Short Story

Residue . Content Warning.
When Leona Bray first walked into the abandoned pathology lab beneath St. Jericho Hospital, she swore she heard something breathing.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Love and Other Words
“What’s your favorite word today?” Maya froze, her fingers hovering over the worn spine of a secondhand novel in the old bookstore. She hadn’t heard that voice in almost a decade. Not since the summer they said goodbye.
By Saboor Brohi about a year ago in Fiction
Why “Romantasy” Is the Hottest Book Genre in the USA and UK Right Now
Discover why romance books have become the latest sensation on BookTok and beyond. Read what is making Romantasy such a hot trend across America and Europe, how fantasy romance novels are captivating readers, and why this genre has made headlines across BookTok and beyond.
By Robert Brownabout a year ago in Fiction
Sanctuary
As the dark circled around me, as my blood was swallowed by the drain again One hesitation mark after another— scorching my flesh and soul.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lantern Keeper of Hollowmere. AI-Generated.
In the forgotten folds of the world, where maps curl at the edges and stars seem closer than clouds, there stood the village of Hollowmere. Shrouded by ancient forests and surrounded by glimmering mists, Hollowmere was a place that did not appear on any sensible traveller's itinerary. Its cottages were built from moss-cloaked stones, its wells whispered secrets in forgotten tongues, and every night, as the moon rose, the village glowed with lights that danced like will-o’-the-wisps — blue, green, and violet flames suspended in jars of crystal glass. These were the lanterns of Hollowmere, and they were no ordinary lights. Every lantern held a dream — not one dream, but the last dream of a soul departed. The villagers, quiet and wary folk, had long accepted this enchantment as a fact of their strange world. When someone passed on, a lantern appeared by their windowsill, softly humming, casting their final vision in flickering hues. At the centre of this tradition stood a young woman named Corva, the Lantern Keeper. No one knew how she came to be there. She had arrived one solstice evening as a child, barefoot, mute, clutching a broken lantern with a flame that refused to die. The elders took her in, and as she grew, it became clear that the lanterns answered to her alone. Corva never spoke, but her silence was never empty. Her eyes spoke volumes — of places too bright to be real, of grief that moved like tidewater, of truths left unsaid. Each evening, she would walk the cobbled lanes of Hollowmere with her satchel of silver tools, tending to the lanterns. Some she polished. Some she repaired. Some she whispered to, though none ever heard her voice. The villagers watched from behind curtains, never daring to interfere. Then, one winter's dusk, a stranger arrived. He wore a dark blue cloak stitched with constellations, and his boots left no prints in the snow. He introduced himself as Elior and claimed to be a traveller of dreams. The villagers, ever suspicious of outsiders, said nothing. But Corva watched him closely. Elior, for his part, was fascinated by Hollowmere. He followed Corva silently, asking no questions but observing everything — the way her fingers hovered just so over a cracked lantern, how she lingered by a certain window longer than the others, and how one lantern, a dull black-glass vessel with no light inside, never left her side. Weeks passed. The villagers began to change. They smiled more. Laughed in the streets. Some even claimed to dream again — vivid, waking dreams that pulled them from their beds and into the woods at night, muttering names no one remembered. Corva grew restless. The lanterns flickered. Some burst outright. The mist surrounding Hollowmere thickened and turned a silvery grey. And still, Elior remained. One night, the black lantern opened. There was no sound, only a sigh — as if the earth itself had exhaled a sorrow buried too long. A flame, dark as ink but flickering like starlight, emerged and hovered before Corva’s chest. Elior stepped forward. “You were never meant to bear it alone,” he said softly. And then she spoke — not aloud, but in the minds of every villager, clear and aching: “He should not have returned.” The villagers began to scream. Their lanterns — those beautiful lights of memory and peace — turned crimson. They cracked, spilling shadows that crawled across the cobbles like spilled ink. The dreams once held so delicately had twisted into nightmares: fields of burning sky, eyes without faces, laughter that never ended. Elior smiled. “You kept them too well, Keeper,” he said. “Some dreams are meant to fade.” Corva fell to her knees. The black lantern flared once, then vanished into her chest. When she stood again, her eyes were entirely white, and a fine ring of fire crowned her brow. Elior bowed. “The debt is paid.” And with that, he vanished, leaving behind only a feather that burned to ash before it touched the ground. The next morning, the villagers woke with no memory of Elior. No memory of the crimson lanterns. No memory of the screams. Hollowmere was as it had always been — quiet, strange, serene. But Corva was gone. In her place, at the edge of the village where the forest began, stood a tall black lantern. It never flickered, never sang. And though no one ever approached it, the children would sometimes hear a soft voice from inside, murmuring fragments of dreams that made no sense — yet left behind a sorrow they could not name. And each night, the mists grew just a little closer. --- End.
By Eabout a year ago in Fiction
The Writing on the Firewall. Content Warning.
The first one - three days before - mene mene ~ "I don't give a shit! Get fucking rid of them! Have they all signed NDAs? Make sure they have, and then I want them gone!" Spittle flew. His bathrobe flaps, as if joining in with his rage. Martin snatched at the garment, and fastened it properly at his waist. "Sir, I don't think-" "Don't make me repeat myself," Martin snarled. It wasn't a good snarl, either. A snarl never is, but in this case it was because he isn't the type of man who could pull it off. He's a weedy person, awkward, and something unlikeable about him besides. Even all the work he's had done has failed to make him handsome. It's only given his skin a stretched, shiny, quality. Like a balloon. Apart from anything else, a snarl just looks out of place on his odd, porcelain-looking face. It hardly matters. His main feature, the thing he's really known for, is his obscene wealth, accrued as head of a tech giant company. That's not to say he can't do anger convincingly. Combined with his personal brand of weird, it lacks a rounded, healthy quality, and comes off sinister. Brittle. He blinked at last. "Just get them all out! I'll find out who it was from security footage." The thought, unspoken, but heard loud and clear: and I'll make them pay. "Shall I call the cleaning team, as well?" "Of course you fucking should! I don't want to have to look at that all day do I?" He gestured with one rubbery arm at the mess on the wall. Someone had painted a blue hand with one digit extended. Next to it, in the same colour, the words: your days are NUMBERED Martin seethed. How dare they! He was never hosting a party in his actual home ever again. + Martin wondered whether he should tell the police. This was a brief thought, and squashed fast. He had little more than contempt for law enforcement. Or laws, truth be told. Laws were for other people. Normal people. No, the party just got out of hand, that's all. And okay, it sounded a bit threatening, but it could have been aimed at someone else. In any case, he had security, didn't he? The cleaning crew had done their usual stellar job of cleaning up, except for the one thing he'd wanted scrubbed away more than anything. The words still sniggered at him every time he was anywhere near them. The head of the team looked like he was bracing himself when he broke the news to Martin that the paint simply wouldn't come off without damaging the wall. "Then damage it!" Martin hissed, barely holding his temper. "It'll cause a lot more mess, then you'll have to paint over it anyway," the man explained, braver than most. "It might be better to just paint over it." Some part of Martin wanted to grab the fussy little man by the collar of his overall and wail I just want it gone! but this time, he held it together. Instead he growled "Fine!" The crew left. Martin didn't thank them. He called Stuart. Stuart was a handyman. He was competent and reliable, the sort to suck air in between his teeth to make you think the job was impossible, or expensive, or both. Then he'd get on and get it done.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
The Echo in the Attic
The Echo in the Attic No one had stepped into the attic for thirteen years. It wasn’t that it was locked. It wasn’t haunted either—at least not in the way ghosts wear bedsheets and slam doors. It was just forgotten. Left behind. Like an old photograph with no one left alive to name the faces.
By Saboor Brohi about a year ago in Fiction
"The Magic of Ice Cream: A Scoop Full of Joy, Memories, and Melting Moments"
Introduction: A Little Scoop of Happiness There’s something about ice cream that instantly makes everything better. Maybe it’s the soft swirl on a hot summer day, or the quiet comfort it brings when you’re curled up on the couch, spoon in hand. Maybe it reminds you of your childhood—the sound of the ice cream truck in the distance, racing your siblings to be first in line. Or maybe, it’s just your favorite way to pause and feel good for a minute.
By Naeem Mridhaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Trial
Fredrick stared in horror at the scene that lay before him. The king was sitting atop his throne, his face obscured by shadow. The light of a full moon filtered through the stained-glass windows behind him, illuminating the court in a ghostly white hue.
By Danh Chantachakabout a year ago in Fiction
What A Day
Rising early that morning, Geoffrey showered and shaved, getting soap in his eyes and nicking his face, effectively setting the mood for his day. In the bedroom closet, he could only find a single clean shirt to wear. Reaching for his favorite shoes, he hit his head on the closet shelves when he lifted back up.
By Mother Combsabout a year ago in Fiction
I didn't say that out loud
Riley Turner had always been good at keeping secrets—especially her own. In school, in college, even at work, she maintained a perfect internal filter, a silent gatekeeper that never let anything truly raw or unguarded slip. She smiled when people expected her to. She agreed when she didn’t. She kept her thoughts, doubts, and judgments neatly folded behind her lips. Until the day it happened. It was a Wednesday afternoon. Rain streaked across the windows of the small downtown marketing firm where Riley worked. The office was open-concept, painfully modern, and acoustically deceptive. A whisper could carry across the entire room if timed just right. They were in a brainstorming session—ten people squeezed around a high table, sipping burnt coffee and staring blankly at a whiteboard. Her manager, Derek, was doing what he always did: talking in circles, recycling buzzwords, trying to make his lack of direction sound like visionary thinking. “And we need something disruptive,” he said, waving his hands as if conducting an invisible orchestra. “You know, like... like Uber, but for ads.” Riley rolled her eyes—mentally. “God, you’re so full of shit.” The sentence echoed clearly in her mind, soaked in sarcasm. Except... it didn’t stay in her mind. A beat of silence passed. Then two. Riley noticed everyone at the table was staring at her. Derek had stopped mid-rant, his mouth slightly open. Her stomach dropped. “Did I just say that out loud?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “You… yeah,” said Jenna, the intern, suppressing a nervous laugh. Derek blinked rapidly. “Excuse me?” “I—I didn’t mean that,” Riley stammered, face flushed with heat. “It was a mistake. I was thinking it, not saying it. I—” He held up a hand. “Let’s take five.” Everyone scattered. Riley sat frozen, hands clenched in her lap, shame buzzing like static in her ears. --- That night, she couldn’t sleep. She replayed the moment in her head over and over: her own voice, blunt and brutal, slipping into the air like a bullet. She had always thought things like that. When people lied, when they wasted time, when someone took credit for her work—she had thought them all. But they had never leaked out before. Was her filter broken? --- The next day, Riley walked into the office expecting passive-aggressive emails or a formal meeting with HR. Instead, something else happened. People smiled at her. Jenna handed her coffee and said, “That was the most honest thing I’ve heard in a year.” Even Derek didn’t mention it. He nodded at her, a little tight-lipped, a little cautious—but without the fake charm he usually wore. It was strange. Liberating, even. Still, Riley swore it wouldn’t happen again. But it did. Two days later, in a grocery store line, someone was arguing with the cashier about expired coupons. Riley’s eyes glazed over as she waited. “You’re holding up ten people for fifty cents. Get over yourself.” She blinked. She hadn’t meant to say it, but the man turned and gawked at her. “I’m sorry?” he said. “I… nothing,” Riley muttered. But people around her chuckled, nodding approvingly. And again, it didn’t feel like punishment. It felt like relief. --- Over the next two weeks, something shifted in Riley. Once she accepted that her inner voice had a mind of its own, she stopped resisting. She began choosing honesty. Real honesty. Not cruelty—but truth. When her friend Elise asked if she liked her latest poem, Riley replied, “Honestly? It feels forced. You’re trying too hard to be deep. Just write like yourself.” Elise was stunned. Then, after a few days, she texted: “You were right. I rewrote it. It actually sounds like me now.” When her neighbor asked if she liked his podcast, she said, “It’s mostly just you rambling. You need structure.” He thanked her—and the next week, the podcast had segments and a co-host. It was as if the world had been starving for truth. And now that she had finally started speaking it, people couldn’t get enough. --- But there were limits. It came to a head during her sister’s engagement dinner. Riley’s family had always been traditional, tight-lipped, surface-deep. Her sister Amelia beamed as she held up her hand, showing off a diamond so large it looked rented. Riley raised her glass. And then she said it. “You don’t love him.” The room went still. “What?” Amelia asked, the smile freezing on her face. Riley didn’t mean to continue, but her mouth kept going. “You’re marrying him because he’s safe. Because you’re scared to be alone.” Amelia stood slowly. Her fiancé stared at his plate. “Get out,” she whispered. --- Riley left in silence. She didn’t apologize. Not that night. Not the next day. She didn’t go to the wedding. Not because she wasn’t invited—but because it never happened. Three months later, Amelia showed up at her apartment, mascara smudged, carrying a bag of takeout and a bottle of wine. “You were right,” she said, collapsing onto the couch. “I was just angry that you said it. But you were right.” Riley nodded. “Still… I could’ve waited. Chosen a better time.” “You never would have,” Amelia replied. “We don’t talk about stuff in this family. If you hadn’t said it, I’d be planning a life I didn’t want.” --- Over the following year, Riley learned to shape her truth. Not silence it—but temper it. She began choosing her moments more carefully, not to protect people from the truth, but to protect the truth from being wasted on deaf ears or wrong timing. Her voice had power now. And with power came responsibility. --- One evening, as she walked home from work, she passed a small café with mirrored walls. She caught her reflection. She paused. Her reflection stared back—not whispering, not accusing. Just there. Honest. Whole. “I didn’t say that out loud,” she whispered to the glass, smiling. “I lived it.” --- MORAL OF THE STORY: > Silence can be safe, but truth is liberating. Speaking honestly can break comfort, but it also breaks illusions—and that’s where real growth begins. Still, truth without timing is noise; learn to speak not just your mind, but your heart—with wisdom.
By Muhammad Taimoorabout a year ago in Fiction
Sunday Night Arena. Content Warning.
“A brilliant maneuver by Mr. James dispatches Mr. Marne, once of Kansas. He’s now all alone at Agromarch Castle’s main arsenal.”
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction