Short Story

The Rear View
The desert is watching. The moment I lift my new vape to my mouth, a gust of hot wind flings my hair into the chapstick on my lip like a gentle slap in the face. I know I should stop. I’ve tried. I’m always so close to getting away, too. I buy gas, go inside to buy a drink, tell myself I’m not getting anything else, and there they are behind the counter, strategically arranged so they’re impossible to ignore. Every vape is going to be my last, and then it isn’t.
By Rosie Ford about a year ago in Fiction
Chapters We’ll Never Write
There are stories that never reach the page. Not because they are unimportant, but because they carry too much truth to be safely told. They are the kinds of stories that would wound us all over again if we dared to speak them aloud. Some remain unwritten because we fear what they might stir. Others stay locked inside us because they belong to people who can no longer read them. This is one of those chapters. I have carried it in my chest for years, as if keeping it unwritten would keep it from becoming real. But silence, I have learned, does not erase what happened—it only makes it heavier. It begins In winter. The city was cold, but not in the kind of way that makes you shiver—it was the kind of cold that seeps into the soul. The streets wore a layer of grey, and the air tasted faintly of smoke. That morning, the sky looked like it had been painted in shades of ash. I was twenty-four, still trying to convince myself that life was waiting for me somewhere just around the corner. I worked in a small bookstore where the air smelled of paper and dust, and my only real comfort was that the job was quiet enough for me to hear myself think. It was there that I met her—Amina. Amina was unlike anyone I had known. She spoke softly, but her words had weight, as if she measured each one before setting it free. She had this way of looking at people like she could see the exact thoughts they were trying to hide. When she smiled, it felt like the sun had broken through a storm. She came in every Thursday at exactly four o’clock, always wearing the same long grey coat, always asking for books that no one else seemed to want to read. We never spoke of anything too personal at first—only about books, about the weather, about how the city seemed too fast for people like us. But every week, the conversations grew longer. I began to notice the tiny details about her—the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous, the faint trace of henna on her hands that hadn’t fully faded, the scar just above her left eyebrow. Then, one evening in early March, she didn’t come. The next Thursday, she still didn’t. And the one after that. Weeks passed, and the space where she used to stand in the bookstore began to feel like a wound that refused to heal. I told myself she had probably moved away, found another bookstore, gotten too busy. But the truth settled in one cold afternoon when I saw her name in the newspaper. It was buried deep in the inner pages—a short, quiet paragraph about a car accident on the highway just outside the city. Three people had died. Amina’s name was the last on the list. I remember staring at the words until they blurred. The world around me went silent, like someone had pressed pause. My hands were shaking so hard the paper tore between my fingers. I don’t know how long I sat there, but when I finally moved, it was only to put the paper away, as if hiding it could undo it all. I didn’t go to the funeral. I told myself it was because I didn’t want to intrude—that I wasn’t family, that I wasn’t important enough to be there. But the truth was uglier: I was afraid. Afraid of standing in that crowd and realizing that I had been nothing more than a passing figure in her life, someone she had forgotten long before that day on the highway. Weeks became months. The bookstore felt emptier than ever, the shelves heavier with books she would never read. I began to write letters to her in my mind—letters I would never send, filled with all the things I had never said. I imagined telling her about the first time I noticed her, about the way her voice could turn the most ordinary sentence into poetry, about how her absence had hollowed out a part of me I didn’t know could be touched. But I never wrote them down. I told myself that some things were better left unwritten, that putting them on paper would make them final. And yet, the unwritten chapter didn’t fade—it grew. It lived in the pauses between my thoughts, in the way I glanced at the door every Thursday at four, as if she might still walk in wearing that grey coat. It lived in the stack of books I kept on the back shelf, the ones she had asked about but never bought. Two years later, I finally visited the place where it happened. The road was narrow, lined with tall, unfeeling trees. I stood at the edge of the asphalt, watching cars pass in waves of wind and noise. The world had moved on. The road didn’t remember her. But I did. I knelt and placed a single book on the grass—a copy of The Little Prince, the one she had once told me she loved as a child. And for the first time, I allowed myself to speak her name aloud into the cold air. It struck me then that the cruelest thing about life is not the endings we see coming—it’s the ones that take us mid-sentence. The chapters we never get to finish, the words we never get to say, the people who vanish before we have the courage to tell them what they meant to us. Sometimes I think about what I would have written if I had the strength. Maybe I would have told her that she was the closest thing to home I had ever found in another human being. Maybe I would have told her that she made the winter feel less cruel. Maybe I would have told her that I wished we had more time. But that is the thing about the chapters we never write—they are not blank because they are empty. They are blank because they are overflowing. Because no matter how many words we pour onto the page, they will never hold everything we felt. Years have passed since that winter, and I still work at the same bookstore. The shelves are older now, the paint a little more faded. Every Thursday at four, I still glance toward the door, though I tell myself I’m not waiting anymore. Maybe I’m lying. Maybe a part of me will always be waiting. I have written countless stories since then, but none have been as heavy as the one I never wrote. The chapter is still there, unwritten, living quietly between the lines of everything else I put on the page. And perhaps that’s where it belongs. Not every tragedy needs to be told for the world to know it mattered. Some stories exist simply to remind us that we loved, that we lost, and that we survived—though not without scars. The chapters we’ll never write are not lost. They are the hidden roots of who we are. And though no one else may ever read them, they are etched in us, as permanent as the heartbeat that carries them.
By Sajid about a year ago in Fiction
Before the First Light
The last sliver of sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges that mocked Elara’s somber mood. Night had a different kind of gravity here, in the old, creaky house nestled on the edge of Whispering Woods. It wasn't just the lack of light; it was the way secrets felt heavier, decisions sharper, under the shroud of darkness. Tonight, the air was particularly thick with them, for it marked thirteen years since Lily had vanished.
By Stefano D'angelloabout a year ago in Fiction
The Chase That Never Ends
The countryside was beautiful, sure sunlit fields rolling into the horizon, birds singing in the distance, and a porch swing that groaned like it had a lifetime of secrets to share. But it was quiet. Too quiet. No tiny footsteps scurrying inside the walls. No cheese mysteriously disappearing from the fridge. No traps rigged with ridiculous precision, only to spectacularly backfire.
By Muzamil khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Wireless
It wasn't real, none of it. It had felt real. The ladles of reheated stew scalded their tongues, the steam carried the hearty smell right up their noses. (Can you eat in dreams? Can you smell things? Are you sure?) The water hadn't been warmed, and the washcloth was as harsh as their mother's expression. The way her frown deepened when they asked about Wild Edric, her hissing "Shhh!" It was all too specific. It had to be real. The pyjamas were clean, the milk warm. It tasted a bit funny, but their parents wouldn't throw it out until it had actual lumps in it, so they asked for more honey, and gulped it down with hardly a grimace. It should have been real. Sinking into the pillows was when they realised that they hadn't truly left the hillside at all. It had followed them somehow, got under their skin, or inside their heads. It was like waking with a start to the unsettling twilight, tangled in that wretched fog like bedsheets. Plunged back into the confusion, the chill, the odd sounds coming from all sides. Men yelling, metal clanging, hooves clattering. Threading around it all, the weeping of a woman... And the worst? When it all went terribly quiet, the chest tightened, and they knew he was close by. At any moment they'd catch sight of him. Or, just as frightening, not see him at all, but know just as surely that he's there somewhere. Certain of it, but not knowing when, or where, he might appear. Joanie was sprawled on the path again, rocks digging into her back and stabbing pains in her ankle. Her own scream echoed in her ears. No! No this is not real, we made it home! I know we did! I remember it! "Ned! Ned!" There was no answer. Any moment now, Ned would burst through the fog, he'd be standing right in front of her, larger than life and twice as vital. Carrying a big stickand asking her if she was alright... But no, the moment for that had passed already, hadn't it? The fog shifted, rearranged itself around the suggestion of a man... Tall. Cloaked. No! Joanie screamed again, scrunching her eyes tight and opening them again. When that didn't work, she pinched and clawed at the skin on her arms. This, surely, should wake her from this nightmare... but it didn't. The fog coiled around her, sticky, tar-like and clinging, keeping her here... It had Ned in its clutches as well. He could hear his sister's scream, but he couldn't move to go to her, to help her. Was it fear that kept him rooted to the spot? Was he a coward, then? He looked down, and his feet were stones, half-sunk into the ground, and impossible to shift. He stared in horror. Not real, he told himself, Can't be real...
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
The Conundrum
My plan was all in place. If it worked out, I would be financially stable, probably for the rest of my life. It was a solid business model, grounded on proven strategies, designed for the 21st century. Now, all I had to do was sell it to the company owner, Preston Hewitt. I had never met him in person. My rung was much too low on the ladder.
By Julie Lacksonenabout a year ago in Fiction
Heat Warning!
From Environment Canada: Hot and humid weather will continue for the next week. Maximum temperatures will reach 40 to 45 degrees Celsius. Nights will also be quite muggy and uncomfortable.
By Kendall Defoe about a year ago in Fiction
A Case in Two
Click. The steel door swung wide open. Scraping against the concrete floor, screaming at the arrival of the man I had been waiting to see all morning.
By Shreyas Vartiaabout a year ago in Fiction
A Night to Remember: The things you keep
A laugh slipped out as she said, “You have to be joking right?” “Not at all, that’s exactly how it happened.” It was that smile. Something about how it lit up in a crowd like fireflies dancing around her, drawn to something they couldn’t name. But why her?
By Shreyas Vartiaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Storm That Took Him at the Lake’s Edge
Reports of a storm had been surging for weeks, but it didn’t feel like one was coming. It was just like any other day. Gleaming amber light raced through the tall, branching canopy and struck the fresh, uncut earth beneath it, mingling in with the ferns and flowers much like a Joan Mitchell piece. It changed quite often and had many faces throughout the day, but this was my favorite. A tranquil state where nothing much happened, and you were free to explore however you wished. A symphony of yellow sun, green leaves, and lush flora performing around you.
By Shreyas Vartiaabout a year ago in Fiction
Shadows That Remember
In a small, quiet village tucked between ancient, rolling hills, there lived a ten-year-old girl named Nina. She had a head full of wild curls that never stayed still and eyes that sparkled like the morning dew. Her home was a place unlike any other, not because of its cobblestone streets or its wooden cottages, but because of its shadows.
By Muzamil khanabout a year ago in Fiction
How Old Maps Lied to Us
Sea monsters, phantom islands, and continents that vanished—why the maps of the past were as much fiction as they were navigation tools. If you’ve ever looked at an ancient map, you might notice something odd. There’s a stretch of ocean where a massive serpent curls around a ship. There’s a continent you’ve never heard of floating somewhere between Asia and North America. And then there’s a strange warning scrawled across the sea: “Here be dragons.” It’s beautiful. It’s fascinating. It’s also wrong. For centuries, maps were less about accuracy and more about imagination, politics, and—sometimes—sheer guesswork. The story of old maps isn’t just about navigation; it’s about how humans saw their world, and how those visions were often shaped by fear, ambition, and the limits of their knowledge. When the Unknown Became the Untrue Before satellites and GPS, mapmaking was part science, part storytelling. Explorers relied on sailors’ tales, merchants’ rumors, and even secondhand descriptions from people who had never left their hometowns. If one traveler claimed to have seen a giant island far out at sea, cartographers might simply add it in. One of the most famous examples is Hy-Brasil, a “phantom island” said to lie west of Ireland. For centuries, it appeared on maps as a real place, despite no one ever actually finding it. Some claimed it was shrouded in mist, only visible once every seven years. Eventually, it faded from maps—not because it was discovered, but because people finally stopped believing it existed. The Creatures That Never Lived Old maps weren’t complete without a few terrifying creatures lurking in the corners. Medieval cartographers often filled uncharted waters with drawings of whales, giant squids, and sea serpents. These creatures were based on a mix of real sightings—like a distant whale spout mistaken for a monster—and pure artistic license. They weren’t just decoration. These illustrations warned sailors: Danger lies here. If you’re venturing into unknown waters, be ready for the unimaginable. The monsters may not have been real, but the fear of the unknown certainly was. Political Borders That Never Existed Maps were also tools of power. Rulers often instructed cartographers to stretch borders in their favor, making kingdoms appear larger and more impressive than they actually were. Colonial powers used maps to claim lands they’d never even set foot on. For example, during the Age of Exploration, European maps often carved up entire continents based on treaties and royal decrees—ignoring the fact that people already lived there with their own borders, cultures, and histories. In this way, maps didn’t just reflect reality; they actively reshaped it. Continents That Disappeared The biggest lies on old maps weren’t just islands—they were entire continents. Take Terra Australis Incognita, a massive landmass drawn across the Southern Hemisphere. Ancient and medieval scholars believed it must exist to “balance” the continents in the north. For centuries, this fictional continent appeared on maps, influencing exploration and fueling expeditions. When European explorers finally reached Antarctica, they discovered it was nothing like the lush, habitable land they’d imagined—it was a frozen, inhospitable desert. The dream of Terra Australis melted away, but not before inspiring countless voyages. Why They Lied—and Why It Mattered Not all these inaccuracies were intentional. Many cartographers did their best with the information they had. But others knew that a good story sold better than a dull truth. A map with mysterious islands and monsters captured imaginations. It inspired sailors to seek riches—or rulers to fund voyages. These “lies” shaped history. Some explorers set out in search of lands that never existed. Others avoided promising trade routes because maps warned of monsters or endless storms. In some cases, entire wars were fought over places that were later revealed to be myth. From Dragons to Data Points Today, we can zoom in on nearly any spot on Earth from our phone. Google Earth doesn’t leave room for dragons in the margins. Yet, even our modern maps aren’t perfect—they can still be influenced by politics, incomplete data, or even deliberate omissions. The difference is that now, our inaccuracies are harder to hide. A misplaced border on a digital map can cause an international incident in hours. And while the age of sea monsters might be gone, the age of misinformation is very much alive—only now, it travels at the speed of Wi-Fi. The Beauty in the Lies Despite their flaws, old maps hold a certain magic. They’re windows into how our ancestors dreamed about the world. A medieval mariner might not have known where the Pacific Ocean ended, but his map told a story—of courage, curiosity, and the human desire to fill in the blanks. Even their errors have value. They remind us that knowledge is always evolving. What we see as fact today might be seen as fantasy tomorrow. And perhaps that’s the greatest lesson old maps can teach: the world is always bigger, stranger, and more surprising than we think.
By LUNA EDITHabout a year ago in Fiction