Short Story
Digital Dust
The data morgue smelled like ozone and loneliness. Maya adjusted her luminescent hazmat suit’s hood, the hiss of filtered air her only companion. Before her stretched Server Vault 7—miles of abandoned user profiles, decaying chat logs, and forgotten memories scheduled for permanent deletion. Her job: scrub digital graves clean.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
"Our Last Hug Was the Real Goodbye". AI-Generated.
It wasn’t the message. It wasn’t the call. It wasn’t even the silence that came after. It was the hug. That final hug. The one where we held on just a second too long, as if we both already knew it would be the last.
By Muhammad Riazabout a year ago in Fiction
Starling
They think I'm stupid. That I'm just a kid. I'm not. They say, oh she thinks she knows everything. Well, I know more than I did last week. I learn. Fast. People don't notice the things you do until you stop. Like Ma. She used to knock on our doors in the morning. Open the curtains. Remind us to use the bathroom. We'd groan and try to hide under the covers and say five more minutes, because that's what you do. Then I used to come down for breakfast, and there it was. Juices poured, eggs boiled. I'm not an idiot. I didn't think it appeared by magic or anything. It was just what she did. When Isaiah moved in, I used to turn up at the table in the same camisole I slept in. I'd peek sideways to see if he was looking. Ma scowled and chased me back upstairs.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Everyone Needs One
Marty made his daily pilgrimage to the mailbox. As usual, it was crammed with one or two bills that needed paying and a plethora of junk mail. By far, the biggest offender of landfill stuffing is the funeral industry. He always received at least two and up to five letters per week, inviting him to various restaurants. After attending a seminar about burial and cremation options, he was offered a free meal. Marty never thought that caskets and chicken pot pie complimented each other, but apparently morticians do.
By Mark Gagnonabout a year ago in Fiction
Lost and Found
“Brian! If you’re not down here in five minutes I’ll come up there myself and take away your computer for a week!” Wincing from the loud booming voice of his mother, Brian quickly headed downstairs where his family was getting ready to enjoy a Sunday brunch. There was French toast, fluffy and drizzled with maple syrup; a must-do Canadian tradition, along with crisp hashbrowns, sausages and fried bacon.
By Jesse Leungabout a year ago in Fiction
Episode 13: A Pet In The Garden
The first time they called her “it,” Marla said nothing. They were laughing, silver-mouthed and bright-eyed, lounging in the gardens of the fallen Capitol, dressed like gods from old paintings—if the gods had cheekbones sharp enough to slice bread and no shame about hunger. One of them—the girl with a voice like broken glass—tilted her head, smiled without warmth, and said, “Ant’s pet looks sad. Did he forget to feed it?”
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
