Short Story

Dodge Tanner’s Highly Unrecommended Travelogue - #17: Thunder Deer
Dodge Tanner’s Highly Unrecommended Travelogue Entry #17: A Shocking Encounter I would like to formally renounce all claims that the open plains are safe. In fact, I’d like to propose legislation against calling anywhere without walls "safe."
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
The Final Night
Start his call became Iman. A clean college graduate, he longed for peace far away from the noise of the city. So he went to Madhupur village, to his ancestral home. The village became quiet, surrounded by the aid of using forests. The human beings had been kind, the character soothing—but there has been one location all and sundry avoided: the vintage zamindar mansion.
By Ahmed Mamunabout a year ago in Fiction
The Reinitializer. AI-Generated.
The rain ticked steadily against the lab window—almost like the system’s habitual pre-boot diagnostics. Eliot opened his eyes to a too-quiet world. He stared at the ceiling for several seconds before the crystalline interface at his side flickered on, pulsing with a message he could quote in his sleep:
By NeuralDriftabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Message I Couldn't Unsend"
The Message I Couldn't Unsend It was 2:03 AM in New York City. The kind of hour where regrets echo louder than traffic, and memories feel heavier than sleep. I sat on the edge of my bed, phone in hand, heart pulling me toward a message I wasn’t sure I should send. My last message to her. We hadn’t spoken in four months. Not since that final argument in the rain outside her apartment in Brooklyn. I remember the way her voice cracked when she said, “You don’t fight for me anymore.” I had turned away instead of replying. I didn’t know then how much silence could say. Since then, I replayed that night like a scratched vinyl — same fight, same ending, same emptiness. She moved on, or at least that’s what Instagram told me. I hadn’t. Not even close. That night, insomnia was louder than usual. The streets outside were asleep, but inside me was chaos. Her laughter, her texts that used too many emojis, the way she’d nudge my arm during movies — everything came flooding back. And so, I opened our old thread. The one I never deleted. It was still there — the last message from her: “Please just say something.” And I hadn’t. I stared at the blinking cursor for twenty minutes before I typed: "I never stopped loving you. I just didn’t know how to show it. And I’m sorry I let you walk away thinking I didn’t care." I hovered over “Send.” My thumb trembled. It was a truth I'd buried beneath pride and fear. But sometimes love doesn’t die — it just waits behind locked doors. And maybe, just maybe, she'd still be on the other side. I hit send. Three little dots appeared. My breath caught. She was typing. Then they vanished. Ten seconds. A minute. Two. Nothing. The screen stayed quiet, like the night around me. And in that moment, I realized the truth: not every apology gets a reply, not every wound is meant to heal with words. But I didn't regret it. That message wasn't just for her. It was for the version of me that never spoke up, that let love slip through his fingers while pretending it didn’t hurt. That message was my release. The next morning, I woke up to no reply. Just the blue ticks — proof she saw it, nothing more. Weeks passed. Spring turned to summer. I started going to therapy, picked up journaling, reconnected with old friends. I didn’t send another message. I didn’t need to. Because the last one said everything. Maybe she found peace in those words, or maybe she deleted them right away. I’ll never know. But that’s okay. Sometimes closure isn’t a reply. It’s the courage to speak your heart, even if the world stays silent. And maybe — just maybe — that silence is the answer we were both looking for her. I used to think closure came from conversations — the kind where both people sit across from each other, unraveling every tangled thread. But now I know, sometimes closure is quiet. It’s a message you send without expecting a reply. It’s waking up the next morning knowing you finally said what needed saying — not for them, but for yourself. And in that silence, I found something I hadn’t felt in months: peace. Not the kind someone else gives you — but the kind you earn by being honest, by being brave. I may never know what that message meant to her. But I know what it meant to me: the beginning of letting go "If you liked the story, please leave a like or comment and share your thoughts with us." Thanks for reading
By Dr Gabriel about a year ago in Fiction
Do Not Read This
You saw the instruction, and you ignored it. Why do we never believe what we are told? If we see a sign saying "Wet Paint", we have to touch it to make sure and then complain if it stains our clothes or fingers.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
Beneath the Ashes
The town of Ashbrook had always been a quiet place, where the rhythm of daily life was marked by the steady changing of seasons and the low murmur of community ties. But beneath its calm, beneath the familiar faces and weathered streets, there was a secret buried deep—one that smoldered just beneath the surface like the fading embers of a long-forgotten fire.
By Get Richabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Secret
Tucked away in a narrow cobblestone alley of the old town stood Grayson’s Timepieces, a clock shop that seemed frozen in another century. Its weathered wooden sign swung creakily in the breeze, the faded gold letters barely visible beneath layers of dust and peeling paint. Inside, the air smelled of oil, aged wood, and something faintly metallic — the scent of time itself.
By Get Richabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lighthouse Keeper’s Promise
Perched on the jagged cliffs where the restless ocean relentlessly met the land, the old lighthouse stood as a lone sentinel against time. Its weathered stones bore the scars of countless storms—salt-streaked and wind-battered—but still it rose tall, unwavering. For generations, the lighthouse had been tended by keepers who understood the sacred trust bestowed upon them: to keep the beacon’s flame alive, guiding sailors safely through treacherous waters cloaked in fog and darkness.
By Get Richabout a year ago in Fiction
The Garden of Forgotten Wishes
In the heart of the sleepy town of Everwood, tucked behind a veil of ivy and moss, lay a secret garden unlike any other. It was a place whispered about in hushed tones — the Garden of Forgotten Wishes. People said that if you wandered its winding paths at twilight, you could hear the faint murmurs of wishes lost to time, drifting like petals on the breeze.
By Get Richabout a year ago in Fiction
Echoes Beneath the City
Beneath the clamor of Meridian’s streets, hidden from the eyes of the city above, sprawled a tangled labyrinth of tunnels and forgotten passages. They were veins running deep beneath the urban heart, dark and silent except for the faint drip of water and the occasional scurry of unseen creatures. Few dared to venture here, where shadows pooled like ink, and the air tasted of dust and lost time.
By Get Richabout a year ago in Fiction
The Wall of Folly
Under the vast, indifferent sky, an old lady sat by the roadside, her gnarled hands resting on a weathered cane. Her eyes, clouded with age yet sharp with intuition, were fixed on a towering wall nearby. It was an ancient structure, its bricks weather-beaten and cracked, leaning precariously as if a mere whisper could bring it down. Every time she gazed at it, a strange, insistent feeling welled up in her heart—the wall seemed as if it would collapse at any moment.
By Heydoabout a year ago in Fiction
The Familiar Strangers
I made my way through the gathering crowd of people ready to watch the theatre performance I had bought tickets for months in advance. Navigating the growing crowd, I regretted not arriving sooner.
By Jasmine Aguilarabout a year ago in Fiction