Short Story

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
Lost in Time: The Train That Stops Nowhere
The Day I Boarded the Train It happened on a foggy Tuesday evening. I remember the way the mist curled around the platform, swallowing the edges of the station until it felt like I was standing inside a dream.
By Habib kingabout a year ago in Fiction
Blood Moon
Conquering nations had always been a favorite pastime of Kisaburo. Defeating Isscaam, the northernmost nation of the tundra, had been no different. The igloo was crowded. Being a larger person than the average tundra dweller, Kisaburo always found them to be cramped. He stepped between two people and his eyes landed on a third. That made four inside, counting himself. Someone was missing.
By B. M. Valdezabout a year ago in Fiction
Marianne. Honorable Mention in Everything Looks Better From Far Away Challenge. Top Story - August 2025.
Glinting on the railing, Marianne’s ring rivaled the sun hung midway in a cloudless cerulean sky. Oliver Swenson squinted tired eyes and swirled half melted ice cubes in his bourbon while water rippled in opalescent veins of turquoise and sapphire before a lush mound of trees and brush. A real generic paradise. Not one mile away throngs of tourists clamored for a piece of shade in the heat, but in the small lagoon, all was quiet. Surrounded by a fortress wall of jagged volcanic rock, it was unspoiled. Clandestine. A honeymooner’s dream. The same as it was all those distant years ago when they were young and in love. Young and dumb was more like it. Still, they’d given it a good go. Thirty years and three kids later the island was the only thing unchanged. Lazy puddles of surf drifted ashore, washing the most delicate shells back to the ocean. Seagulls guffawed like Marianne’s laugh overhead. No, that was then, not now. Now it was silent. Too silent. Heavy with the silence of being completely alone on his perch.
By Elizabeth Diehlabout a year ago in Fiction
House of Turmoil and Ruin
So, this story was bore out of a simple curiosity, much like my other post (linked below). Plucked from all places obscure. I decided to go a different route, inspired by a faux Socialite in 1920’s Jacksonville mixed with a bit of intrigue and Gatsby. Here we go again:
By K.H. Obergfollabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Room on Ashford Street
It was raining the night Daniel Crane returned to Ashford Street. The lane had always been narrow, but in the years since he’d last walked it, it seemed to have folded in on itself. Lamplight spilled across cracked cobblestones, illuminating patches of moss that glistened under the drizzle. The smell of wet stone and river water drifted up from the quay, just a few blocks away.
By Jack Nodabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker's Time
Turning Moments into Meaning In the snowy hamlet of Frostwick, where winter stretched long and silent, lived Tobin, a clockmaker whose workshop hummed with the rhythm of time. His hands, steady despite age, crafted intricate clocks—each tick a testament to precision, each chime a story. The villagers relied on his timepieces, but Tobin saw them as more than tools; they were lifelines in the endless cold.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Gardener's Bloom
The Gardener's Bloom Cultivating Dreams in Barren Soil In the arid village of Dusthaven, where the sun scorched the earth and rains were mere memories, lived Elena, a gardener with unyielding faith. Her plot was a patch of cracked soil, mocked by neighbors who favored practical pursuits over her "foolish" dreams of green. Yet Elena tended it daily, planting seeds from distant lands and whispering encouragements to the ground.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lantern Keeper
The Lantern Keeper A Tale of Light in the Dark Image Prompt: A lone figure standing on a cliff at twilight, holding a glowing lantern that casts a warm light over a winding path descending into a misty valley, with stars beginning to emerge in the deep purple sky.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers That Changed the World
The wind rattled the wooden shutters of the old library, carrying with it the faint scent of rain. Outside, the cobblestone streets of Eldenwick lay deserted, bathed in the silvery glow of the full moon. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aged parchment, dust, and something else—anticipation.
By Aminullahabout a year ago in Fiction
He kept the light on . Content Warning.
He passed his finger along a jagged edge of paper, but a door flung open, a pervasive memory of the past instead of a paper cut. The scene played as if it were nurturing. There was no movement. He knew the path the way he knew his mother. He thought his past would play a different song, but it was a race car reversing backwards. The person that changed everything came too close and it might cause a dangerous end to the present.
By Caitlin Charltonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Letter I Never Sent
I found the letter last night, buried beneath a pile of old photographs in the wooden chest at the foot of my bed. The envelope was yellowed with age, the paper inside soft as fabric. My handwriting—shaky, almost unfamiliar—spelled out his name in faded blue ink: Elias. Just the sight of those letters made my chest tighten. I hadn’t seen him in thirteen years, and yet the moment I touched that envelope, the air felt heavy with the past.
By Musawir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction