Short Story
The Cup Was Still Warm
The Cup Was Still Warm By Mahboob Khan Sundays always felt too quiet after Adam left. It wasn’t that he slammed the door or made a scene. Adam was the kind of man who left like morning mist — quietly, slowly, until you weren’t sure he’d ever been there at all. And this time, he hadn’t even said goodbye.
By Mahboob Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Destroyed
Introduction The inside shows a misted cityscape of ancient and modern architecture by Leee Black Childers. Destroyed This was once a thriving city, but now there is no life here, no birds sing, no flowers grow, and every tree is dead. At various council meetings, the money from taxes was always "invested", never spent on the infrastructure of the city, and the same was true all over the nation.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
The Fall From Innocence
The rain hadn’t let up since morning. It fell in cold, steady lines across the windshield, blurring the world beyond it. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles bone-white, the wipers squeaking rhythmically like something crying out to be heard. We were late. Very late. And worse—we were the hosts.
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
A Choice. Top Story - July 2025.
The Choice D. A. Ratliff What do you write on a blank page? Let’s face it, words mean something. Isolated words provide little meaning. They must intertwine to impart thoughts, hopes, wisdom, and sometimes convey emotions, ranging from the darkest pain to the highest joy.
By D. A. Ratliffabout a year ago in Fiction
Opening Night
Spotlight. The velvet claret coloured curtains draw back, exposing me to the critical eyes of the crowd. My co-stars begin, almost like a dance, floating through actions and dialogue, embodying the characters. The hour blows by and before my mind catches up, the presenter is announcing the brief intermission. Curtains draw closed and the atmosphere backstage shifts, as if the long drapes that had sat, mesmerised by so many performances, were catalysts for the switch. A stampede of actors scramble down stairs in all directions, to dressing rooms and hair and makeup. The costume change is quick, everything meticulously timed. As soon as I slip on the final piece of my costume, a sequin covered red vest, I’m rushed off to hair and makeup, with a smile and a “good job out there” and “good luck”. Echoes of the same sentiments to and from all the cast and makeup artists fog up the room full of mirrors and bright lights. Glitter floods the air as co-stars and crew alike excitedly chatter and hurry in and out of the room. It comes to my attention, as my eyelids are being brushed with an exquisite blue, that the chaos backstage is as much an experience as standing front of stage with the spotlight beaming down. I blink and it’s over, the audience full of some of the most well known critics in the city return to their seats, their temporary homes for this evening's experience. Standing behind the curtain, awaiting its opening is an energy like no other. The anticipation is palpable and the eagerness to immerse ourselves in a story we’ve rehearsed almost everyday for 2 months and for that story to be received by the theatregoers tonight is clear on the cast standing beside me’s faces. With one more shared nervous smile, a final goodbye to the magical backstage air, we launch into characters we’d dreamed of for years. From kids watching bootlegs of plays our parents would never agree to take us to, to our very first auditions, our first meetings with these characters. An hour later, the crowd erupts with applause, even the harshest critics give a short nod of approval. Standing on that stage, surrounded by people who have become my family, we drink up the praise and it occurs to me that for the first time since being a child hiding under my duvet, watching musicals way past my bedtime, I feel like I’m home.
By A.E. Greyscottabout a year ago in Fiction
Life Interrupted. Content Warning.
The school year is winding down, with only a couple of days left until vacation. I am seated in the back corner of the last row of the last class for the day. I am daydreaming, staring out the window over the pristine front lawn of Parkersburg High School, the grass glistening in the afternoon sun. My dreams are on the upcoming summer, planning every moment of how I will spend my break. At fifteen, I am finally being given the freedom to stay home alone, make my own fun. Sure, there are things I will have to do, such as soccer practices, soccer camp, and church camp, that will take up some of my free time, but the rest is mine to enjoy and create my own destiny.
By Elizabeth Corbittabout a year ago in Fiction
Stranger at Midnight
Every night at midnight, a single red rose appeared on Ava Sinclair’s balcony. No note, no footsteps, no trace of the stranger who left it—just a dewy, fragrant bloom glowing under the city’s restless lights. It began three months ago, always at the stroke of twelve, never a second off. It was romantic. It was unnerving. And Ava, a 29-year-old graphic designer trapped in the monotony of city life, was utterly obsessed.
By Shakespeare Jrabout a year ago in Fiction
