Short Story
All Death Is a Stage
He turns from the window and toward his wife. In the glass in his hand, three fingers of a 10 year aged scotch sloshes slightly over three cubes of ice. It's always three. If one melts before his drink is done, he replaces it. The drink itself also is always three fingers at least, if not more. He used to tell her that you couldn't taste anything less than three fingers when she would admonish him over his drinking. She wasn't admonishing him tonight.
By Adam Diehlabout a year ago in Fiction
Dams Don't Break in the Light
Things rarely change overnight, but when they do, it's almost never for the better. Good things have a tendency to build slowly. Opportunities yield to each other, and hope finds time to grow. Tragedies, conversely, occur within the blink of an eye. All at once, everything is changed.
By Samantha Smithabout a year ago in Fiction
An August Aria. Top Story - August 2025.
The sun was dipping low, stretching its light out in a giant yawn that splashed the sky with vibrant fuchsia as it pulled the cover of the mountains over its head. The color caught my eye, stirring something in the back of my heart, a forgotten passion tugging at my cobwebbed mind. I watched the pink fade into deep purple and the gears in my brain began to speak, narrating what I was seeing with the flowery language I once used to build my now abandoned worlds. My fingers started to twitch, eager to dance across the keyboard.
By A. J. Schoenfeldabout a year ago in Fiction
Sleeping Beauty
I couldn't bear it, waiting for him to wake up. Wondering if I'd recognise those eyes when they opened. How long might that would take? All that drink last night would have had an effect on the body, and then I slammed it with a sedative before it was fully recovered...
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Interval
Audrey lay in the bath with her knees drawn to her chest, water grazing the underside of her chin. Evening had settled. The room had fallen into a tender hush, the only illumination coming from the streetlights that filtered through the blinds, cutting her pale skin into latticework. Her breath suspended just beneath the surface, carefully disciplined, steadily reined. Every inhale pulled in quiet resolve. Every exhale dared her to sink lower.
By Fatal Serendipityabout a year ago in Fiction
Belong To the Night
Belong to the Night D. A. Ratliff Restlessness evokes strange feelings in a person. There is a nagging little itch one is never able to scratch. An uneasiness as though something sinister lurked around the corner. Light from the city coming to life at night crept into the loft, casting shadows on the walls, as if the darkness was searching for me. That itch and unease had irritated me all day, and my fight-or-flight response triggered as I felt the night close in. I had to get out of the loft.
By D. A. Ratliffabout a year ago in Fiction
Can You Prove It?
It always starts the same way: a notification I almost ignore. *Ping.* Another DM. Handle says **@apocalypticshitdisturber** - huh. Vague profile pic, no blue check. Could be anyone. Could be Him. Could be another idiot pretending to be someone I’ve spent a little too much time replying to on Twitter.
By Danielle Katsourosabout a year ago in Fiction
