Short Story
Drowned in the Heartland
In early July 2025, the skies over Texas darkened, not with war or strife, but with heavy clouds that carried an unstoppable force of nature. From July 4 to July 13, torrential rains poured over the Texas Hill Country, triggering the worst flood the region had seen in over a century. Towns like Kerrville, Ingram, and Hunt, known for their peaceful rivers and small-town charm, were transformed into waterlogged disaster zones.
By The voice of the heartabout a year ago in Fiction
The Whispering Chip
In the neon-lit city of Shenzhen, where factories hummed like sleepless creatures and drones danced above glass towers, a 14-year-old boy named Sarfaraz Khan lived with his grandfather near the last surviving tea shop on Innovation Street.
By The voice of the heartabout a year ago in Fiction
The Portrait Pact. AI-Generated.
Sienna Rosewood crept along the moonlit cliffside path, the sea wind tugging at her cloak like an urgent whisper. Crickets sang their night lullaby as the stars glittered above, but Sienna wasn’t looking up. She was late—dangerously late—and she knew it. Midnight was near, and she needed to be back inside Goulhearth School before the bell tolled twelve. The dragons hadn’t shown. Not one. The monthly summoning circle had gone unanswered. Her gamble on that old legend—some tale about enchanted paintings and hidden portals—might cost her everything. Her scholarship. Her room. Her standing with the magical council. All for what? A stupid bet with Birdie Mandrake. As she reached the entrance to the old lighthouse-turned-academy, she paused, half-expecting to see Headmistress Goldfinch's beady eyes peering through the crack in the door. But the threshold yawned silent and empty. Inside, the enchanted halls of Goulhearth stretched downward, deeper than any muggle structure ever could. Crates of spellbooks, cursed trinkets, hourglasses, and bottled thunder lined the walls. Her footsteps echoed like drumbeats in a tomb. At the girls' dormitory, she stopped before the enchanted painting—Salazar’s Brew. She touched the frame. Knocked. Whispered the spell. Nothing. She tried again. And again. The moon struck twelve. “Oh, clever girl,” a voice drawled behind her. Sienna jumped. The voice came from a painting nearby—a smoky tavern scene with shadowed figures. “That’s not how you do it,” another voice teased, giddy and unhelpful. “She missed her window.” Suddenly, faces stirred across the corridor. Dozens of portraits began to come alive—sneering, snickering, whispering. Sienna’s heart raced. The rules were clear: never touch a painting without permission. Not all were friendly. Some weren’t even sane. “You’re late, and rules are rules,” one painting chided. She backed away until a soft, smoky voice called to her from a gilded frame. “Child… help an old witch out.” A green-shawled woman no taller than a teacup sat in the frame, eyes glowing with eerie warmth. Sienna stepped closer, entranced by the hazy glow that reached out from the painting. “Just a touch,” the witch whispered. Their hands met. With a surge of magic, the woman stepped out of the painting. Her frame vanished. Her body grew, adorned in velvet and jewels the size of apples. One by one, other portraits followed. Witches and wizards poured into the hall like smoke from shattered glass. Laughter, clinking wands, the rustle of robes—centuries of sorcery spilled back into the real world. “What have I done?” Sienna gasped. The woman in green smiled. “What you were meant to. These souls were sealed away long ago—powerful, yes, but misunderstood. Cast into art for being too bold, too curious.” More frames emptied: Claire Gristlewald’s Boundless Broomsticks, Speakeasy Secrets and Risky Rituals, Madam Moody’s Ghoulish Menagerie… names whispered in magical history, now walking free. “You may be punished for this,” the woman said, “or you may be praised. It depends who tells the story.” Sienna’s fingers trembled. “Will I… remember any of this?” The woman ran a nail down her cheek. “You will. And when the time comes, you’ll understand. For now, sleep.” The world spun. Blackness fell. --- She awoke in her bed. No alarms. No shouts. The dorm was quiet. Sunlight spilled lazily across her pillow. A dream? Sienna touched her cheek. It tingled. She crept into the hallway, stopping by the green-shawled witch’s painting. It was still. Silent. The nameplate read: “The Peculiar Witches’ Guide: Memorials of Dreams, Hidden Meanings, and Second Chances. Head Witch: Pearle Stagheart. Circa 1548.” The witch didn’t speak. But Sienna could have sworn—just for a heartbeat—she winked. Some secrets weren’t meant to be believed. They were meant to be lived. Sienna stepped back, hand tightening on the satchel slung over her shoulder. Outside, beyond the door, her dragon Percy waited—loyal, silent, watchful. And the next mystery of Goulhearth had already begun calling her name.
By Shah Nawazabout a year ago in Fiction
The Postman Who Wrote Me Back
Chapter 1: A Letter I Never Meant to Send Rain poured down, soaking my bare feet as I stood by the mailbox. The letter in my hand was worn, its edges soft from being folded too many times. I wrote it for Ryan, my husband, who left this world two years ago. It was just for me, a way to ease the ache in my heart. I didn’t plan to send it. The address was simple, almost silly:
By Shakespeare Jrabout a year ago in Fiction
Toast, Towels, & Tights (& Bisoprolol)
Journal Log - SUBJECT M 03/05 07:12 Exited Statham Road terrace carrying standard grocery tote. Fingernail polish chipped (burgundy, left index). Leopard-print scarf worn loosely. No umbrella. Forecast: rain. 05/05 07:46 Kitchen curtains open. Seated at corner table, drinking from glass tumbler. Toast cut diagonal, crusts off. (Just like E) 07/05 08:28 - Garden activity: rosemary clipped with bent scissors. Soil residue on kitchen tile, 3rd from left nr door. 10/05 22:01 - Bathroom light active. Blind raised ~4cm. Subject stood unmoving for extended period in front of mirror. Steam patterns indicated close proximity. Towel pale blue, faded embroidery. 14/05 16:55 - Television audible. Crime series with abrupt tonal shifts. Subject laughed ~27min mark.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Pooh Meets Paddington
When Pooh and Paddington finished up with their new snacks of marmalade and honey, they decided that they needed a walk. Pooh said, "Let me introduce you to some of my friends." Out the door they went. Just a little way down the path they bounce into Tigger. Paddington wondered what's a Tigger. Is he a tiger or something different? Tigger in his usual manner showed him Tigger's bounce not a tiger. "Oh, said Paddington how interesting." Tigger bounced down the path and Paddington and Pooh continued on down the path wondering who will be next that they will see.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Episode 6: What Happens When You Don't Die
I didn’t scream when it bit me. That’s important. Screaming is the beginning of the end. A scream is the part of the ritual where the body decides to surrender. I didn’t. I just looked down at the half-circle of teeth still hooked in my forearm, and I thought: Oh. I guess this is how I find out what kind of story I’m in.
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
Goulhearth's Marvelous Institute of Wizardry and Other Magical Creations. Top Story - July 2025.
Night drew Sienna Rosewood in like a hungry moth to a kindred spirit, with deep azure and cerulean blue flames, just like her own slow-burning fire. The sky dotted above, illuminating her path. The sounds of birds were still, the whisper of crickets chirping off in the distance devoured the quiet air until there was nothing left but her own faint footsteps trudging through the sand as waves crashed against the heavy rocks below. Sienna was worried, she knew she had to get back to the school before the moon struck twelve, just overhead. None of the other witches’ dragons had appeared at their monthly meeting and she was risking losing everything—her housing, her scholarship, her place on the committee—and all for what? An old-wives tale? Some secret superstition about paintings that no one believed? She began to wonder if what she was doing was right, after all, who did she have anything to prove to? Herself? Her Professor? Birdie Mandrake? Sienna was a fellow fourth year, soon to graduate and should’ve known better than to make a bet with Ambrosia Mandrake’s elfin daughter.
By K.H. Obergfollabout a year ago in Fiction
Raining
It started with a single drop. Just one gentle tap on the windowpane, followed by another. I was seated by the old wooden table in my grandmother’s house, the very place where time seemed to move slower, or perhaps stopped altogether. The air was thick with the scent of earth and nostalgia. Outside, the sky was an ashen grey, rumbling softly with distant thunder. Inside, a silence lingered—one that had been waiting patiently to be broken by the arrival of rain.
By Motivate4universeabout a year ago in Fiction
