Short Story
Dodge Tanner’s Highly Unrecommended Travelogue - #94 Water Lions: A Masterclass in Tactical Regret
The day had started well enough. By which I mean, I had not yet been hunted by an aquatic apex predator. But, as fate (or my terrible decision-making skills) would have it, that peace was not to last.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
Dodge Tanner’s Highly Unrecommended Travelogue - #127: The Worst Salad Ever
With wide, dazzled eyes, Dodge stared at the small pile of glittering gemstones nestled in the heart of the jungle clearing, the map on which he was carefully charting landmarks forgotten in his grasp.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
Dodge vs. the Relentless Tyranny of Gainful Employment
Dodge loved his job. Sometimes. When it didn’t require effort, discomfort, or leaving his house. Teaching was where it was at! And by 'Teaching', Dodge meant letting people read his book and leave him alone. Unfortunately, the Wayfinders' Guild had a very different interpretation of what being a Wayfinder actually meant
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
When I Lost My Love
The wind felt colder that morning—not because of the season, but because of the silence you left behind. When I lost my love, time didn’t stop. That’s the cruel part—it kept moving, mocking me with every tick of the clock, dragging me further from the last time you said my name. We met at a bookstore, of all places. You reached for the same copy of The Little Prince, and our fingers brushed like the universe had planned it all. You smiled and let me take it, but returned a week later to tell me you'd gone back and bought your own copy—just so we’d have something in common. That’s who you were—quietly thoughtful, effortlessly kind. Falling in love with you felt like coming home after being lost in a storm. There was warmth in your voice, light in your eyes, and laughter that made even the worst days seem survivable. You didn’t just become part of my life—you became the reason for it. When the doctor called with the results, I remember squeezing your hand so tightly, hoping that if I held on hard enough, the truth would change. But cancer doesn’t negotiate. It doesn’t care how good a person you are, or how deeply you are loved. It just takes. The months that followed were both too long and too short. You fought with grace, never letting fear steal your smile. I watched you lose your hair, your strength, but never your spirit. Even on the worst days, you still found ways to make me laugh. You made me feel strong, when it was you who needed it most. I didn’t want to believe that goodbye was coming. I convinced myself every breath was another miracle, every sunrise another promise. But love doesn’t stop death—it only softens the landing. And on that final morning, as you lay in our bed with my hand pressed to your heart, I felt the world shift as yours stopped beating. Grief is a thief. It robs you of joy, of appetite, of sleep. It plays cruel tricks—making me think I heard your voice in the next room, or feel your hand in mine at night. I kept reaching for my phone to text you, only to remember there would be no reply. It broke me in ways I never thought a human could break. I wasn’t just mourning your death—I was mourning our future, the children we’d never raise, the trips we’d never take, the arguments we’d never laugh about afterward. People tried to help. They brought food, they shared memories, they told me time heals. But they didn’t see me crying in the shower so no one would hear. They didn’t know that some nights, I slept with your scarf just to pretend you were near. Time didn’t heal. It just made the pain quieter, more private. But somewhere in the silence, something else grew. I started writing letters to you, pouring my heart onto pages you’d never read. I visited the park where we had our first picnic, not to dwell, but to remember. Slowly, your love stopped feeling like a wound and started becoming a part of me again—not as pain, but as presence. You’re still here, in all the best parts of me. When I comfort a friend, when I see beauty in small things, when I hear The Little Prince quoted, I feel you. Loving you changed me. Losing you broke me. But remembering you is what puts me back together, piece by piece. I’ll never stop missing you. But I carry you with me, in everything I do. And somehow, that’s enough to keep going.
By Dr Gabriel about a year ago in Fiction
Energy
Johan reached out for a cheeky squeeze. Not to be confused with a squeaky cheese, by the way. Such as the one Martha had just trodden on, on her way back from Manson's bedroom. This caused a moment of panic, sure that Manson's little voice would pipe up from the nursery, or there would be the dreaded thud of little feet coming after her. Or a thin wail would gust from her 8own room where little Sinclaire was (for now at least) sleeping. Such was her tension and fatigue from putting the darling brat to bed for the nineteenth (or maybe the twentieth) time that evening, Martha was not in the mood. It took all her restraint and self discipline not to slap Johan's hand away. Harsh words were bitten back and caged behind teeth that threatened to break if she clenched them any tighter. Bags slung low under eyes that stared into the middle distance. Her hair frizzed out at the edges. Martha spent half a moment trying to remember if she'd brushed it yesterday... or was it the day before? Ignoring the baby sick on her leggings, the wedge-shaped yellow dog toy forgotten in her hands, Martha allowed the squeeze. She did not throw anything at him. Did not leap out of the window rather than being touched (again) by pawing hands that wanted something. It had been weeks since they'd had sex, and much longer since she'd enjoyed it. The other night had seen a scene unfold just like this, but his touch had been tentative and his tone understanding and supportive when he said, "Are you sure you're not too tired?" She'd rested one of her hands on his, leaned in close, and whispered, "Absolutely bloody knackered, babe." He'd held her for a while, and she'd got an early night. Tonight, he was silent, and less tentative. When he tilted her face to his, she closed her eyes and thought hard about the time, just a few short years ago, when she couldn't keep her hands off him. Couldn't get his clothes off fast enough, couldn't sate her hunger for his body. Remember that? Remember what that felt like? Martha held that feeling in her mind, and tried to super-impose it onto now. This. Tried.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Raymond
Edgar lived by a strict code of live and let live, firmly believing that life would be better for everyone if they minded their own business and not others. He was never nosy and stayed to himself. Because of this, he was the friend of many and being so popular was always invited to all the major shindigs.
By Mother Combsabout a year ago in Fiction
The Meeting
The city was slick with rain — the kind that clings to your coat and blurs the edges of the night. Neon signs bled their colours into puddles, flickering like restless ghosts on wet asphalt. The smell of damp concrete mixed with exhaust fumes, hanging heavy in the air like a warning. I kept my eyes on the road, but my mind tuned into the quiet tension resting heavy in the backseat.
By Bentley Brownabout a year ago in Fiction
