Short Story
Gossip. Content Warning.
What You Heard "What an awful man" "Did you hear how he treated her?" "I heard something, it's no wonder what she did" "Yeah, did you see him, he said that she gave him that black eye and stabbed him, she would never do that. She is such a good quiet soul and is at mass every Sunday. Father Jack says she is a saint because she does so much good and is so kind to people"
By Mike Singleton đź’ś Mikeydred 2 months ago in Fiction
Anchored in the Fluorescent Hum . Top Story - July 2026.
They talk amongst themselves, and when a touch of mood crosses their faces, their whole bodies wake up like bumblebees, restless, reactive, always shifting. They were all sipping from clear plastic cups, with bags by their feet. The staff who knew each other discussed the new Starbucks menu. The others said oi, which softened the room. But not her, behind her thin‑rimmed glasses. I knew her, but not really; stillness holds her together. She is the kind of person whose warmth stays exactly where it is, steady and unmoving, as distant as the wall and as near as the humming fluorescent lights. I notice her the way I notice the unchanged grain of the carpet, the quiet things that stay where they are. She is the only one anchored in her black formal wear, tapping her index finger, not her thumb, against the screen of her phone.
By Caitlin Charlton2 months ago in Fiction
Nostradamus Predictions for 2026.
Nostradamus Predictions for 2026 Nostradamus remains one of the most enduring names in prophecy. Born Michel de Nostredame in sixteenth-century France, he worked as a physician, astrologer, and writer, a man who turned observation into prediction. His book Les Prophéties has travelled through centuries, its cryptic verses sparking argument and awe in equal measure. Some see his work as poetic philosophy, others as proof that the future leaves shadows long before it arrives. Whatever the truth, his name still rises whenever the world trembles.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 2 months ago in Fiction
Jim's Paranormal Adventure
Jim lay across an antique couch the color of dark mahogany. He was a man in his late thirties, though lately he felt much older. There was worry in his eyes, the kind of worry that did not belong to one bad day, but to years of carrying invisible weight. Beside him sat his therapist. She was young, with golden blonde hair pinned neatly into a bun. Her professional attire gave her an almost severe elegance, though there was something soft and innocent about her face. She sat upright in a plain office chair, legs crossed, scribbling notes into a pad with singular focus. The room was quiet enough that the scratching of her pen began to sound accusatory. Jim finally broke the silence. “I dreamed I was walking through a furniture store,” he said. “One of those big flat-pack places. I’m not really sure why I was there.” The therapist looked up, pen hovering. Jim continued. “I walked for hours and didn’t see a single person. At first I thought I was just lost, but then I started getting impatient. I couldn’t find an exit. Every aisle kept looping back on itself.” He swallowed. “I started running. Bedrooms, kitchens, offices, bathrooms. It just kept going. Then I ended up in the bathroom section, and there was this figure standing in the corner. A man in a dark robe.” Jim’s voice lowered. “He kept waving me forward, like he wanted me to follow him. But my legs wouldn’t move. Then I woke up.” The therapist paused from her notes. “How did that make you feel?” Jim blinked at her. “I don’t know, Doctor. I was kind of hoping you knew. I mean, that’s why I’m paying you two hundred dollars an hour, right?” She raised one eyebrow, acknowledging the jab without letting it land. “Now, now, Jim. There’s no need to lash out. Dreams can be difficult to interpret from the outside. They’re full of personal symbols and private meanings. What I see in the dream may be very different from what your subconscious is trying to tell you.” Jim sighed. She clicked her pen once. “Have you ever had a disturbing experience inside a furniture store?” Jim stared at her for a moment. Then he searched his mind for any trauma involving couches, lamps, dining sets, or discounted end tables. Nothing came. “No,” he said. “I can’t even remember the last time I went shopping for furniture.” The therapist glanced at her watch. “I’m sorry, Jim, but we’ll have to leave it there for today. I want you to think about the dream. Especially the store. Consider what it may represent, and we’ll return to it during our next session.” Jim gave a long, exhausted breath and stood. The session was over. The elevator was out of service, which felt less like an inconvenience and more like an insult from the universe. Jim walked down the stairs, one step after another, while a deep weariness settled into his bones. The parking garage was ghostly quiet. No footsteps. No voices. Only the low hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of rain hitting concrete somewhere beyond the entrance. Jim stopped beside his car and looked around. The cars sat motionless in their spaces like abandoned animals. The air had a strange whistle to it, though there was no one nearby. He could not shake the feeling that something had followed him out of the office. Or worse. That something had been waiting. He got into the car and locked the doors. The road home was cold, dark, and slick with rain. Jim drove in silence, wondering why he had ever scheduled therapy so late in the evening. “I should reschedule for earlier,” he muttered. Still, he kept glancing at the rearview mirror every few minutes, looking for familiar headlights or a car that stayed behind him too long. But the road was empty. Oddly empty. Even for that time of night. The drive was short, and he made it home quickly enough. He sat in the car for a moment, breathing slowly, trying to convince himself there was nothing wrong. Nothing had followed him. Nothing was waiting. Nothing was standing in the dark. When he walked into the house, dread came in with him. It hung in the air, thick enough to cut with a knife. The day had drained him. The deathly weariness from the stairwell had settled even deeper now, past muscle and bone, into something closer to spirit. He was too tired to cook dinner. He went straight to the bedroom, threw himself onto the bed, and turned on the television. A nature documentary filled the screen. An octopus moved through dark water, its body folding and unfolding like a living shadow. It seized a fish with sudden violence and pulled it toward its hungry beak, headfirst. Jim watched for a few seconds longer than he should have. Then sleep began to take him. He drifted into that strange middle ground between waking and dreaming, the place where the body grows heavy and the mind starts whispering to itself. Jim had always thought falling asleep felt a little like dying. Memento mori. Remember that you must die. That thought had probably fed his insomnia more than anything else. But this time was different. This time, sleep came easily. Too easily. It felt less like rest and more like slipping into a warm coma. Jim opened his eyes. Harsh fluorescent lights beat down on his head. The heat from them was unrelenting, like a desert sun trapped inside a ceiling panel. He was standing in the furniture store again. Only now the dream felt different. More lucid. More real than life. The aisles twisted and turned around him. Each section was staged to imitate a different part of a home. Bedrooms. Offices. Bedding. Kitchens. Bathrooms. Living rooms filled with sofas no one would ever sit on. Dining tables set for families that would never arrive. Everything looped back into itself. Every time Jim completed a circuit through the store, the air grew hotter. At first he walked. Then he hurried. Then he ran. He passed the same lamps. The same bookshelves. The same artificial plants. The same perfect little rooms built to look like lives someone else might have had. Eventually the heat became unbearable. Jim began to panic. He slammed his fists against one of the showroom walls. “Please,” he shouted. “Please wake the fuck up!” He pounded the wall harder and harder until pain shot through his hands. His knuckles split. Blood smeared against the painted surface. He struck the wall one final time. And then it changed. The wall gave way as if it had turned to water. Suddenly, Jim was awake. If that was the word for it. Sleep paralysis is a strange state of consciousness. You are not awake. You are not asleep. You cannot move, and every word you try to speak dies somewhere in your throat. That was the state Jim found himself in. But something was wrong. He was not in bed. He was sitting on the toilet in his bathroom. He tried to move. Nothing. He willed his eyelids to open wider. Nothing. He tried to scream. Nothing. His body refused every command. His eyelids grew heavy again. The bathroom faded. And Jim slipped back into the store. He was standing before the same wall he had beaten with his fists. Only now, he knew he was not alone. There was a presence behind him. Jim stood perfectly still. His heart pounded so loudly in his ears that it seemed to belong to someone else. Whatever stood behind him, Jim knew it did not have his best interests in mind. Then it spoke. The voice was slow, deep, and unearthly, a pitch so strange it rattled through Jim’s bones and raised every hair on the back of his neck. “You’re dead, Jim.” Jim spun around, fight-or-flight flooding his body. He started swinging wildly at the air. There was no one there. And then the store was gone. Jim now stood in a bizarre room. The ceiling and floor glowed with fluorescent light. In the center of the room sat a single mahogany desk. Behind it was a tall office chair, rocking slowly back and forth. Jim took a moment to breathe. On the right side of the desk sat a name badge. It read: MANAGER The rest of the desk was almost bare. On the left side sat a small brass cup with a single feather-tipped pen sticking out of it. The same unearthly voice rumbled from behind the chair. “It is time to take account of your life, Jim. But before we can proceed, you must render payment.” Jim’s anger returned because anger was easier than fear. “What the hell are you talking about? What kind of clown show is this? Who are you?” The voice answered slowly, completely unmoved. “Check your pockets and place my payment on the desk.” Silence followed. Then Jim, feeling ridiculous, shoved his hands into his pockets. His fingers found the familiar shape of a quarter. Then another in his back pocket. He took them out and stared at them. Plain. Unassuming. Boring. Two quarters. Jim walked slowly to the desk and placed them down. The tall office chair creaked. Then it began to turn. The figure from the dream faced him at last. It wore a long black robe covered in fine dust, as if it had been forgotten in an attic for generations. Cobwebs clung to the fabric. Leather-gloved hands rested against the arms of the chair. Jim tried to make out a face beneath the hood. There was none. Only darkness. Not shadow exactly. A void. A face made of absence. The figure stood in one smooth motion, pushing the chair back. It was impossibly tall, so tall its hood nearly touched the glowing ceiling. “You are dead, Jim,” it said. “You no longer belong to the physical world. It is time to account for your deeds in life.” Jim stared at the thing behind the desk. “The fuck I am,” he snapped. “What is this place? Who are you? And why do you keep saying I’m dead?” The Manager leaned forward. Jim leaned forward too, because some foolish part of him still believed intimidation belonged to the living. They were almost face to face now. Still, Jim could see no features under the hood. Only that black hole of darkness. “I am the Ferryman,” the Manager said. “I guide lost souls to their final judgment.” Jim let out one sharp, disbelieving laugh. “So you’re telling me the afterlife is a furniture store?” “This place is an illusion,” said the Ferryman. “We stand in a void of darkness. The store was chosen for you because of the way you lived.” Jim looked around at the fluorescent room, the desk, the name badge. “The way I lived?” “You lived in a world of endless consumerism,” said the Ferryman. “So you will cross over in its image.” Jim felt the words settle into him. The endless staged rooms. The fake kitchens. The fake bedrooms. The pretend offices. The bathrooms under artificial light. Homes without life. Comfort without peace. He looked away from the Ferryman and prayed to wake up. But even as he prayed, he knew it was a waste of energy. “How did I die?” Jim asked. The Ferryman relaxed its posture. “Brain aneurysm. You died in your home, sitting on the toilet.” Jim stared. “Jesus.” There was a long pause. “But I’m young,” he said. “I’m not ready to go yet.” His voice cracked with panic. “This has to be a mistake. There has to be some way for me to go back.” For the first time, the Ferryman sounded annoyed. “Death makes no mistakes. Do not waste what remains by bargaining with me.” Jim tried another approach. Maybe if he played along, he could wake up. Maybe this was still a dream. Maybe this was some bizarre psychological event, some nightmare his therapist would later charge him another two hundred dollars to discuss. “This is not a dream,” the Ferryman said. Jim’s blood went cold. “Get the fuck out of my head.” The Ferryman reached across the desk and placed one leather-gloved hand on Jim’s shoulder. Then Jim saw the truth. Every moment of his life opened before him in perfect, crystalline detail. His childhood. His teenage years. His first kiss. The first time he rode a bicycle. The jokes he told in school. The women he loved. The women he lost. His marriage. His divorce. Every small cruelty. Every tenderness. Every wasted afternoon. Every choice he told himself did not matter. It all passed before him like a film made from the entire substance of his life. When it ended, Jim was no longer in the store. He was standing in his bathroom. And there, sitting on the toilet, was his body. Lifeless. Awkward. Undignified. Human. Jim looked at himself for a long time. All his anger left him. In resignation, he asked the final question he would ever ask. “Now what?” The Ferryman stepped closer. Its arms wrapped fully around him. The darkness beneath the hood opened wider. Jim thought of the octopus on the television, pulling the fish toward its beak, swallowing it headfirst into the dark. “Now,” the Ferryman whispered, “you join me in the void and face judgment.” Darkness enveloped Jim. Then, suddenly, warmth washed over his body. A distant ringing filled his ears, growing louder and louder. Ahead of him was a light at the end of what looked like a tunnel, rushing toward him with impossible speed. Jim opened his eyes. It felt like the first time. He looked around. Then he breathed in what felt like his first breath.
By Alejandro Arango2 months ago in Fiction
The Little Library
I saw him out of the corner of my eye as I filled the case. My town is mostly populated by white people. I should know, since my ancestor founded the town. It’s only been in the last decade or so that the older generations have deigned to shuffle off their mortal coil, and their kids didn’t want their houses, so the unwanted properties are sold off, and the sibs split the profits. Better to put the money where you’re established, than relocate and fix up something that might not be able to be fixed.
By Meredith Harmon2 months ago in Fiction
The Mild Adventures of Jim
The Mild Adventures of Jim It was 6:00 a.m. when the buzzing of Jim’s alarm pulled him away from dreams and peace. He opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and sighed. It was the kind of sigh that could only come from a man resigned to his fate, already knowing the day ahead would be almost exactly like the day before. Jim reached for his phone on the nightstand and thumbed through social media feeds, headlines, and whatever articles seemed halfway interesting. After a few minutes, he set the phone back on the charger. Next to it was a framed photograph of him and his now ex-wife. It had been three years since the divorce. They had not been married long, only a year and a half, but it had been fiery and passionate in the way love can be when two people communicate almost identically while carrying very different childhood wounds. At least, that was how Jim’s therapist had described it. Jim thought about all the draft emails he had written to her over the years. Friends told him not to send them. His family told him not to send them. His therapist, with professional calm and expensive patience, also told him not to send them. So they remained unsent. Every word carefully weighed. Every paragraph another attempt to understand what had happened. He had given her attention, affection, love, and whatever stability he knew how to offer. His job allowed him to take her on trips and expensive dinner dates. He had thought he was doing what a husband was supposed to do. Then, one day, she handed him divorce papers. Out of the blue. She said it was over. There had been no explanation that gave him catharsis. No final conversation that turned pain into wisdom. No wound dressed cleanly enough to heal. She only told him that she no longer loved him. That was the last time he saw her. Some part of Jim’s mind was still sitting in that room, still holding those papers, still waiting for a better answer to arrive. He placed both hands over his face and whispered, “Enough.” It was a feeble attempt to quiet the tempest in his mind, but it was the best he could manage at six in the morning. Then it was time for work. Jim began the morning dance. He brushed his teeth, took a shower, and drank his coffee. He was running late, so there was no time to cook the kind of balanced breakfast that nutritionists and fitness enthusiasts always seemed to recommend. He told himself that one of these days he would wake up early and cook something amazing. Eggs. Fruit. Maybe oatmeal. Something responsible. Something adult. Something that suggested he was becoming the kind of man who had his life together. For now, an English muffin with a little butter would have to suffice. Every morning, Jim took a long walk around the block to get to his car. Parking was scarce in his neighborhood, and the city had turned the simple act of owning a vehicle into a daily scavenger hunt. Oddly enough, the walk was probably one of the few peaceful moments Jim would have all day. The cool morning air filled his lungs. The world had not fully sharpened its teeth yet. The streets still held a little softness. But Jim was too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice. Traffic was terrible. A long line of shambling human beings, all resigned to their fates, fought each other just to get to work. Turn signals became declarations of war. Brake lights became omens. Every lane change carried the drama of a tiny failed civilization. Jim worked as a financial advisor, a profession he had never really wanted. His father had recommended it because it was stable, respectable, and made money. After all, pursuing a dream in the arts did not pay. So Jim chose the path of least resistance. There was something strangely Zen about being stuck in traffic. Not peaceful exactly, but inevitable. For a brief second, Jim’s mind drifted away from brake lights and concrete and carried him to a beach in the Bahamas, where he was sipping margaritas under a sky that did not care about quarterly projections. Then a soccer mom slammed her brakes in front of him. Jim slammed his brakes too, torn violently from paradise. Normally he would have shouted. He might have cursed. He might have thrown his hands into the air and delivered a private courtroom speech about incompetence, entitlement, and the decline of civilization. But today he simply exhaled. Today, Jim accepted the nature of morning traffic. On the radio, one of the morning talk show hosts cracked a joke that made him chuckle. It was quick, loose, perfectly timed. The kind of joke tossed into the air by someone who made a living talking nonsense before breakfast. Jim smiled and thought, Now that’s a job I would love to get in the car for. When Jim was a kid, he had been something of a class clown. He told jokes. His classmates laughed. He liked the feeling of making a room turn toward him, not out of obligation, but because he had created something out of nothing and given it away. He once wanted to become a comedian. He had taken drama classes in college. Creative writing courses too. Then the old sentence returned to him. "The arts do not pay." After what felt like ages, Jim pulled off the exit ramp and arrived at the office. It was mostly empty now. The pandemic had made working from home normal, and most of the employees no longer came in. Jim could have stayed home too, but he had decided that working from home was not good for him. Not in that house. Not in the home he had shared with his ex-wife. So he came to the office. Like an orchestra conductor, Jim began the composition of his workday. He set down his binder, arranged his paperwork, turned on his computer, and started thumbing through the files of his most recent clients. Jim was very good at his job. That was part of the tragedy. One hour became two. Two hours became five. Files were opened, calls were made, forms were reviewed, numbers were moved from one place to another with professional precision. Eventually, the workday ended. The drive home was mercifully short in the late hours. Jim placed his car key on the kitchen countertop. This was the marker that the day was over. The little ritual that told him he could sit down and enjoy a few hours of peace before the quiet desperation of the next day began assembling itself in the dark. He turned on the evening news because he felt obligated to appraise himself of what was going on in the world. It was the same news as the morning. War on the horizon. A new virus threatening the status quo. Markets uneasy. Politicians outraged. Experts concerned. Then, at the end, a few niceties tossed in like parsley on a bad meal. A dog rescued from a storm drain. A child selling lemonade for charity. Humanity, Jim thought, always made sure to smile for the camera after reporting its own decline. He picked up his phone and opened one of those delivery apps. Pizza. He knew he should eat better. “I should probably be eating better,” he said aloud to no one. But the pictures on the app were persuasive. Hot cheese sliding off the edge of a slice. Pepperoni glistening under studio lighting. A crust engineered to look both rustic and perfect. It was less food than prophecy. His lizard brain acted faster than his rational brain. A lightning-quick impulse traveled to his finger. He clicked Order Now. Less than thirty minutes later, a young man rang his doorbell and set the pizza box down on Jim’s porch. The delivery driver smiled at the doorbell camera and waved. Jim watched the young man complete his labor and walk off into the darkness of the night. He did all of this from the comfort of his smartphone, linked to the camera on his front door. Once the threat imposed by this stranger was gone, Jim opened the door and retrieved his prize. During his brief marriage, Jim had purchased a long dining table. He and his wife had hosted dinner parties there for neighbors and friends. There had been wine glasses, laughter, small arguments, stories told too loudly, and the warm chaos of people passing dishes around like offerings. Now the same table felt almost like a grave. Jim sat at the head of it, of course. King of the castle. Master of his domain. He opened the pizza box. The pizza was cold. It looked absolutely nothing like the pictures he had been salivating over earlier, adding another insult to the injury imposed by the dinner table. He ate anyway. After dinner, Jim sat on the couch and let his mind drift. Inevitably, it wandered back to the draft emails he wanted to send his ex-wife. He imagined each sentence doing exactly what it was supposed to do. He imagined his words unlocking something inside her. He imagined her reading them with tears in her eyes, finally understanding him, finally regretting the distance between them. He pictured them holding hands again. He pictured love returning because he had finally found the perfect arrangement of words. Unbeknownst to Jim, his ex-wife had already found somebody through one of those dating apps. His name was Ricardo. He had washboard abs, was fifteen years younger than her, and did not speak a word of English. Jim was also thumbing through a dating app. He found himself bored with every profile he came across. One profile claimed to be looking for a serious relationship, though all the pictures suggested something far more casual. Another listed hiking, brunch, and emotional availability with the same suspicious enthusiasm as a car dealership promising no hidden fees. His inbox was just as depressing. Ads for erectile dysfunction. Fake profiles. Sex robots asking for money. “These dating apps are nonsense,” Jim said. He tossed his phone across the couch. Then he began the evening ritual of going to bed. He brushed his teeth, drank a glass of water, took an ibuprofen for the headache lingering behind his eyes, and changed into his sleeping shorts. After the dance was over, he set his phone on the charger and got into bed. He took one last look at the portrait of him and his ex-wife. Then he remembered a joke one of the morning radio hosts had made about his own ex-wife. It had been crude, probably. Not especially wise. But beneath the timing and laughter, there had been something hidden inside it. A small commandment dressed as a punchline. Move on. Jim stared at the photograph. For three years, he had let that picture sit beside him like a shrine to the life that had refused to come back. Every morning, it greeted him. Every night, it waited for him. He reached for it. For a moment, the frame felt heavier than it should have. Then Jim turned the portrait face down. It was not forgiveness. It was not healing. It was not even bravery, not really. But it was a decision. Possibly, in some small and unseen way, it changed the fabric of his reality. “I don’t want to look at her anymore,” Jim whispered. Then, after a pause, he added, “Tomorrow I’m going to wake up early and cook myself a balanced breakfast.” He turned off the light and drifted into sleep. It would be the most restful night of sleep Jim had had in three years.
By Alejandro Arango2 months ago in Fiction
The Cosmos in a Cup
The sign hanging over the door creaked in the wind, swinging back and forth, back and forth. Its weathered wood had cracked, gaps like jagged teeth edging it. The words, once silver, were barely legible: a faint “ren” bordered by spaces where more letters should have been. What it said was anyone’s guess.
By Laura DePace2 months ago in Fiction
Free Will. Top Story - July 2026.
The air was as crisp as a dragon fly’s wings and Lancington Lake dutifully reflected all the surrounding lights in the spring air. It gave a yawn of forgiveness for the encroaching darkness, swallowing its memories of so many people who now found it warm enough during the day to swim in its fold. Too cold to swim in now, there were people in all manner of laissez-faire out fittings sitting idly and wistfully at its edges.
By Paul Aaron Domenick2 months ago in Fiction
One More Turn
The steel valve fought Leonid’s trembling fingers. Everything tasted metallic, and instinctively, Leonid knew the shaking in his legs was unaffiliated with the temperature of the now waist-deep waste. The implication sat like graphite in his throat.
By Matthew J. Fromm2 months ago in Fiction
