Short Story

The Legacy of Home
It was only August, but it already felt like Summer’s end. The heat had broken; maybe it was the thunderstorm of tears I had wept which had tempered the humidity and made the air less oppressive, as if the world were giving me some comfort. My eyes sizzled at the thought, threatening to begin bubbling pools again. I blinked fiercely, urging them silently to settle themselves. They obeyed, this time, and I sighed in relief. I did not want my eyes blurry as I traveled the tree arched mountain pass, her road ways curving up like a sanguine river. It was so peaceful, so familiar, and I cherished the sun sparkling through the emerald leaves and the smell of the sunlight toasting the onion grass as I drove onward towards home.
By Abdullah khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mailbox at the Edge of Time
The Mailbox at the Edge of Time The forest hadn’t changed. That’s what hurt the most. It still breathed with quiet wind and pine-needle silence. It still smelled of damp moss and memory. But now, it held his sorrow like a cathedral—tall, quiet, sacred. And in its hush, Thomas walked, carrying a grief that pressed into his ribs like a stone lodged behind his heart.
By lony banzaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Tree That Remembered
There was a tree at the edge of the village — tall, old, and covered in deep, twisted bark. To most people, it was just a tree. But to Sarfaraz, it was everything.
By The voice of the heartabout a year ago in Fiction
The Seamstress in the Dark
It started with a hum. Not the low mechanical kind from washing machines or old pipes. This was soft. Almost like a lullaby. Sweet and strange, floating just above the edge of hearing. I wouldn’t have noticed it if I hadn’t gone downstairs alone that night. It was a weekend, and I was staying at my aunt’s apartment. She lived in one of those old brick buildings where the laundry room was shoved deep into the basement. That night, close to midnight, I went down to wash some clothes. My aunt had warned me not to go there late. She never gave a reason, just said, “It’s different at night.” I laughed it off. The stairwell leading to the basement was cold and damp. My slippers echoed on each concrete step. By the time I reached the bottom, the hallway lights were flickering and one was already dead. The air felt heavy, and it smelled faintly of mildew and rusted metal. When I pushed open the laundry room door, the darkness inside swallowed me whole. No lights. Just the dim red glow from the exit sign above the door behind me. I used my phone’s flashlight. Rows of old dryers lined the back wall, huge and clunky, some with broken glass windows. Dust floated in the beam of my light, swirling like tiny ash. The machines were off, but that lullaby was still playing. Light and shaky, like an old music box winding down. I followed the sound. It was coming from behind the last row of dryers, in the farthest corner. My feet crunched on loose coins and lint balls as I moved, each step louder than it should be. Then I saw her. At first, she looked like a pile of discarded baby clothes. Pale fabrics, soft blues and pinks, stuffed into a human shape. But then she moved. Her neck twisted with a wet snap, revealing a bonnet where her face should be. A wide, crooked smile stitched across the front. Buttons for eyes. Her body was hollow, but it twitched like something inside was trying to escape. Her arms were made of sleeves, and inside them, I saw long, spinning sewing needles. They clicked and whirred like insect legs. She stared without blinking. The humming grew louder. I couldn’t move. My legs locked. My throat dried up. When she took a step toward me, the needle-arms jerked like puppet strings. With each step, tiny fabric scraps fell from her like dead skin. I turned to run. But before I could take a full step, something yanked the back of my jacket. I felt a sting. Then another. Threads had shot out from her body and hooked into my clothes like fishhooks. One pierced my skin, anchoring me in place. I screamed. She was right behind me now, humming that awful lullaby into my ear. Her breath smelled like mold and burned fabric. I pulled hard, tearing free, leaving bits of my jacket—and skin—behind. I didn’t look back. I ran up the stairs, slammed the basement door shut, and locked it. I never said a word to my aunt. I left the next morning without my laundry, without sleep. But the story didn’t end there. One week later, a boy from the building disappeared. His name was Jordan. Eight years old. He was playing hide and seek with his cousins and ran off. The last place they saw him was near the laundry room door. Search parties came and went. Police questioned everyone. But he was gone. Then someone noticed something strange. Behind the dryers, where that thing had stood, there was a new patch of fabric. A neat, fresh square sewn into the wall of clothes that made up her body. It was red and blue. Spider-Man pajamas. His favorite. Now the humming never stops. It plays at all hours, even in the day. If you listen closely, you can hear voices behind it. Tiny whispers, like children crying. No one goes down there anymore. The building’s laundry piles up. People drive across town to wash their clothes. Some even move away. But I still hear her sometimes. Even when I’m far from the building. That lullaby. Spinning, whispering, promising to stitch me into her forever. I never told anyone what I saw. And I know she’s still waiting. For the next child to play too close to the dark.
By CreepVille Horror Storiesabout a year ago in Fiction
The Forgotten Room at the End of the Hall
I moved into my grandmother’s house after her death, mostly because I had nowhere else to go. A breakup, a dead-end job, and a city that forgot I existed—it all pushed me to that quiet countryside house I hadn’t visited since childhood. The place was old and creaky, filled with the scent of lavender, mothballs, and old secrets. I told myself I’d sell it after a while. Fix it up, let the memories settle.
By Musawir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Art of Creating Fiction That Feels Real
Have you ever read a novel so vivid it felt as if you could step right into its world? Or met a character in a short story who seemed more alive than some people you know in real life? That’s the power of fiction that feels real. Many aspiring writers think great fiction is only about having a wild imagination. But the secret isn’t about dreaming up the most far-fetched plots. It’s about grounding those ideas in details that make your reader believe every word—even if your story is set on another planet or in a time that never existed. Here’s how to craft fiction that captivates from the first sentence and leaves a lasting impact long after the last page is turned. --- 1. Start With a Strong “What If?” All unforgettable fiction begins with a question that sparks curiosity. Think about the novels you love. They probably have a premise that makes you lean in. Examples: What if a young wizard didn’t know he was magical until he turned eleven? What if memories could be bought and sold like commodities? What if a tiny town harbored an ancient secret that could destroy the world? A great “what if” doesn’t have to be complicated. It just needs to create a sense of wonder or tension. Before you start writing, jot down several possibilities. Ask yourself which idea you can’t stop thinking about. That’s usually the one worth exploring. --- 2. Build a World With Rules Even if you’re writing about an imaginary place, your world needs rules. Readers are willing to suspend disbelief—but only if the story follows a logic they can grasp. Ask yourself: What is daily life like here? What do people eat, wear, and fear? What customs or taboos shape their choices? Consistency is everything. If magic exists, decide who can wield it, how it works, and what it costs. If your story is set in the future, consider how technology has changed relationships, politics, or the environment. Remember: Details make the impossible feel probable. --- 3. Create Characters With Conflicting Desires One of the biggest mistakes new fiction writers make is creating characters who feel flat. They might have a goal—but no internal conflicts. But in real life, people are full of contradictions: You can love someone and resent them at the same time. You can crave adventure but fear failure. You can dream of success yet sabotage yourself out of insecurity. Give your characters at least two conflicting desires. This tension drives the story forward and makes readers root for them. Ask: What does this character want more than anything? What are they afraid will happen if they fail? What secret are they hiding? --- 4. Show, Don’t Tell This classic advice never gets old because it works. Instead of telling your reader “John was angry,” show it: John’s jaw tightened. He slammed the car door so hard the window rattled. The more sensory details you use—sights, sounds, textures—the more immersive your story becomes. When readers can picture every scene, they stop feeling like spectators and start experiencing the world through your characters’ eyes. --- 5. Let Your Characters Fail Perfect characters are boring. Readers connect with vulnerability and imperfection. Don’t protect your characters from mistakes. Let them fail, embarrass themselves, and make bad decisions. Failure not only builds empathy but also sets up moments of growth and redemption. This is where your story’s emotional power comes from. --- 6. End With Resonance A good ending doesn’t have to be a happy one—but it should feel earned. Ask yourself: Has the character changed in a meaningful way? Have their choices led to a believable outcome? What question or feeling do I want to leave in the reader’s mind? An unresolved thread can be powerful if it invites reflection rather than frustration. --- Final Thoughts Fiction is a bridge between imagination and truth. When you write stories that feel real, you give readers the gift of seeing themselves—and the world—differently. Remember: You don’t need to be a literary genius to create something beautiful. You just need to be curious, observant, and willing to put your heart on the page. So the next time an idea tugs at your imagination, don’t dismiss it as silly or impossible. Write it down. Give it shape. Let it breathe. Because somewhere out there, a reader is waiting for a story that only you can tell. And when you write fiction that feels alive, you’ll discover that you, too, become more alive in the process.
By Kim Jonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Great Debate
“Come on now, that's absurd!” I yell trying to maintain my composure. Listening to his argument is tickling me to no end. He can’t possibly think the judge is going to agree with him. If he keeps this up, we got this case in the bag. “It’s no more foolish than your opening remarks!” He fires back. He’s a spry young lawyer, new to the scene but not to the art of argument. He’s dressed for death in a three piece suit. We vary in appearance just much as we differ in our beliefs. My tie hangs loosely around the collar of yesterday’s shirt but my argument is solid. Besides appearances mean nothing here and for all his flashy neatly pressed attire his whole argument is garbage.
By Kenneth Boutteabout a year ago in Fiction
"Tonight, My Husband Must Find Me!"
"I'm tired of being single, and tonight, my husband must find me!" Kehinde laughed after saying the sentence. So did Lolia, her friend with whom she had decided that this Saturday night, after much hesitation and deliberation—"Who's going to be there?" "Isn't it too expensive for a house party?" "I don't have what to wear!"—they would go for this party. The FOMO Kehinde knew she would feel if she didn't go, especially after Lolia decided she would, led them to both be applying final touches to their makeup as their Uber indicated it was six minutes away.
By Jide Okonjoabout a year ago in Fiction
Pooh meets Paddington
Pooh and Paddington were sitting at Pooh's table enjoying honey and marmalade with honey tea. Pooh asked him if he was lost and where's he supposed to be. Paddington said he just got off the train to stretch and use the loo, and then the train was gone. I started walking and ended here. Actually, I am headed to London to live. Would you like to stay here just for a little bit, and I can introduce you to a few of my friends and we can all figure a way to get you to London as soon as possible.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Bite Size Pieces
l'm not scared of him. Not really. I know I've got him where I want him. But you know what, I did feel a bit... uneasy when I saw his eyes. Boy was he ever mad! The pigs made to leave and I thought for a sec... What if... you know? What if I've read him all wrong? I'd been so sure. Talked a good talk to the coppers. About how I didn't need to leave, sleep somewhere else. I'll be safe enough, officer. I think. All that. I know he heard me and all. I could practically hear the cogs turning in his brain. He knows he can't kill me. Can't hurt me. Can't slice off my toes. There's a paper trail, see. Authorities love one of them. Anything happens to me, he'll be the first one they look at, I bet. That means I've got insurance. Better still, he's got nothing on me. I mean, he was pretty mad. I got a look at his room. He totalled it. It stank in there. Body odour. Sweat, you know. I'm sure I saw a bottle of piss. He'd hate that. Being reduced that way. No feeling what her might do if he thought he could get away with it. Or if he just lost control. So. I should take some precautions right? I've been keeping notes. Real detailed. Ordered some motion sensors. Soon be won't be able to scratch his arse in bed without me knowing about it. If he sneezes, I'll know when he reaches for a tissue. I like that. I dunno. Maybe because people are complicated. But. You can make them into easy pieces. Bite-sized. They can be a list of habits. Columns of numbers. Properly filed video clips. Audio too. Encoded. Stored chronologically. Password protected. Yes. That's easier than the smell of him. His eyes. So intense. I like knowing I'm to blame for that. But it doesn't make him easier to look at. +
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Pooh meets Paddington
Pooh was on his daily walk through the Hundred Acre Wood when he saw what looked like another bear. He continued on and when he was side by side with this stranger that kind of looked like him, his tummy started to growl when he smelled something sweet when he met up with him. Pooh asked the stranger "Are you lost?" The stranger quietly shook his head. Pooh offered to take him to his house and later to Christopher Robin to help. Pooh wondered what the smell was, and the stranger said, "Marmalade." By the way my name is Paddington.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
My Guardian Angel went on Vacation
Author’s Note I wrote this for my Facebook Group on a Random Sunday — Come join the fun. Black Spyder Publishing on Facebook!
By Dblkroseabout a year ago in Fiction