Short Story
The Last Library Card
The rain tapped gently on the windows of the tiny bookstore where Nora Carter spent most of her days. Tucked away in the quieter end of Charleston, the shop was more of a sanctuary than a business. On slow days, she sorted used books, made tea, and watched the world move without her.
By Sana Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Allergic to Copper
I don't like coppers. I'm allergic. They always put me on edge. But for this, I made an exception. I watched the uniforms from the parked car. The air hummed with anticipation. I'd hoped they would arrive like a SWAT team, bust down the door off the storage unit. That would have been satisfying somehow. Instead, the anorak was there, dipping his head to the pigs and twisting his hands together nervously. Every inch the bewildered citizen, helping the police with their inquiries. Fumbling in his pockets. Fiddling with the key. Go ahead, dork, stall for time. It won't make any difference. It looked like the police reassured him, can you believe that? One patted his arm. One said, sorry about this. They addressed him as Mr. Two of them, there were. In those beastly uniforms. I imagined their faces when they found it. The case. The toe. I waited and waited for the trio to re-emerge, him trusted and poutimg; the uniforms looking fierce. They didn't pin him to the ground yowling or snivelling. They didn't frogmarch him away and accidentally on purpose clout his head as they were getting him in the car. They didn't until years of that yellow tape and leak the whole story to journalists. They didn't cuff him. Didn't even arrest him. Their mouths framed words that looked like, sorry to have bothered you, and thank you for your time. He stammered a bit, acted embarrassed. I use it for storage... bit of a hoarder... More reassuring patting. The wind went right out of my sails. The urge to sprint across there and grab that little turd by the lapels was insane. It bubbled under my skin. I thought I might boil over with it., or go mad from keeping it in. How did he do it? How did he hide it? Did I get it wrong? I'd been so sure.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Last Wish. Content Warning.
This story was narrated on a podcast, if you would like to give it a listen: --- The clouds fade into a dark grey above the foggy village already blackened by its own rain clouds. A somber setting where water drops are replaced with a crimson shower. The shops of commoners and the buildings in the Queen’s name bleed onto the uneven streets, puddles of despair forming in the dips of dirt. The statue of their Founder’s finger drips blood onto the victims of mourning.
By Krystyna Kwiatkowskaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Man Who Sent Me Love Letters From Prison. And Why I Replied
It Began With a Mistake It started with a wrong address. Or maybe fate. One afternoon, I found a letter in my mailbox addressed to “Anna Morales.” That wasn’t me not exactly. My full name is Annabelle M. Ross, and I figured the mix-up had to be with the apartment number. Still, I was curious. The envelope was aged, thick, sealed with a strange kind of tenderness. No return address just a prison stamp and a name: D. Weller #014572.
By Farooq Hashmiabout a year ago in Fiction
The Weight of Wings
A Tale of Freedom and Farewell The desert stretched endless and bronze under the midday sun, its dunes carved by a wind that never rested. At the edge of a crumbling outpost, where rusted satellite dishes tilted like forgotten sentinels, stood Kael, a tinkerer with grease-stained hands and eyes that held too many questions. Beside him, perched on a makeshift stand, was Sable, a mechanical bird he’d built from scraps of old drones and salvaged wire. Its wings gleamed, each feather a sliver of polished metal, catching the light like a promise.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
