Short Story

Scalpel, Stat
The siren rises and falls, at exactly the right pitch to set my hairs on end, and pit my teeth against each other. It feels claustrophobic back here, as if the walls of the ambulance are closing in on me. Beads of sweat break out on my face, and I can feel my breath coming quick and ragged.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Sixteenth Summer
I really have no idea what the hell happened. That summer was supposed to be the summer. For the first time ever, I had made friends. Our penny-pinching school had finally sprung for a class-wide trip, the first ever I had been on. Two whole weeks in Disneyworld: nothing but sun, fun, and the hottest girls in my class strutting their stuff in bikinis around the hotel swimming pool. What more could a sixteen-year-old guy ask for?
By Natalie Grayabout a year ago in Fiction
Leaving It Behind
As a teen, you did this once before. You traveled and left it behind, but now, at thirty, it seems somehow different, yet the same. It's the second first time that you feel so distorted. You have changed, but the feelings haven't. But you're going to find out how to do it again. You're going to leave it all behind. The fear and anxiety will not own you this time, right?
By Kristen Barenthalerabout a year ago in Fiction
The Day Humanity Died
Story: It didn’t happen suddenly. No explosions, no alien invasions, no nuclear fallout. The end began in whispers. Not of war… but of disinterest. On the morning of October 14th, 2031, the world still looked normal. People sipped their coffees, scrolled mindlessly, and posted photos of their breakfasts while the real apocalypse simmered beneath the surface—quietly, invisibly. In a small town called Elmoor, population 34,000, something strange was reported. Every child under the age of ten had stopped speaking. Not one. Not two. All. Doctors blamed it on a rare psychological contagion. The media called it “Silent Syndrome.” The first warning. Ignored. Two days later, the elderly began disappearing. No trace. No footprints. Not a body found. Just their empty clothes folded neatly on their beds. It made headlines for six hours—until a celebrity scandal pushed it down. The second warning. Dismissed. A week passed. Farmers across continents reported something bizarre: seeds wouldn’t sprout. The Earth had stopped responding. Soil tested fine. No contamination. But no life emerged. Still, the markets ran. The ads rolled. The influencers danced. The third warning. Mocked. Then came the birds. One by one, species vanished. Crows were the last to go. Their cries were deafening the night before they disappeared—as if they were trying to say something we no longer knew how to hear. Still, humanity refused to pause. Because the Wi-Fi still worked. And the sales were still on. And no one wanted to believe the world was unraveling—because that would mean they’d have to do something. In a flat on the 12th floor of a grey building, lived a man named Idris. A 38-year-old freelance web designer with no attachments. He was what the world called “neutral.” He didn’t hate. Didn’t love. Just existed. He kept his head down, did his work, and avoided anything that asked for emotion or action. When his neighbor, an old woman named Miss Clara, knocked on his door crying that her granddaughter had stopped breathing—not died, just stopped breathing—he turned up his music and waited for her to leave. That night, Idris had a dream. He stood in a city square, alone. The buildings were crumbling. The sky flickered like an old television. And voices whispered, “Where were you?” He woke up sweating. But by morning, he had forgotten. The next global trend was The Fade. People began losing their reflections. First, it was considered an online hoax. Then it happened to news anchors—live. Scientists couldn’t explain it. People without reflections still walked, talked, functioned—but seemed emptier. Hollow. A massive protest broke out in London. Thousands gathered, demanding answers. Demanding truth. By the evening, every protester vanished. Just like the elderly. Governments fell silent. There were no more press conferences. Only static on state channels. And then... the final silence arrived. People began looking at each other like strangers. Not with anger. Not even fear. Just apathy. A mother stared at her crying child and did nothing. A man walked past a collapsed stranger without blinking. A teacher watched her students vanish one by one—and kept writing on the board. Idris noticed it too. The absence of soul. People were still alive. Still breathing. But whatever made them human was… gone. He tried to scream at them. Shake them. He wept in public, hoping someone—anyone—would show some reaction. Nothing. In desperation, he ran to the old bookstore where he once saw Miss Clara buying poetry. She was there, sitting silently, staring at a blank page. “Do you remember?” he asked her. She turned, slowly. Her eyes were dim, her voice like paper. “Remember what?” He didn’t know how to answer. He returned home and turned on his screen. Every channel was blank, except one. A black screen with white letters that read: > “This is not the end of the world. This is the end of its heart.” Beneath that was a date: October 28th. Three days from now. Idris sat in his chair. Thought about everything he didn’t do. The causes he ignored. The people he ghosted. The suffering he scrolled past. All the times he could’ve spoken up—but stayed silent. And in that moment, he realized the horrifying truth: The world didn’t die because of violence. It died because of neglect. Because no one cared enough to save it. Because everyone thought someone else would. October 28th came. At exactly 7:00 PM, the skies turned white. Not bright—white. A hollow silence covered the Earth. Cities stopped. Hearts stopped. But not Idris. He stood on the same square from his dream. He looked up and screamed—not in fear, but in apology. And for a second, the sky pulsed. Just once. A flicker of mercy. Or maybe memory. No one knows if the world ended that day or just rebooted into something else. But one thing’s certain. It wasn’t a meteor. It wasn’t fire. It wasn’t war. It was indifference. That was the day humanity died.
By TrueVocalabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lesser Ones Remember. Content Warning.
When the World Blinked The road hummed like a tuning fork beneath the tyres — constant, familiar, deceptively ordinary. He'd always hated that feeling: ordinariness. A trap. He used to say that if you listen closely, silence isn't empty — it's hiding something.
By TechHermitabout a year ago in Fiction
Who is wearing my skin?. Content Warning.
Who Is Wearing my skin I first noticed it in the mirror. At first, I thought it was exhaustion. The eyes looking back at me were a little too wide. The corners of the mouth curled up slightly, but I wasn’t smiling. Not really. Not from inside. I remember blinking, just to be sure. The reflection didn’t blink back. Monday There’s something terribly wrong with me. I haven’t slept in three days, and my skin feels too tight. Not metaphorically—physically. Like it’s being pulled over something larger. Something that doesn’t quite fit in this frame. When I press my fingers to my face, I feel it underneath—like a second heartbeat. My therapist, Dr. Levens, says it’s a dissociative episode. “A trauma response,” she calls it. “We’ll adjust your meds. Stay grounded.” But she didn’t see the reflection smile again when I turned away. It winked at me. Tuesday The dreams have changed. Now, I watch myself sleep. Not from above, but from across the room. Standing. Breathing. Smiling. I wake up drenched in sweat, fingernail scratches across my arms—like someone clawed me from the inside, trying to escape. When I tried to scream last night, the voice that came out wasn’t mine. It was low. Wet. Like breath through blood. There are bruises around my neck this morning. Finger-shaped. Wednesday The shower won’t get hot enough. I scrub until my skin turns raw, trying to peel something off. I don’t know what. A feeling. A presence. Or maybe something inside me is trying to get out. The reflection has stopped mimicking me entirely. It grins. It tilts its head. Sometimes, it mouths words I can't hear. And once—I swear to God—it walked away. Out of frame. Thursday People are noticing. Mrs. Halberd from next door asked if I’d been on vacation. Said I “looked different. Healthier.” Healthier? My eyes are sunken. I haven’t eaten since Monday. My jaw clicks when I open it now, like something mechanical. Like it’s unhinging. I check the bathroom mirror hourly. The man inside looks more confident. Bolder. His posture perfect, his skin smooth, his smile terrifyingly sure of itself. That isn’t me. That isn’t me. Friday I broke every mirror in the house. But I still see him. In puddles. In windows. In the reflection of a spoon. Staring. Waiting. He looks stronger now. Like he’s thriving while I rot. While I lose sense of time. My fingers shake. I smell copper constantly, like wet pennies in my nose. When I try to scream, I hear laughter in my head. It’s getting louder. Saturday I went to the hospital. I told the ER nurse everything. She nodded too kindly. Said someone would be with me shortly. Asked if I’d like a blanket. I looked down and realized I was already wearing one. But I didn’t remember putting it on. Worse, I didn’t recognize the clothes underneath. I touched my face and felt smoothness. Tightness. Not mine. Not me. Sunday I woke up on the floor of my apartment. Naked. Scratches all over the walls, deep and deliberate. Like claws had raked them. Or teeth. Some gouges had skin flakes inside. There’s blood under my fingernails. I don’t remember anything. Except the dream. In it, I was lying on a long metal table. I couldn’t move. Across from me stood me. Perfect. Composed. Serene. He leaned in and whispered something: > “You’ve worn it long enough. > My turn.” --- I stumbled into the bathroom. There was a full-length shard of mirror left from the destruction earlier this week. I don’t know why I kept it. And there he was. Smiling. Then he opened his mouth— —and I screamed. Because his teeth—my teeth—were too white. Too long. His gums too wide, too red. Like he had been rehearsing the smile. Stretching the skin. I turned away. He didn’t. He just kept watching. Final Entry I don’t know who’s writing this. I don’t remember sitting down. I don’t remember where my hands have been. The skin on my arms is pristine now. No more bruises. No more scratches. It smells like lavender soap. But I haven’t bought soap in weeks. Something’s wrong with the light. It flickers even when nothing’s turned on. There’s a noise coming from the mirror shard. Not a reflection. A sound. A voice. It’s whispering. "Thank you." --- I found something in the trash just now. Wrapped in bedsheets. Still wet. It was a face. My face. The lips sewn shut. END
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Forgotten Door: A Story About Second Chances and Hidden Secrets
Read "The Forgotten Door," a fiction short story about second chances, hidden secrets, and forgiveness. A heartfelt tale of redemption and new beginnings perfect for fans of emotional fiction and mystery stories.
By Robert Brownabout a year ago in Fiction
Silent Intoxication
The tavern was old. Its walls whispered stories of laughter, loss, and longing. Dim lights flickered as men raised their glasses high and drowned their sorrows in wine. The air was thick with smoke, music, and the bittersweet scent of spilled spirits.
By khanabout a year ago in Fiction
After Dark
"Why do you want to kill me?" It shocked him to hear himself speak for the first time since his humanity began to fade. His voice came out as an otherworldly whisper in the quiet derelict mansion. It sounded not quite human, but it was fitting. He hadn't spoken in so long, and he was barely human anymore.
By Cecilia Lovosabout a year ago in Fiction
The Theory of Enough
"You will receive everything you’ve ever wanted, as long as you stop asking why you want it" — Final clause of the User Satisfaction Agreement, Ver. 22.8.1 1. The Upload The first time Elijah saw his SoulScore, it was 83.5. It flickered in the corner of his vision like a subtle watermark — above his grocery list, beside his messages, beside the temperature. All integrated. All connected. He hadn’t applied for SoulQuant, but consent was assumed. Everyone opted in eventually. You didn’t want to be the only one who hadn’t. At 83.5, Elijah was ranked among the “Fulfilled.” People with SoulScores above 80 had priority for things like job upgrades, dating pool access, and even early retirement bids. He had never felt particularly joyful, but the number told him he was. So he believed it. 2. The Calibration Phase His apartment became warmer by 0.3 degrees the day he dipped to 81.2. The system thought he liked it that way. A tailored ad reminded him he hadn’t ordered dinner yet — and also knew he’d been thinking about his mother lately. So it suggested her old meatloaf recipe, rendered by a home-cooked A.I. chef with “emotional familiarity programming.” The score bumped to 82.0. He smiled at the system, said “thank you,” and received a satisfaction confirmation pulse in his neural UI. Everything was working. Everything was fine. Except at night. When the dark wasn’t filled with noise. And he remembered things. Like how silence used to feel. 3. The Theory Itself The government had outsourced fulfillment to SoulQuant years ago. The theory was simple: Enough = (Desire – Disruption) / Access The SoulScore tracked everything: cravings, memory triggers, body chemistry, search patterns, past traumas, even your unspoken thoughts while dreaming. If the system could predict what made you feel satisfied — and give it to you before you knew you needed it — then you’d stop being a threat to yourself. Or society. Violence dropped. Depression rates plummeted. Productivity skyrocketed. But Elijah remembered what the professor had said: “Enough is not a number. It’s a direction. The moment you measure it, it disappears.” 4. The Woman Without a Score She stood on the same train platform every day. No visible lens. No neural UI node. Just a scarf, black boots, and eyes that didn’t flick to the SoulScore hovering above his shoulder. Her name was Mae. She didn’t ask for his number. She asked what he dreamt about. He laughed the first time. No one asked that anymore. It wasn’t relevant. He didn’t remember the answer. But he started writing them down. She didn’t live in a scored building. Didn’t accept deliveries. Didn’t pulse her status on networks. She never said “I'm happy.” But when she smiled — it felt heavier. Real. His SoulScore dropped to 78.4 the day after he kissed her. The system flagged it as a critical deviation. 5. The Correction Two silent men in gray coats arrived at Elijah’s door. They offered him a recalibration cycle: a brief sensory cleanse, a cognitive audit, and a “soft memory wipe” of non-conforming influences. “Standard,” one said. “Most people thank us afterward.” He looked at the offer. He felt the weight of Mae’s hand from last night, still faint on his chest. She had whispered something. “There’s a difference between peace and sedation.” He declined the correction. They smiled, politely. The door shut. His SoulScore blinked 71.6. Two neighbors unfriended him without warning. His rent increased by 12%. The smart glass window stopped auto-tinting. 6. The Decline The lower his SoulScore fell, the more he remembered. He remembered the sensation of longing — the ache that made art possible. He remembered his father’s laugh, not just the 3D recording. He remembered the cold in the mountains, and how beautiful it was because it hurt. He remembered that once, in college, he had wanted to build things that didn't optimize anything. He just wanted them to exist. At 65.1, he lost his job. The company cited "cohesion concerns." At 59.4, his building evicted him for “harmony dissonance.” At 52.0, he stopped seeing Mae. Or rather, she stopped being visible. His neural UI filtered her from his awareness. Unless he removed it. 7. The Final Choice Elijah stood in the mirror with the UI extraction tool shaking in his hand. The embedded lens behind his eye had long since fused with his tissue. Extraction would blind him. Permanently. But then he remembered: Enough is not a destination. It’s the refusal to be domesticated by it. He pressed the scalpel in. Screamed. Blood and light. Darkness. Then silence. And then— Her voice. “Now you can see.” 8. The New Theory He lives on the edges now. In a dead zone. No signals. No optimizations. No score. Some say he’s mad. Some say he’s missing. But others — the ones who meet his eyes and feel the strange warmth of their own unmeasured breath — they know: He found the theory. Not in a formula. Not in a pulse. But in a question. One that cannot be answered by a machine: "What if this moment... is already enough?" Author’s Note We measure everything now: likes, steps, hours slept, hearts broken, dreams ignored. But "enough" was never meant to be counted. If this story unsettled you — good. You’re still unquantifiable. Leave a heart if you still believe in unmeasured moments. Share with someone whose SoulScore you’d love even if it fell to zero.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Letters I Never Sent
I’ve always believed that we say the most honest things when no one is listening. Maybe that’s why I started writing letters I never planned to send. Some were written in anger, some in tears, and some out of love I never had the courage to speak. But the most important letter I ever wrote was to my father—the man I stopped talking to the day he left.
By Izazkhanabout a year ago in Fiction
Testament to the Last Show
Music has always been my drug of choice. The addiction started while listening to old tunes in my dads truck as we drove to town, air drumming the dashboard and belting out lyrics together as if we were on stage in front of a crowd of fans.
By J.C. Rebelabout a year ago in Fiction