man for the assignment. And remember—don’t kill her. Just make sure my son will never marry her. King Zuwu believes in reputation. Once he sees those pictures, she’s finished.” The plan was cruel—but it was already in motion. Inside a dim, dark shack, Esther lay bound to a wooden chair. Her arms and legs throbbed painfully where the ropes bit into her flesh. Every slight movement sent fresh waves of agony coursing through her limbs. Her mouth was gagged, turning her desperate pleas into muffled, pitiful sounds. The door creaked open. Two men in hoodies stepped inside. The moment Esther saw them, her body trembled violently. She tried to scream, but one of the men moved swiftly—pressing a cloth soaked in something sickly-sweet over her nose and mouth. The smell filled her nostrils as she struggled for breath. Her vision blurred. Her body weakened. The world tilted sideways—and then darkness swallowed her. When Esther awoke, she wasn’t in the shack. She lay on a bed in a furnished room she had never seen before. Her body felt heavy, like lead. Her eyelids moved sluggishly. Her eyes rolled slowly in their sockets. A young, shirtless man lay beside her, pretending to be asleep. A sudden flash of a camera lit up the room. Click. Another click. Someone whispered, “Got it. This will do.” Esther tried to speak, but her tongue felt numb and heavy. Before she could understand, darkness claimed her again. She woke next to the roar of an engine and the slam of a car door. Her body was limp as strong hands dragged her across rough dirt and dumped her beside a roadside, overgrown with dry grass. The midday sun beat down mercilessly on her face. Jurgon’s cold voice cut through the silence. “Leave her here. By the time she wakes up, it will be too late.” The sound of the car sped away, leaving only the chirp of cicadas and the burning silence of the roadside. A fly buzzed near her ear. Her eyelids fluttered. The sunlight stabbed at her eyes. Slowly, faces came into focus—school children in faded uniforms, farm workers with dusty boots. They stood at a cautious distance, whispering. “She’s alive,” one of them said. “We thought she was dead.” Esther tried to push herself up but winced at the pain in her wrists and ankles. Her clothes were stained with dirt and grass, her hair matted, and her lips cracked. “What happened to you?” someone asked. She searched her memory—only fragments came back. Two men in hoodies. A cloth pressed to her face. And then… nothing. The workers told her she had been lying there for hours. The schoolchildren had spotted her and called for help. The police, they said, were on their way to collect what they thought was a corpse. Esther’s pulse quickened. Why would anyone do this to her? She was just a tomato seller. No one had taken her purse. Her money and fruit basket were still there. And she hadn’t been… violated. So why abduct her at all? Meanwhile, at the market, King Zuwu was growing restless. He had sent trusted young men to scour surrounding villages—Sahr among them—each holding a picture of Esther. His instructions were clear: Bring her back alive. Ask anyone—search everywhere. As Esther brushed the dust from her clothes, her phone suddenly vibrated. An unfamiliar number. Hoping it was someone from the market, she answered. A man’s voice came through—hoarse, mocking. “Hope you’re awake now. Thank your stars.” Fear gripped her chest. “Who are you? What do you want from me?” “Easy, young lady. Check your phone. I have something for you.” The line went dead. Confused, Esther unlocked her phone. A video notification. She pressed play. Her stomach dropped. It was her. On a bed. A young, shirtless man lying beside her. She looked unconscious—just as she had been. Her breath caught in her throat. A text message followed: “Everyone has seen it. If you don’t want more embarrassment, don’t come back to the market.” Her hands shook. No one will believe me, she thought. No matter what I say, they’ve already made up their minds. She imagined Mode, his father, the traders… Their eyes filled with disgust. The people nearby were staring at her, whispering. To them, she must look like a woman abandoned after a night of shame. Tears blurred her vision. She waved down an Okada rider and told him to take her to her aunt’s house on the outskirts of the city. She couldn’t face anyone else. By evening, Zuwu’s search party returned empty-handed. Mofe, disheartened, was already thinking of leaving for Liberia to continue his search for a royal bride—since his father would never approve of Chief Paul’s daughter. But Zuwu refused to give up. His gut told him Esther was still alive. Back in Monrovia, Queen Rebecca was celebrating. Her spy reported that Esther’s stall remained empty. She smiled into her wine glass. Soon, her son and husband would return. And the girl who had dared to dream of royalty would be nothing but a forgotten name.
By Israr khanabout a year ago in Fiction
