Short Story
Love Letters I Never Sent (But Wrote Anyway). AI-Generated.
Love Letters I Never Sent (But Wrote Anyway) They say closure is a conversation. I say it’s a letter you never send. I used to think the only love stories worth telling were the ones that ended in forever. But now, I believe the ones that end quietly—half-healed, half-open—teach us just as much. Maybe more.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Do You Believe in Ghosts?
A dense fog covered the sleepy town of Raventhorne as if nature itself was hiding something it didn’t want seen. Nestled deep within the woods, this forgotten place bore secrets older than its cracked cobblestone streets. The locals rarely spoke after dark and locked their doors before the sun dipped behind the ancient pine trees. And for good reason.
By Lana Roseeabout a year ago in Fiction
The Boy Who Sold Silence
The city of Veridia screamed. Car horns dueled beneath Arlo’s penthouse window. Subways groaned like wounded beasts. Neon signs buzzed like angry hornets. Even at 3 a.m., the relentless noise seeped through triple-paned glass, vibrating in his teeth. Arlo Thorne, Veridia’s most sought-after music producer, hadn’t slept without pills in two years. His latest platinum track—"Neon Pulse"—echoed the city’s frantic heartbeat, but inside, Arlo was drowning.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Letter in the Rain
The rain had been falling for hours—soft, unrelenting, like it had a memory of its own. Ella pulled her scarf tighter around her neck as she walked down the narrow path behind the old post office. It was the kind of day made for hiding from the world, but something tugged at her chest, pulling her toward the past. She didn’t know why she took that path today—she hadn’t in years. Not since he left.
By Wow Geniusabout a year ago in Fiction
Moth
I keep folding things. If folding things could make a barrier, I'd lay my fresh-scented origami between my heart and the grief threatening to crush it, and never hurt again. I fold and fold and fold, because it's the simple and repetitive day to day things that help me pretend I'm sane. I fold trousers for a husband who already left. Clean shirts for a boy with a gaunt face I hardly recognise. Tiny socks for a baby that giggles, as if the world wasn't broken, and everything lost. Trousers for a man who isn't my husband, but who is sitting in his chair. I don't have the energy to tell him to move. Liza stares at him with empty eyes, like scales. Glittering. Weighing him up. Is he handsome? Does she want his attention? Should she be angry that he's sitting there, where her father should be? Does she mind if he slips into that role? She doesn't sigh. She walks away. Her bedroom door clicks. Towels. Tablecloths. Shopping lists. Receipts. I fold them so that I don't fold. Because I'm as fragile and dusty as a moths wing and, and I might crumble clean away. Isaiah made tea again. The house stays neat and soft, like it’s hiding bruises. Isaiah keeps it clean without me asking. I stab myself with the memory of her, because the pain is solid and all I have left. When it fades, I'm numb, and maybe that's ok, too. The thought of her, thrown, tangled and broken on the ground. Wicked little hooves dancing above her, maybe. I flit from that thought to another very like it. The simple joy that had shone in her face all morning was fading rapidly. That glow, born of a birthday, and a surprise, and her beloved ponies... Already gone. Memories are better. Memories hurt, but not like that. Flit flit flit. Fold fold. Bang bang banging against the pane of glass, with my other children on the other side. They wait for me to say something normal. Right the axis. Consult the map and take them by the hand. Bang bang bang. I settle on a surface that matches me, and sigh into stillness. Pillows threaten to swallow me. I settle myself in my own cocoon, perhaps never to break free of it. That can happen. Can't it?
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Episode 12: John Doe
So there was screaming. That’s how it started. In the room — one of those white, blinking kinds that smells like bleach and static and something dying in the walls. Someone was strapped down. Someone else was talking too calmly. There were machines. Needles. Silver bags of blood hanging from hooks like ornaments from a Christmas no one would survive.
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
