Short Story

MIDNIGHT MAGIC - ch 24
MIDNIGHT MAGIC – ch 24 Julie (*)(*)(*) “Tony,” Finola began, “just to be clear, I want to review what I’ve learned about you. You’re still bound to tell the truth, but you may elaborate on your answers. Do you understand?”
By Margaret Brennanabout a year ago in Fiction
Lucinda's Diner. Content Warning.
Some things never change, becoming tourniquets of circumstance as they save and strangle. Like a Rockwell painting, freezing a single moment. The thousands of brushstrokes needed are ignored, as are the paint and canvas. All that matters is that frozen instant preserved under glass; a memory living in real time.
By K. G. Starke about a year ago in Fiction
If You Never Leave?. Top Story - April 2025.
Death was reading Wilma’s manuscript as she typed away another project. She didn’t mind them sitting in the armchair by the window of her office; she had long since gotten use to their quiet presence. Anxiety grows tedious with age, especially at one-hundred-and-forty.
By Conor Matthewsabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers Between Pages
In the quiet town of Everbrook, tucked between cobblestone streets and ivy-clad buildings, stood a forgotten little library — Wren’s Library. It smelled of old paper, coffee stains, and memories. Few visited now. The world outside had gotten faster, louder. But inside, the books still breathed, and the past whispered through the cracks in the wooden shelves.
By Muhammad Ibrarabout a year ago in Fiction
Humpty Dumpty . AI-Generated.
Once upon a time, in a sunny kingdom filled with golden fields and sparkling rivers, there lived a cheerful little egg named Humpty Dumpty. Humpty wasn’t just any egg—he wore a bright blue vest, polished his shell every morning until it gleamed, and loved to tell stories to anyone who would listen.
By Taviii🇨🇦♐️about a year ago in Fiction
The Lighthouse Keeper's Secret. AI-Generated.
The Alderton Lighthouse stood sentinel on its rocky promontory, a white stone tower rising defiantly against the endless assault of the North Atlantic. For twenty-seven years, Elijah Blackwood had called this isolated outpost home, maintaining the light that guided ships away from the treacherous Garrow Reefs. At fifty-three, his once dark beard was now streaked with silver, his weathered face telling stories of countless storms weathered and solitary sunrises witnessed.
By Satriya Dwiabout a year ago in Fiction
Under the Same Stars
Every night after work, Mia would climb up the old fire escape to the roof of her apartment building in New York City. She would sit on the ledge, hugging her knees, and look up at the endless stretch of stars. It was her escape from the noise, the loneliness, the ache of missing something — or someone — she hadn’t even met yet.
By Muhammad Ibrarabout a year ago in Fiction
The Dragon Who Loved Dandelions
Once upon a time, in a valley hidden between misty mountains, there lived a dragon named Ember. Unlike other dragons, Ember didn’t care much for hoarding treasure or breathing fire. His scales shimmered a soft green like fresh leaves, and his eyes were the color of early morning sunlight. But what made Ember truly different was his love for dandelions. Every spring, the valley would burst into a golden sea of dandelions. While other dragons soared through thunderstorms and roared from craggy peaks, Ember would lie quietly in the fields, watching the little seeds dance in the breeze. He thought they were the most magical things in the whole wide world — tiny, delicate dreams floating away to find a new home. The other dragons didn’t understand. “Dandelions?” scoffed Braska, the largest dragon with scales as dark as night. “What good are silly weeds? You should be practicing your fire breathing!” Ember only smiled. He tried roaring and breathing fire once, but it always came out as a soft, warm puff. No matter how hard he tried, he wasn’t fierce or fearsome. He was simply... Ember. One day, news spread across the valley: a terrible drought had come to the neighboring kingdom of Willowmere. Without rain, the rivers dried up, the crops wilted, and even the strongest trees drooped in sadness. The humans were desperate for help, but the dragons stayed away. They believed humans feared them — and dragons, proud as they were, didn’t want to be feared even more. But Ember’s heart ached for the people of Willowmere. "I have to do something," he whispered to the dandelions as he watched their seeds twirl through the air. He thought hard. He wasn’t strong like Braska. He couldn’t summon thunderstorms like the old dragons. But he had something else — something the others overlooked. Early the next morning, Ember filled a giant satchel with dandelion seeds. He took flight for the first time in a long time, the cool wind whistling through his wings. When he arrived in Willowmere, the people were too weak even to run from him. Their fields were cracked and dusty, their faces tired and hopeless. Gently, Ember landed in the town square, careful not to crush anything beneath his claws. The villagers stared at him, frozen with fear. Then Ember did something no one expected: he sat down, pulled out the satchel, and began blowing dandelion seeds into the sky. Puff. Puff. Puff. At first, nothing happened. The seeds floated lazily, carried by the dry, heavy air. But as the seeds spread, a soft shimmer began to fall from the sky — a silver mist that danced and curled through the air. Where the mist touched the ground, green shoots began to sprout. Tiny, at first, but growing faster and faster. Flowers, vines, and little streams of water bubbled up from the dry earth. The villagers gasped. It turned out that the dandelions Ember loved so much weren’t ordinary. They carried an ancient magic — a magic that could summon life where there was none. The fields turned green again. Trees straightened their backs, heavy with new fruit. Rivers chuckled and ran through the land once more. The people of Willowmere didn’t fear Ember anymore. They cheered and sang songs about the “Gentle Dragon of the Dandelions.” Children made flower crowns for him. Farmers left out bowls of fresh water and baskets of sweet apples at the edge of the forest as thanks. Ember didn’t ask for treasure or gold. He didn’t want a castle or a crown. All he wanted was to see the dandelions dance again. Word of Ember’s kindness spread across the mountains and valleys. Even the proud dragons who once laughed at him looked at him with new eyes. Braska, thudding down next to Ember one afternoon, cleared his throat awkwardly. “Maybe,” he rumbled, "you could teach me about... dandelions?" Ember grinned, a warm puff of air escaping his snout. From then on, every spring, dragons of all shapes and sizes gathered in the valley to watch the fields of golden dandelions bloom. They no longer saw them as silly weeds but as tiny wishes, floating across the sky, carrying hope to wherever it was needed most. And Ember? He curled up among the flowers, listening to the songs of the wind, knowing he had found his true treasure — not in gold or gems, but in kindness, courage, and the magic of a simple dandelion.
By Little Dream Storiesabout a year ago in Fiction
The whistler of wren hollow
The Miller family moved into the house at the edge of Wren Hollow on a rainy spring morning. It wasn’t much — the roof sagged, the floors creaked, and the woods beyond whispered in a language only trees knew — but it was theirs.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
🎤Ohhhhargghhhh, That Bush is on Fire!
The man crept closer, sandals shuffling in the dirt. Nerves made him tug on his beard. Crackling flames were reflected in his dinner-plate-sized eyes. "Stop gawking," the bush snapped.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
The House Beyond the Fog
Part 1: The Path That Disappears The fog rolled in early that night, thick and silver like spilled mercury across the countryside. Rohan gripped the steering wheel tighter, squinting through the mist. His GPS had died miles back, and now he was relying on half-forgotten directions to find the old village his grandfather used to speak of — Wrenthorpe, a name that already sounded ghostly. He was supposed to meet his friends there for a camping weekend, but so far, he'd seen no sign of them. Just empty fields, long-forgotten stone walls, and now... this. Through the mist, a figure appeared at the side of the road — a woman in a long gray coat, her hair plastered to her face by the damp air. Rohan’s heart jumped. She lifted one hand, pointing down a narrow track that peeled off from the main road. Against better judgment, Rohan slowed to a stop. He rolled down the window just enough to shout through the crack. “Is this the way to Wrenthorpe?” The woman didn’t answer. She simply kept pointing, her hand trembling slightly. "Thanks," Rohan muttered, uneasy. He pulled onto the track, tires crunching over gravel. When he looked back in his mirror — the woman was gone. The track grew narrower, trees crowding closer until their bare branches scraped against his windows. After what felt like an hour but could have been minutes, the path ended at a clearing. In the middle stood a house. It was enormous and old, its wood siding sagging with rot. Windows stared blankly into the night. A single lantern flickered on the porch, though Rohan couldn’t imagine who would still live out here. Maybe it’s a bed and breakfast, he thought hopefully. Maybe this is where we’re all meeting. He stepped out of the car. Immediately, the fog seemed to swallow the vehicle whole. He turned in a slow circle — the track he’d driven down was gone, vanished like it had never existed. Heart hammering, he approached the house. The front door creaked open before he could touch it. --- Part 2: A Voice in the Dark The hallway beyond was dark except for a faint light deeper inside. It smelled of damp wood and something sweet, like rotting fruit. "Hello?" Rohan called, voice cracking slightly. "Anyone here?" No answer. His boots thudded softly against the warped floorboards as he stepped inside. The door groaned shut behind him. Rohan walked toward the light, which seemed to come from a room at the end of the hall. As he passed doorways, he caught glimpses of empty rooms — a parlor full of sheet-covered furniture, a kitchen with a broken table, a staircase whose steps sagged and bent. The light was coming from a small sitting room. Inside, an oil lamp burned on a low table, surrounded by armchairs. In one chair sat a man — or at least something that looked like one. Rohan froze. The figure was slumped, unmoving. Shadows obscured its face. For a long moment, Rohan thought it was a corpse. But then the figure stirred, slowly lifting its head. "Welcome," it rasped. Rohan found his voice. "I think I'm lost. I was looking for Wrenthorpe — is this...?" "You've found it," said the man. His voice was like dead leaves scraping across pavement. "Or what's left of it." The figure shifted forward into the light. His face was ruined — scarred and waxy, his eyes milky white. One side of his mouth twisted into a semblance of a grin. "Not many visitors these days," he said. "Come. Sit." Rohan wanted nothing more than to turn and run, but he found himself stepping forward, lowering himself into a chair. His muscles moved sluggishly, like he was underwater. "What happened here?" Rohan asked, his mouth dry. The man chuckled, a hollow sound. "We opened a door," he said. "And something answered."
By Rohanabout a year ago in Fiction
High Powers
The cold wind swept across the shattered land. Jagged mountains stood like silent guardians around a vast valley of ruins. In the middle of it all, a young traveler named Aren stood still, his cloak flapping in the night breeze. Above him, the sky was alive — a swirl of stars, purple clouds, and a giant glowing ring spinning like a portal to another world.
By Waqar Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction