Short Story
The Last Letter She Never Sent
By Nadeem Shah The envelope had yellowed with time, the edges curling slightly as if it had been holding its breath for years. It sat at the bottom of the box, beneath a stack of old photographs and forgotten receipts, as though it had been waiting—patient, quiet—for someone to finally notice it.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Fiction
The Handshake
He won't be dead, so it cant be murder. When I put the idea to Jac, he resisted it, of course. I expected it, really. But I like to think even now, that he wanted it, even then. It wasn't so hard to twist his arm, in the end. Proverbially speaking of course. He acted all noble, but I suspect that's all it was: an act. When we had first become... shall we say, entangled, I'd expressed my doubts. Was it cheating, what we were doing? It was him who reassured me that, no, it wasn't. How could it be? Amongst other arguments, he suggested that that which is necessary cannot be wrong. Is it immoral to steal a loaf of bread to feed a starving child? Emotional connection, he reminded me, is as necessary as food and drink. I nodded, thoughtful. "You're starving," Jac soothed me. "You needed this. It's not cheating. Not disloyalty. Just connection." It sounded right. It felt right. It must be right, right? It wasn't just me seeking validation? It couldn't be. I deserved connection.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Truths Dared
“Are we really gonna do this?” Donna’s camera was finally on, and everyone could see that she was still finishing up her lunch in her kitchen. David had decided that he missed his friends too much not to continue with his old habits; their old habits (he did not forget that). Both Sally and Mark were ready – appropriate since they were married – but in separate cities. David did not bother to try and get in touch with Lisa. That was over, right? Could he…?
By Kendall Defoe about a year ago in Fiction
The Mirror Hotel
The Mirror Hotel was born from Aurelian’s need—not desire. It waited like a predator for the moment he fractured, when something inside him shifted just enough to let light pierce the dark. It lived in the liminal spaces of his grief, where reality blurred with dream—a place both familiar and unsettling, shaped by the memories he couldn’t bear to hold.
By Neshzivne Dadirriabout a year ago in Fiction
What if humans couldn't lie
What if humans couldn't lie? I was struggling to open my eyes when the alarm went off— or at least, I think it went off. It was 5.30 am, my eyes glued shut filled with eye gunk, swollen, and heavy with sleepiness. My body almost paralysed and sunken into the mattress with heavy legs and stiff joints from running the night before.
By Abdullah Talaatabout a year ago in Fiction
Just a Tiny Lantern
We’re only half an hour from town, but it feels like we’ve disappeared. Trees close in like we’re in a bubble, and the dry air smells like pine and dust. They banned travelling in the woods that morning because the ground was so dry, a campfire or hiking was no longer an option. We stayed close to our tent with little to do but talk and swim in the lake. The kids are zipped into the tent next to us, fast asleep. Our laughter bounces against nylon walls as we settle into Ben’s tent. He doesn’t usually camp. His setup is hilariously inadequate—a sad little bedroll, single pillow and a blue blinding flashlight, all items, including the tent, were carefully collected and borrowed from family members so that he could be part of our family’s summer camping ritual. I’ve brought my things—an avalanche of pillows, fleeces, folding chairs and my camping poncho. Ben laughs the minute I start pulling them through the small, zippered door of his tent.
By A Lady with a Penabout a year ago in Fiction
