Short Story
The Boy Who Traded His Smile
In the small town of Tumbledown, everyone was always rushing. Cars honked, bicycles zipped by, and people hurried through their days with serious faces. But in the middle of all this busy noise lived a boy named Nico who had a smile so bright it was like a little ray of sunshine on a cloudy day.
By YOUNG MINDSETabout a year ago in Fiction
The Magician
“Jesus, Verone, you’re bleeding again!” Her brother sighed in annoyance. Sitting in front of her brother in the grass area, far from the procession, the little girl’s chubby hands pressed flat on her nose, attempting to stop the red river, flowing rapidly down her nostrils. Her eyes looked sadly as her brother stomped away to get tissues, his coffin shoes getting dirty from the mud.
By Khedesia Knight about a year ago in Fiction
The Forest Remembers Everything
The Forest Remembers Everything They said the forest was Cursed Not in the way of witches or monsters, but in the quiet, aching way that places steeped in memory often are. The villagers called it Veldenwood, though none dared enter it after dark. The wind didn’t just rustle the trees there—it spoke. It whispered in the voices of the lost. When Thomas’s daughter died, the world fell into that same kind of silence. Not peaceful. Hollow. The kind that devours every sound and leaves behind only the echo of what once was. Her name was Elia. Seven years old. Bright eyes, even brighter laughter. Taken too soon by a fever that came like a thief in the night. They buried her beneath the old willow near their cottage, her ribbon tied to the low-hanging branches. But Thomas could not sleep. Could not eat. Could not move past the moment her small hand slipped from his. The earth had her body, but his soul remained split—half still searching for her, half afraid to let her go. And that’s when he remembered the stories. They said Veldenwood remembers. Every footstep. Every tear. Every goodbye. The old women whispered that if you walked far enough under its canopy, the forest would whisper back. So, one fog-thick morning, Thomas wrapped himself in his worn coat, tucked Elia’s favorite red ribbon into his pocket, and stepped beyond the crooked wooden fence that marked the village’s edge—and into the trees. --- The deeper he went, the quieter the world became. The birds fell silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. His footsteps softened into the moss as if the forest didn’t want to disturb itself. Then, somewhere past twisted pines and arching oaks, he heard it. “Papa…” It wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t imagination. It was her voice. Clear. Fragile. “Elia?” he whispered, breath catching. No reply. But the trees began to move. Not physically—but their presence shifted. The air grew thick with unseen eyes, heavy with the scent of rain and old sorrow. Bark shimmered faintly with ghost-light. Faces appeared in the moss. Not frightening—familiar. A laughing friend lost to war. His mother humming at the stove. A neighbor who’d passed without a funeral. The forest remembered. Then again: “Papa, I’m here…” He turned sharply and saw it: her ribbon. Tied to a branch. Floating as if caught in a memory’s breath. Thomas followed. --- Veldenwood grew stranger with each step. The trees widened like sentinels. Time bent. Light dimmed. He passed bark carved with names he recognized—some long buried, others still walking village paths. He heard lullabies. Arguments. Laughter. Once, he saw a flickering memory of himself—young, cradling baby Elia in the firelight, humming the same song he used to sing at bedtime. He wept. Not from fear. But because, for the first time since she left, he didn’t feel alone. Then, in a clearing bathed in silver light, he found the Memory Tree. It stood taller than the rest, roots knotted like sleeping serpents. Its trunk shimmered with threads of gold and silver. Its leaves glowed with colors not found in nature—memories woven into green, sorrow into blue, love into a soft golden hue. And beneath it stood Elia. Not in flesh, but not a ghost. A shape of light and wind and warmth. Her eyes met his. She smiled. “I’m not gone, Papa. I’m just… here now.” He stepped forward, every breath trembling. “Can I stay?” She shook her head gently. “Not yet. But you can come back. You can remember.” He reached out, and she met his hand with hers—translucent, warm, vanishing at the edges. A gust of wind stirred. The tree’s bark shifted, and a new mark etched itself into the wood: Elia – Beloved Daughter. Always Here. --- When Thomas returned, the village barely noticed. But something in him had changed. He no longer walked as if something was missing. He smiled at the wind. He laughed quietly in his garden. He tended the old willow tree behind his cottage with special care. And sometimes, on especially still nights, he’d walk to the edge of Veldenwood, bow slightly, and whisper, “Goodnight, Elia.” And far within the forest, if you listened closely, the wind would whisper back: “Goodnight, Papa.” Because the forest had remembered. It always did.
By Hammad younasabout a year ago in Fiction
Caution Hits Before The Wind
Many of us as individuals go throughout life without a care in the world and just let things be as they are. However, this mindset is a dangerous one as it can just as well lead to a good outcome as well as a bad one. This is a story about a young fox named Amber, who's cautious nature became the one thing that saved her when she was besieged by a beast she had no hope of defeating.
By Toby Hewardabout a year ago in Fiction
Della Brought This Upon Herself
Della stared into the mirror, looking for any mishaps, like a lock of hair sticking out unattractively or a part of her dress bunched up against her stomach. But after seemingly minutes of meticulously searching, Della could only see that her French ponytail was perfect. Her dress wasn’t bunched up at all and fit her body perfectly. She only had mascara on, and it accentuated her eyes wonderfully. She looked great and fit for a ball.
By Rebecca Pattonabout a year ago in Fiction
This is Culturally Inappropriate
In a drawing room in Wilmington, Delaware, with lights brought down low, a man the color of cherrywood sat in a chair with his legs crossed. He looked like an aristocrat and a day laborer, if that was at all possible. Another man who looked like a manila envelope, sat adjacent to him. He had the presence of a warden and a shady record company executive. He scribbled in a digital notepad. He wore a black suit with a white shirt with pinstripes and a tie that looked like the keys on a piano. He wore black and white Brogue Oxford shoes. The other man, Mackford, also wore formal attire. A green cardigan sweater, tan shirt and slacks of camel color and a green tie adorned the man. He wore brown patent leather shoes. He sat with his chin slightly canted.
By Skyler Saundersabout a year ago in Fiction
