Short Story
Prewash. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
I found the blood in the sink again. Not fresh—never fresh. Thick, dark, clotted like guilt under fingernails. It didn’t alarm me this time. I just nudged the sponge aside and turned on the hot water. It’s easier when the steam blurs the reflection.
By Jesse L Shelleyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Gift. Content Warning.
Followed my nose to it in a nest of socks at the bottom. It smelled. Not strong. Not bad. Not really. Just metallic and salty. Guess it's the smell you smell when rot hasn’t happened. Yet. The toe was male. Big. Blunt. Nail trimmed short, but not carefully. The other cut was jagged as well. Not surgical. Panic? Manic? I pocketed it. Sat on the bus, rolling it between my fingers. When I got back, he was out. Somewhere. I double bagged my little treat, and tucked it at the back of my freezer drawer. Behind the peas. In my room, I sniff my fingers. The way he probably does after a date.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
The Quiet Theft
It started, as these things always do, with a perfect mistake. He found her through a friend’s story — not tagged, just visible in the background. A flash of her face, caught mid-laugh, her hands covering her mouth like she was trying to keep something beautiful from escaping. She wore a threadbare sweatshirt and no jewelry, and something about her made him sit up straighter.
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
Wellness Check
Michael decided it was the right time to visit. “Mr. Richards?” He knocked on the screen door and waited. This was not a bad sign. Michael had known Mr. Richards since he was a young boy and they first moved next door to the very old home that reminded him of something from a monster movie. As they were unpacking, he noticed the man sitting on his front porch, happily rocking away in his chair with a drink in his hand and sunglasses on to block out the light of that very bright afternoon. He had waved at the family and they all smiled and waved back. Michael wondered about his life from that moment on and would find out what he could.
By Kendall Defoe about a year ago in Fiction
Tethered by Fate
Chapter 1: The Stranger in the Rain The rain came down in a soft whisper, tracing silver trails on the windowpane of Aira’s tiny apartment in Montmartre, Paris. She sipped on lukewarm coffee, staring out blankly, her mind wrapped in fog heavier than the clouds outside. It had been six years since she’d lost both her parents in a car crash, and since then, her world had existed in shades of grey.
By Arched In Proseabout a year ago in Fiction
Salvator Mundi: The Lost Leonardo That Shook the Art World
In the shadowy corridors of art history, few paintings have stirred as much controversy, wonder, and intrigue as Salvator Mundi. Latin for “Savior of the World,” this Renaissance masterpiece—purportedly by Leonardo da Vinci—emerged from centuries of obscurity to shatter records and ignite fierce debate across the art world. Its journey is not just one of paint and canvas, but of mystery, power, and the ever-shifting nature of truth itself.
By Aria Writesabout a year ago in Fiction
The Ice Cream Fairy
The air conditioner droned incessantly in the window, filling the apartment with a constant, grating hum. Although it gave a medal-worthy effort, the cool air it produced was immediately swallowed by the sticky, hot, stagnant atmosphere. Natasha debated whether or not to just turn it off entirely; the temperature seemed no different either way, and at the very least it would give her peace at last.
By Natalie Grayabout a year ago in Fiction
The Echoes of Elmwood Diner. AI-Generated.
They say that home isn't a place, but a feeling. For me, that feeling always had a faint scent of stale coffee and sizzling bacon, echoing from the booths of Elmwood Diner. It wasn't just where I started my mornings; it's where my life, in many ways, truly began.
By L.M. Everhartabout a year ago in Fiction
Her Truth, My Lies
The Notebook of Kind Lies The first time I lied to my grandmother, I cried in the bathroom afterward. It felt like dropping a heavy stone into a deep, still pond. The ripples haven’t stopped yet. Her name was Eleanor. She smelled like peppermints and lavender soap. She taught me how to plant tomatoes and cheat at card games. She was the warmest person I knew. Then, slowly, like sand slipping through fingers, she began to forget. It started small. Forgetting where she put her glasses. Calling me by my mother’s name. Then came bigger things. She forgot her address. She forgot what year it was. She forgot that Grandpa Joe had passed away five years before. That’s when the lies began. We called it “redirecting.” A nicer word for lying. “Grandma,” I’d say gently, holding her shaking hands after she asked for Joe for the tenth time that morning, “he’s gone fishing up at Silver Lake. Remember? He’ll be back next week. He told you not to worry.” Her worried face would soften. “Oh, yes. Silver Lake. He loves it there.” Relief. A small kindness. But the lie burned my throat. Then, I found the notebook. It was tucked beneath a stack of yellowed quilts in her old cedar chest. A simple spiral notebook, the kind kids use for school. On the cover, in her once-beautiful, flowing script: *Things I Must Remember*. My heart cracked a little. Inside, it was worse. The entries weren’t lists of birthdays or recipes. They were desperate attempts to anchor herself in a world that kept changing shape. Dates were jumbled. Words were scribbled out. Sentences trailed off. But the fear was clear. *Page 12: “The man in the blue suit came again today. He says he’s my son. He looks kind. But my son is little. He has red hair and builds forts in the living room. Where is my little boy? Did I lose him?”* *(My father, her son, has grey hair now).* *Page 34: “Why is the sky different? It feels lower. Did they move the mountains? I told Martha but she just patted my hand. Martha is my sister. She lives in Ohio. Or did she move? I think she’s mad at me.”* *(Aunt Martha died fifteen years ago).* *Page 57: “The pretty girl visits. She calls me Grandma. She brings cookies. Peanut butter. My favorite? I think so. She looks sad sometimes. Did I hurt her? I hope not. I don’t remember hurting anyone. But maybe I did.”* *(That was me. Bringing peanut butter cookies. Her favorite).* Reading it felt like trespassing. Like reading someone’s diary during a thunderstorm. Each page was a glimpse into her crumbling world – a world where mountains moved, loved ones changed faces, and she lived with the constant, quiet terror of having done something wrong, of being lost, of *being* wrong. The notebook changed things. It wasn’t just about redirecting anymore. It was about stepping into *her* world. About speaking her language. The notebook showed me the landmarks in her shifting landscape. When she pointed at the window and whispered, “The little birds are back! They sing the song about the daffodils!” I didn’t correct her. (It was December. Snow fell silently outside). Instead, I sat beside her. “They do! It’s such a pretty song, isn’t it? Your favorite.” Her smile was pure sunshine. “Yes. My favorite.” When she fretted about missing her train to Cincinnati to see her mother, I didn’t remind her the train station closed decades ago, or that her mother passed away when I was a baby. I checked my watch. “Plenty of time, Grandma. Your train isn’t until after lunch. Let’s have some tea first.” The panic in her eyes faded. “Tea sounds lovely, dear. With honey?” The lies weren’t malicious. They were bridges. Made from scraps of her own vanishing memories, built carefully over the chasms of confusion her mind couldn’t cross. They weren’t about hiding the truth *from* her. They were about protecting the truth *inside* her – the truth of feeling safe, loved, and unafraid. The biggest lie came near the end. She was very frail. Sitting by the window, tracing patterns on the foggy glass. Her voice was a dry leaf rustling. “Was I… was I a good mother?” Memories flooded me. Her patience when I spilled paint on her new rug. Her fierce hugs when I scraped my knee. The way she sang off-key lullabies. The time she walked three miles in the rain because I forgot my lunchbox. But also… the sharp words when she was tired. The forgotten school play. The promises sometimes broken by grown-up worries. The truth was messy. Human. I took her papery hand. Looked into her cloudy, anxious eyes. Saw the little girl lost in the shifting mountains of her own mind, afraid she hadn’t been good enough. “Oh, Grandma,” I said, my voice thick, squeezing her hand gently. “You were the *best* mother. Truly. Kind. Patient. So loving. Everyone says so.” It wasn't the whole truth. But it was the truth she needed to hear. The only truth that mattered in that moment, in *her* world. A tear slipped down her wrinkled cheek. Not of sadness, but relief. A deep, shuddering sigh escaped her. “Oh, good. I’m so glad. I worried… sometimes.” She closed her eyes, a small, peaceful smile touching her lips. “I just wanted… to be good.” She fell asleep like that, holding my hand. I cried then. Not for the lies, but for the fierce, imperfect love they protected. For the mother she remembered being, and the grandmother she truly was. The notebook sits on my shelf now, next to a little jar of dried lavender. I don’t see it as a record of loss anymore. It’s a map. A map of a beautiful, bewildering country she traveled through, a place where mountains moved and little birds sang in the snow. My lies weren't a betrayal. They were my compass, helping me navigate *her* world. They were the language I learned to speak so she wouldn’t feel alone. Sometimes, the kindest truth isn't the fact. It's the love you wrap it in. It’s speaking the words that bring peace, not pain. It’s building a bridge, however fragile, back to the light in their eyes. Even if the only light left is the one your love reflects back at them. Especially then. Grandma forgot so much. But in her final days, she remembered she was loved. And maybe, just maybe, that was the only memory strong enough to outlast all the rest. That was the truth worth bending the world for.
By Yasar Nawazabout a year ago in Fiction
