Short Story

So What Is Theriocentricity?
Introduction This is for Raymond G. Taylor's word definition challenge which you can read about here. So what does it mean?
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
The Call Out
My phone rang, seemingly unending, waiting to be connected. I had 42%. 'Hello, 999. Is the patient breathing?' I heard on the phone, as it was connected to a dispatcher. Her voice was calm, sincere in her care for the emergency, instantly reassuring even though she had no idea what was happening, no idea what could happen, no idea how panicked I was.
By Bree-Amethyst S G-Mabout a year ago in Fiction
You're Dead
The room shrank and fell away at the same time. Gail's pale, worried face was a point of solidity in a hurricane of chintz and sugar tongs and shag pile carpet.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Pastor
To be honest, I don’t even take my own role as a pastor seriously anymore. Although the final dissolution notice from the Holy See hasn't yet reached the parish under my jurisdiction, it’s only a matter of time. And while dozens of people still come to me for confession every week, the age of those confessing clearly tells me it’s a habit formed over many years, with not much genuine sincerity left in it.
By Ellis Xieabout a year ago in Fiction
Deportations and a Pandemic
Imagine that everything you ever believed in all came to a halt – in just one day. A full twenty-four hours, and that was what the outcome of the deportation had caused. Geraldo didn’t see it coming, and neither did any of the other four men who had been carted away by angry ICE agents who didn’t seem to care whether they scraped them up all along their arms as they drug them toward their detention van. Totaling five, Geraldo still hadn’t gotten any clear answers as to why they’d been detained.
By Sai Marie Johnsonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Baroque Mirror: What Classical Art Tells Us About Today
The morning sun poured through the tall windows of the art gallery, casting golden streaks across the polished wood floor. Lena stood before a massive Baroque painting, her sketchbook tucked under her arm, her eyes tracing the swirling drama of Caravaggio’s The Calling of St. Matthew. At 28, she was an art history graduate student, part-time curator, and full-time searcher for meaning in a world that felt increasingly fractured. Today, in this quiet Chicago gallery, the painting was more than a masterpiece—it was a mirror, reflecting truths about her life and the chaos of the present.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Baby and the Pen: My Journey to Feeling Like a Real Writer
The morning light filtered through the kitchen window, casting a soft glow on the chaos of breakfast dishes and a half-empty bottle of formula. Sophie sat at the table, her laptop open, a blank document staring back at her. Her six-month-old daughter, Lily, gurgled in the highchair, smearing mashed banana across her tray. At 34, Sophie was a writer—or she had been, before motherhood reshaped her days and her identity. The pen, once her lifeline, now felt like a stranger, and the words that used to flow were buried under diapers and doubt. But today, something was stirring, a quiet rebellion against the silence that had settled in her chest.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
To the Edge and Back Again: A Drive Through Darkness
The rain came down in sheets, blurring the world beyond the windshield. Ethan gripped the steering wheel of his old Toyota, the wipers struggling to keep up. It was just past midnight, and the highway stretched ahead, a slick ribbon of asphalt cutting through the Oregon wilderness. At 27, Ethan was a delivery driver, working nights to pay off student loans for a degree he wasn’t using. His life felt like this road—endless, directionless, and shrouded in a storm he couldn’t outrun. Tonight, though, the darkness would teach him something about survival, something he’d carry long after the rain stopped.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
Fear, Alone: The Quiet Words That Haunt Us
The morning was soft, the kind of dawn that draped the world in a hush, as if the sun itself was hesitant to rise. Clara sat on the edge of her bed, her bare feet grazing the cold hardwood floor. Her apartment was small, a one-bedroom in a quiet corner of Portland, where the walls were thin enough to hear her neighbor’s coffee maker hiss each morning. At 29, Clara was a poet, or at least she had been, before the words stopped coming. Now, she was a barista, a listener, a keeper of secrets—her own and others’. The quiet words, fear and alone, lived in her chest, heavy as stones, whispering truths she wasn’t ready to face.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
Growth. Content Warning.
“So what brings you in today?” asked the doctor. “Well, the other day, while I was checking myself, I felt this lump in my right breast, and, well, I’d like to just get it looked at, checked out, y’know, make sure everything’s alright.”
By Selene Talbotabout a year ago in Fiction
Midnight Whispers
They say not to knock on the witch’s door past midnight—unless you’re prepared to give something up. In the quiet village of Bellwick, nestled between wilted forests and forgotten hills, everyone knew of the witch named Circe. She wore velvet like royalty and lilac like dusk. Her cats, Mischief and Moonpaw, were the kind that stared too long and blinked too little. They say her eyes changed color depending on what you were hiding—and her lips curled when someone told a lie.
By Tsume's talesabout a year ago in Fiction
Fell Upon Creased Palms
“ You may have mastered something . You’ve learned to sculpt the perfect face for the world’s adoration. It broke sweety. A while ago actually .” Almon says as he paces carefully back and forth in Navien’s view. He throws a bucket of stinging ice water on Navien’s sleeping face. The sting where your head is held still by a numbing ache. Navien gains consciousness startled and uneasy with frantic anxiety. He was never seen so out of character which intrigues Almon merely enough to pause and observe his new mannerisms. Minutes of silence and disappointment disconnect the two.
By Brandi blue about a year ago in Fiction