Short Story
Not Him. Not Now. . Runner-Up in The Summer That Wasn’t Challenge. Top Story - July 2025.
This was meant to be the summer of progress. New systems, new structure, new home, new routine. A new rhythm to life for all of us. A proper house this time, one that came with more than one bedroom for the four of us, a solid roof, floorboards that didn't screech under pressure. It was supposed to be a summer of painting walls and building garden beds. We had planned to flourish this season.
By Autumn Stewabout a year ago in Fiction
"Whispers in the Leaves"
Long ago, there was an old oak under a meadow with rolling hills and golden grass in the background, quiet as hell. Age wore off its thick, bushy trunk and extended branches like large, open arms.... The leaves were inhabited by birds, squirrels, and insects. Through generations, the tree had been keeping watch over the land, enduring thunderous storms, burning summers and gentle springs in winter. It maintained peace without disturbance.
By Osman Ahmedabout a year ago in Fiction
She Loved Me in Every Lifetime Except This One
A Love That Spanned Centuries I don’t remember exactly when I realized it but from a young age, I felt a strange sense of déjà vu around certain people and places. Like I’d been here before. Like I’d lived this life... or another... many times. But the one thing that always returned to me, clearer than anything else, was her.
By Farooq Hashmiabout a year ago in Fiction
I Rented a House That Doesn’t Exist on Any Map
The Listing That Seemed Too Good to Be True It all began with a vacation plan. I had been working nonstop for months and needed a break—not just from work, but from life itself. So, I opened my laptop and started browsing rental properties on a popular vacation website. That's when I saw it: “Cozy Stone Cottage by the Woods Total Privacy.” The photos were stunning. Ivy-covered walls, rustic wooden interiors, an old fireplace, and misty woods in the background. It was like something out of a fairytale, or a horror movie.
By Farooq Hashmiabout a year ago in Fiction
Mould
There was never much in his lunch box, but he couldn't eat it anyway. It hurt his throat and made him feel sick. Belly gnawing and gurgling, he watched the other kids biting into their sandwiches, apples and granola bars. He wished he could do that. His lunchbox was made of metal, and painted yellow. It had Asterix and Obelix on it. He peeked inside. The ham sandwich looked thin and dry. It was starting to curl at the edges. His throat was already closing just looking at it. He gulped. It hurt. He shut the lid. Sipped his juice. Winced. She had crackers and grapes. Chunks of cheese, thick juicy slices of real ham. Fudgy squares of homemade chocolate cake, or peanut butter cookies that she shared with her friends. The boy tried not stare. Sometimes a grown-up version of her appeared at the school with a clipboard and a sugary smile. But not really real sugar. No. The horrible kind you get in little pills when you're a diabetic like Gran. Her long fingers sifted through his hair, looking for the little critters that bit and scuttled and itched. She'd pause, and he knew she was pursing her lips, brows drawing together, the same way she did when he stood on the scales. The same way she did when they were close together, and her nose wrinkled.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
The Neon Jaguar
The night smelled like gasoline and stolen perfume. Luca revved the engine of his '67 Mustang--not his, not yet, but it would be by dawn if he won the race. The dashboard lights painted his knuckles candy-apple red. Beside him, Carmen smirked, her sequined dress catching the flicker of streetlamps like a disco ball tossed into a hurricane.
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTARabout a year ago in Fiction
Haunted Highway
Rain hammered the windshield as Ramona gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles ached. With her windshield wipers broken, she struggled to keep the car on course through the heavy downpour, which barely cleared the thick veil of water blurring her view. Thunder roared overhead, rattling the windows of her little Hyundai.
By Baby Josieabout a year ago in Fiction
The Keeper of Lost Frequencies
**Title: The Keeper of Lost Frequencies** By; Abdurrahman The bombs had stolen the light from Paris, but not the voices. Claire Duval knew this better than anyone. Blind since childhood, she navigated the blacked-out city by sound—the scrape of a boot on cobblestones, the rustle of a ration coupon pressed into her palm, the hum of a forbidden radio hidden beneath her floorboards.
By Path To Progressabout a year ago in Fiction
