Short Story
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
The Fall. Content Warning.
Life has a way of abruptly going from bad to worse without warning. One minute you’re humming along at a steady baseline, having reached some sort of equilibrium of misery and ennui. Then the bottom falls out. The unexpected knock on your door at four in the morning. The headlights in the oncoming lane suddenly veering into yours. Or the pit you didn’t see ahead of you while you were running through the dark.
By Selene Talbotabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Ember
Prologue The wind howled through the desolate streets, carrying with it the scent of rain and forgotten dreams. In the heart of the city, where neon lights flickered like dying stars, a lone figure stood beneath a flickering streetlamp, clutching a worn journal. This was the beginning of his initiation—not into a secret society, but into the truths that lay hidden within himself.
By Vincent Otiriabout a year ago in Fiction
The Widow
The cab journey takes a long time. A younger me would have sat there with my guts twisting, thinking of that meter ticking. All those pennies trickling away. I'll say this for being the wrong side of forty: you really do give fewer shits. Sometimes, something needs doing, and thats all there is to it. The driver pulls over, I pay up and get out. It's a nice, tidy house in the suburbs. Big, neat garden. Some enormous dog woofing inside. I ghost up the path and knock. The woman who answers the door looks like grieving widows everywhere. People say everyone grieves differently. Well, they're full of shit. I've seen enough grief in my time. I've taken my turn informing the next of kin. Death devestates you. She lifts her chin and says, "Can I help you?" I almost put my flat, leaking size nines init right then. I nearly open with, "Mickey said..." He told me not to do that. I take off my hat, and try again. "I'm Mickey's old partner." I say by way of introduction. "Oh!" Something in her face clears, like understanding is settling on it. "I heard about your sad news," I say. "I'm sorry for your loss." The platitude doesn't taste any better this time. Tears are threatening to spill from her eyes, and I feel indecent looking at them. I distract her with the obligation to be hospitable. "May I come in?" "Oh, of course," she says, and moves aside. She leads me through to a comfortable, if dated, sitting room, and offers me tea. I accept gravely, having slipped into dealing with next of kin mode. Old training has taken over. The dog is still barking. It's even bigger than I expected. It looks like a German Shepherd, if a German Shepherd was crossed with a wolf and a bear. It's boring in this dull, chintzy room by myself, with that damn dog staring at me. My feet squelch on the thick carpet. Maybe I should have taken my shoes off in the hallway? Yesterday's socks, soaked in rainwater. Sure that'd smell delightful. When she comes back with a tray, it rattles, belying her composure. "You knew my Michael on the force, then?" She puts it down on the table. "Yes. He spoke fondly of you." Why did I say that? Grief is a yawing chasm for morons to throw pebbles into. Until he showed up in my decrepit office late last night, we hadn't spoken in years. He'd hardly said a word about her when I saw him this morning. She's busy doing something or other with sugar tongs. The dog has stopped barking, finally, and now he's pacing to and fro, still staring at me, huge ears pricked forward. She hands me a slice of cake, and I'm grateful. Not only because it's my breakfast, but also because this gives me something to get my teeth into while I think of a way to tactfully bring up the case I want her to want me to investigate. I'm cursing my old partner for giving me so little information. Who has been murdered? Is it the same person she's grieving for? In the end, I blurt it out, just like that. Look. I said I'd done my time and received some training. That doesn't mean I was any good at it. The widow goes pale. "I thought you said you knew Michael, " She's gone dead pale, and her voice shakes. "I do. I mean. I did. A long time ago. I heard you'd experienced a loss, and I wanted to help." Are all old coppers lying bastards like me? She pulls out a hanky and dabs at her tears. Seems she feels as awkward displaying them as I feel seeing them. "It's Michael," she says, openly crying now. "It's Michael that's d... di..." I feel the blood drain from my face. "Oh f... God, I'm so sorry,"
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Dodge Tanner and the Great Blink Mink Accords
Dodge knew the moment he stepped onto his porch. The minks had been here. It wasn’t just instinct—it was experience. His cabin, snugly nestled in his private clearing by the glimmering waters of Lake Hearth, was meant to be his peaceful retreat. Instead, it had become the epicenter of an escalating war of catastrophic proportions. The site of a never-ending battle of wits against a foe more clever and cunning than any of his illustrious career.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
