Short Story
I Found Someone’s Phone Number with Name and Address — Free Options
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By Jamie Smithabout a year ago in Fiction
New House, New Start
We’re in! The move was a nightmare—I’m pretty sure the last owner, Mr. Abernathy, was a secret hoarder of bricks and lead weights—but we’re finally in. Sycamore Lane is everything we wanted. Quiet, tree-lined, a real neighborhood. The perfect place to forget the stress of the city and the… well, everything else. Sarah seems happier than I’ve seen her in months. Even Leo stopped complaining about losing his VR headset for five minutes to help unpack.
By Danyal Hashmiabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Bench by Willow Lake"
I still remember the exact spot where she used to sit. Every morning at seven, she’d arrive at the bench by Willow Lake—always with her coffee in a chipped white mug, the one with a tiny bluebird painted on the side. I never asked her name. We were just two strangers bound by routine and silence, yet in those quiet mornings, we became something more—two souls stitched loosely by time and presence. Now the bench is empty. At first, I thought she might be late. It happens. But when the clock ticked past 7:30, I began to feel the first strange tug of absence. That was six weeks ago. Her name, as I later learned from the librarian, was Marianne. She was 68, lived alone in the brick cottage near the post office, and used to be a music teacher. The librarian said it like she was reading a grocery list—no emotion, just facts. I remember nodding like it made sense, but truthfully, it didn’t. How could someone so present just vanish like mist? I keep going to the lake every morning. I bring my coffee in a travel mug—nothing fancy—and I sit where she used to sit. The ducks still glide across the surface, and the sun still breaks through the same patch of pine trees at precisely 7:12. Nature doesn’t notice when someone is missing. People do. It’s funny how we don’t realize someone’s importance until they’re gone. Marianne never said much. Sometimes, she’d hum softly—snippets of old songs I didn’t recognize but always found comforting. Once, I asked her if she was a singer, and she smiled—not with her lips, but with her eyes—and said, “Not anymore, but the music never leaves you.” I wish I had asked more. Asked anything, really. The police said there was no sign of foul play. Just a woman who never came home one day. Her back door was unlocked. Her coat still hung by the hook. A slice of bread left in the toaster. People don’t just disappear—but somehow, she did. Some say she moved away. Others say she walked into the woods and never came out. I don’t believe either. I think she simply left. Not in a morbid way—just... moved on, like the tide does when no one’s watching. Maybe she got tired of waiting for someone to ask her name. The town didn’t hold a memorial. No candles, no vigil, no photographs taped to lampposts. Just a hushed ripple of gossip that faded as quickly as it came. I hate that. I hate that the world doesn’t pause for people like Marianne. But I do. I pause every morning, coffee in hand, and I remember. Last Tuesday, I found something tucked beneath the bench. A folded piece of sheet music, yellowed at the edges. No name on it, but the handwriting was delicate and careful—each note drawn with love. I took it to the librarian, who confirmed it was Marianne’s. “She used to compose little melodies,” she said. “Gave them away like bookmarks.” I’m not sure why, but I framed that music and hung it by my kitchen window. I don’t even read music, but sometimes when the wind moves through the house just right, I swear I can hear it—the faintest tune, like humming. Sometimes I wonder if she’s watching. Not in a ghostly way, but in the way someone hopes they’re remembered. I wonder if she knows someone noticed her absence. That someone misses her. Because I do. I miss her quiet presence. Her coffee. Her music. I miss the feeling of knowing someone would always be there, even if we never exchanged more than a few words. It’s strange to miss someone you barely knew. But then again, maybe that’s the purest kind of missing—uncomplicated by expectation, memory untainted by disappointment. Just a presence, gone. Tomorrow, I’ll be back at the bench. I’ll bring two coffees—one in my mug, and one in a chipped white one I found at a thrift store. I’ll set it beside me and hum a melody I don't quite remember. Maybe she’ll hear it. Maybe she’s still listening.
By Israr khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Dead Frequency: Vinyls of the Void. Top Story - August 2025.
Sometimes, attention feeds more than the ego. 🎵📻🎶🎧🎵💿🎶📀🎧📻🎵💿🎶🎵📻🎶🎧🎵💿🎶📀🎧📻🎵💿🎶 Prologue The studio was dark, its walls lined with lingering mildew. Faint static buzzed through its walls, a hungry sound.
By Michelle Liew Tsui-Linabout a year ago in Fiction
I Tried Finding Someone on Zoosk Without Joining — Here’s My Story
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By Jamie Smithabout a year ago in Fiction
The Cartographer of Dreams
He woke up before the alarm, the pale blue of the room already suggesting water. Adrian lay still and watched the ceiling ripple. He had learned not to blink too soon. If he blinked, the shoreline would break. If he reached for his phone, the stairs would vanish. The maps required a quiet mind and an honest failure to wake.
By Aspen Nobleabout a year ago in Fiction
Counsel
"Your lawyer is here to see you," is a good thing to hear when you're cooling your heels in a cell... Isn't it? It can be unnerving, though, when you don't have a lawyer. It's understandable, then, that Lorin is feeling a bit torn. She wipes her sweaty palms on her jeggings and tries to think positively. "My friend came through for me, that's all," she murmurs to herself. "This is actually her lawyer, or she's found someone who can help..." Lorin wonders who will be footing the bill, and then pushes the thought away. Plenty of time to think on that once out. She huffs her blonde fringe out of her eyes and peers around the dull little room. A table and a couple of chairs are the only things in it. That is, if you don't count the whiff of bad coffee overlaid with stale air and antiseptic. The door opened, and her lawyer walked in. Lorin hisses a shocked breath in. That's my lawyer? I'm screwed... "You're not a l-" "I advise you to be quiet, Ms. Blackwell," he said. "I don't trust you! You're not even a per- " "Come, now, Ms. Blackwell," he said with a wide grin that showed every tooth, "I assure you, lawyers are as human as you are. Hurtful remarks serve no one. Let's keep this professional. I can facilitate your immediate release, but not if you say something... untoward." Immediate release immediate release immediate release Lorin shrank into her generous black cardigan. "I'm not a criminal," she mumbled, "I just wanted-" "Let me do the talking, Ms. Blackwell... Ahh, officers. Good evening," This last to the two who had just walked in. One was a walrus in a sweaty blue shirt behind an oversized ginger moustache, and the other was a female officer with black hair in a regimented bun. "I'm here to facilitate the release of my client, Ms. Blackwell," he placed his briefcase on the table with deliberate calm. “Under the Emergency Counsel Provision, specifically the 2027 amendment to the Civil Contingencies Act, Ms. Blackwell qualifies for expedited releasee.” He flipped open the case, and handed the file to me walrus, who bristled. He stepped forward, dragged by the weight of his glorious moustache. “AI flagged cognitive instability. That doesn’t mean she’s fit to leave.” “That’s exactly what it means. Section 22-B allows for temporary release if a registered proxy assumes legal responsibility. I’ve filed the paperwork.” The officer leafed through the papers with a small frown. "She hasn’t signed." "A formality I'm here to put right." "But this... This waives her right to a formal hearing!" "Yes. It confirms she accepts counsel and consents to discharge under emergency protocol." Lorin leaned forward, eyes scanning the page. “This is real?” Jac nodded. “Real enough to get you out.” She looked at the officers. “You’ll let me go if I sign?” The shorter one shrugged. “If the paperwork’s clean, we don’t have grounds to hold you.” Lorin’s fingers hovered over the pen. “Why should I trust you?” The man in the suit didn’t blink. Lorin couldn't think of him a lawyer. “You don’t have to trust me. You just have to choose: stay here and wait for a hearing that might never come, or sign and walk out.” She signed.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
The Violet Underground
Kathleen got ready the same as she did every morning. She fastened the buttons on her grey suit, pulled on the mandated stockings and stepped into her sensible shoes. Breakfast was plain porridge tailored to her daily nutritional requirements. Indulgence was not encouraged.
By Sarah Tinneyabout a year ago in Fiction
