Short Story
Tick. Content Warning.
She’s lucky. I stayed. Through the ambulance, the coroner, the silence that settled like fog. Twice. I kept the freezer stocked. I filled in paperwork so all she had to do was sign it. I filled the gaps. I never asked for praise. That’s not what good men do. You show up. You keep showing up. Even when they forget to thank you. Maybe especially then. Maybe definitely. The daughter is thin-lipped. Sarcastic. Sharp. Mind and tongue. A little shrew, I think. The puppy fat that pads her hardly-there curves doesn't fool me. For a while I saw her eyes on me, and I thought she'd been the easiest to deal with. A look, a smile, and she'd be putty in my hands. Apparently not. The days of boldly coming to breakfast in thin pyjamas, and then, when challenged, sashaying back upstairs with a smirk... Those days are gone. Her eyes are cold now. Like a fish.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Him and I. Content Warning.
I flop down onto a green beanbag in Elliot’s room and huff as I get an Xbox controller functioning. The TV glows with the blue Halo loading screen. I crave a bit of nostalgia to calm my racing thoughts from landing on the horrors of my senior prom dress shopping.
By caitodoesstuffabout a year ago in Fiction
The Summer Below
The summer was supposed to be perfect. Jayla had made a list: get her lifeguard recertification, work mornings at the pool, spend nights at the lake with Theo, and maybe—finally—tell him she liked him as more than a friend. They’d joked about it during senior week. He’d touched her hand and hadn’t let go.
By Shai Andersonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Haint of Blue Heron Creek. Winner in Leave the Light On Challenge. Top Story - August 2025.
Nate stirred the soup even though it didn’t need stirring. The can said “hearty beef,” but it was thin as brown ditchwater. The floating bits of gristle reminded Nate of drowning insects, bobbing in the creek. Behind him, Ty sat on the kitchen floor, coloring. The waxy scrape of crayon on paper grated on Nate’s nerves.
By Sandor Szaboabout a year ago in Fiction
The Summer That Never Ended. Runner-Up in The Summer That Wasn’t Challenge.
Dear Reader, let me tell you a story that changed my fate— and with it, the life of my whole family. A story that I haven't told to anyone in nearly 60 years. A story I stopped telling because nobody believed me.
By Imola Tóthabout a year ago in Fiction
A Love Letter to photography
I write this from the edge of a cliff in Santorini, the Aegean stretched out like a brushstroke of blue beneath the sun. You’d love this place—the way the sky kisses the sea, the quiet whispers of the wind, the hum of life that pulses beneath the whitewashed walls. It reminds me of you. Everything beautiful does. You once asked me why I chose this life—why I always run toward the horizon, camera in hand, chasing fading light and fleeting faces. I never had a good answer then. Maybe I didn’t know. Maybe I didn’t want to admit that every road I follow is just another attempt to find a piece of you in the world. The truth is, I fell in love twice. Once with you. And once with the world. But they aren’t separate. You see, I carry you with me in every sunrise I shoot, every stranger’s eyes I try to capture, every hidden alley I wander. You are in every frame, tucked between the shadows and light, as if the world echoes your presence back to me, no matter where I go. I remember that day in Kyoto—the cherry blossoms falling like pink snow, the air soft with spring. You were laughing, your hands full of postcards we’d never send. I had my camera slung around my neck but I couldn’t take a single photo. Not because the scene wasn’t beautiful, but because it would never match the memory. Some moments are too sacred to trap in pixels. You told me once that you worried I’d choose the road over you. That my heart belonged more to airports and alleyways than to quiet dinners and morning coffee. I didn’t know how to answer then. I guess I thought love was something you came back to, not something you took with you. But I know now: love is a lens through which you see the world. I see you in the storm clouds over Iceland, in the early light of a Moroccan market, in the laughter of children running barefoot through the streets of Cartagena. I see you in the pauses between shutter clicks. I hear your voice in the silence after the sun sets. I used to chase the perfect shot. Now I just try to capture the feeling—of being alive, of being in love, of being lost and found all at once. There’s a photo I took last week in Rajasthan. A woman in red stood in the doorway of her home, light slanting across her face like poetry. Her eyes held centuries. When I showed her the photo, she smiled without looking. “You’re not looking for photos,” she said, “you’re looking for someone.” She was right. Maybe I photograph places hoping one day you’ll follow the trail. Maybe I send you these prints and postcards like breadcrumbs across the world. Maybe each shutter click is my way of saying I miss you, I love you, I remember. But love isn’t always about being in the same place at the same time. Sometimes it’s about holding someone so deeply that even the sky starts to resemble their smile. I don’t know when I’ll stop. Maybe I never will. Maybe the road has no end, and maybe that’s okay. Because every step forward is a memory of you, every mile is a testament to what we shared. I hope you still keep the photo of us in Lisbon—our hair windblown, your eyes half-laughing, my hand mid-reach toward yours. That was the moment I knew. It wasn’t the city, the light, or even the composition. It was you. It’s always been you. Wherever I go, you are my home. I’ll write again from the next place. Maybe the Andes, maybe a rooftop in Havana. Or maybe I’ll knock on your door one day, no map in hand, just a camera full of stories and a heart full of you. Until then, With all my love, Yours in every frame, L.
By Israr khanabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Clockmaker's Secret"
In the heart of a forgotten town where time seemed to stand still, there lived an old clockmaker named Elias Grey. His shop, tucked between two crooked brick buildings, had no sign — only the soft ticking of countless clocks behind foggy windows betrayed its purpose. Elias was a quiet man with silver-threaded hair and eyes the color of tarnished brass. He spoke little, smiled rarely, and worked always. The townsfolk said he could fix any clock — but he never let anyone watch him work. Rumors circled like dust in sunlight: that he could stop time, that he had once turned it back. No one believed these tales. Not really. Until one rainy evening, a girl named Lila stepped inside his shop. She was no more than seventeen, with wild curls and storm-gray eyes. Her voice cracked slightly as she held out a small, broken pocket watch. “It was my father’s,” she said. “Stopped the night he died.” Elias took the watch in his thin hands, studied its silent face, and said only, “Come back in three days.” She nodded. But something in the way he said it — the way the air seemed to hush around him — made her heart stir. She left without another word. The next morning, Lila couldn’t resist returning early. She peeked through the dusty window. Inside, the clockmaker wasn’t repairing the watch. He was speaking to it. His voice was low, almost melodic, and the air shimmered faintly around him. As she watched, the gears of the broken watch trembled… then turned. Lila gasped — too loudly. Elias looked up sharply. Their eyes met through the glass. He said nothing when she stepped inside again, soaked and breathless. “I saw,” she whispered. “What… what are you doing?” Elias studied her carefully. Then, to her shock, he smiled. “There is a rhythm,” he said softly, “beneath time. Most people live above it, like walking on ice. But some… some of us hear the cracks.” Lila’s mouth went dry. “Are you saying you can change time?” “I can listen to it,” he replied. “And… sometimes, ask it for favors.” She hesitated. “Could you go back? Could you save someone?” Elias’s smile faded. “Once. A long time ago. I turned the hands backward.” He turned to a mantle where a single cracked clock sat in silence. “My wife,” he said. “A carriage accident. I reversed everything. One hour. One precious hour. I warned her. She stayed home. She lived.” Lila stared. “Then… what happened?” The air in the room grew colder. “She forgot me,” he said quietly. “When I changed time… I changed our story. In the new thread of time, we never met. She married someone else. Had children. Lived a good life.” “But not with you,” Lila whispered. “No,” Elias said. “Not with me.” There was a long silence. The only sound was the ticking — hundreds of clocks, beating like hearts on every wall. Lila looked down at her father’s watch. “Could you do it again?” she asked. “Could you give me one more hour with him?” Elias hesitated. Then, slowly, he handed her the watch. “It is not without cost,” he said. “Time does not like to be bent. It may take something in return.” Lila nodded. “I understand.” He placed his hands on the watch. Whispered. The air thickened, warped. The clocks in the shop stopped ticking — all at once. Then, just as suddenly, the pocket watch ticked once. Twice. Then began to turn. Lila blinked. The shop was gone. The rain was gone. And there, in the golden light of morning, stood her father. Alive. Laughing. They had one hour. They talked, they cried, they said all the things they never had time to say. And when the hour ended, he kissed her forehead. And faded. Lila returned to the shop, trembling. Elias was waiting. “Did it work?” he asked. She nodded. Then frowned. “What’s your name again?” she asked. Elias blinked. But he only smiled. “It’s not important,” he said. “Just… remember the time.”
By Israr khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Born of Grit
Born of Grit A Tale of Tenacity and Triumph In a sun-baked alley of a sprawling shantytown, where hope was as scarce as shade, lived a boy named Sameer. At nine, he roamed the streets, collecting plastic bottles to trade for a handful of coins. His father, a rickshaw puller, toiled until his lungs gave out; his mother sold wilted vegetables at the market’s edge. Their one-room shack sagged under the weight of poverty, but Sameer’s spirit refused to buckle. In his pocket, he carried a tiny, broken calculator, its cracked screen a mystery he longed to unravel.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
Hearts against the Storm
Two weeks later, the world had changed — or maybe we had changed enough to see it clearly. The headlines were still buzzing. Investigations were underway. Arrests had been made in the land fraud case tied to my uncle’s death. My father's political allies had started to disappear like shadows under sunlight.
By Mehmood Niazabout a year ago in Fiction
Hearts against the Storm
The night was colder than usual, with a restless wind scraping across the empty roads as I rode toward the old farmhouse. I had no backup. No phone. Just the folded copy of the evidence Hamza had given me, tucked in my inner coat pocket. And a flicker of hope that somehow, this meeting — this trap — might be the end of it all.
By Mehmood Niazabout a year ago in Fiction
