Short Story
Mowing Insane. Honorable Mention in They Shouldn’t Have Come Here Challenge.
Let me tell you, reader, how I got here, in a sterile house of mirrors full of endless halls with endless rooms and locked windows and men in lab coats walking up and down and in and out of these endless halls with endless rooms. I don’t belong here. The others stare like tired zombies out onto the parking lot of Honda Civics and Toyota Corollas. Some of them laugh to themselves even when nothing seemingly funny has happened, or worse, nothing at all.
By Samantha Parry4 months ago in Fiction
Dirt
The dirt was dry: a barren land, purged of all it had once been. Winter had come to an end, but the field was yet to be planted. A farmer, out on a trip to the city, was soon to arrive home. He was a particular man with a particular routine. Many knew this about him.
By choreomanias4 months ago in Fiction
Two Sides of the Same Coin
I remember my childhood in bits and pieces, like framed pictures of specific events that exist independently of all the other memories. There was the time I challenged my brother to a foot race down the steps of the rocky hill on the side of my grandfather’s house. My mother warned us to never run down the hill lest we injure ourselves. But that did not thwart us at all. We waited for her to go to work and proceeded with our plans. What else was there to do in the hot summer sun but run, hide, play, and take in all of the day’s light. There was also the time I climbed the mango tree in my grandfather’s backyard and got stuck. So I snacked on mangoes and hoped the house girl would find me before my grandfather came home. The Haitian sun was always more bearable in the shade of a tree and a cool breeze, and this tree was my favorite. It had the juiciest mangoes, branches that extended every which way, and was so full it shaded almost the entire courtyard. My grandfather, a tall, lanky man with a balding spot at the top of his head that he regularly covered with a gray felt hat; a hat that looked like it had seen as many good and bad days as he had, hated when we climbed his mango tree. He’d complain that we’d shake the fruit right out and that they’d burst and spoil when they fell on the ground. Though he was a man of few words, he spoke with a deep voice; you could not help but stop whatever you were doing and listen. Now, as I watch my daughter play in the grass under the tall oak tree in our yard, I wonder how much she’ll remember. I wondered if this day of swinging in the shade, twirling in the specks of sunlight, and inspecting blades of grass for ladybugs would make it into the archives of her memories. I wondered if I would be part of this memory or if I would fade into the fuzzy details of the day. Nothing of particular significance happened to me on the day that I got stuck in my grandfather’s mango tree. Nothing I remember, at least. It was not the first time I had been stuck in a tree. Climbing was never the issue; it was always the trip down that scared me. And yet, I remember that moment, the juiciness of the mango, how sticky my fingers got, and the look on my grandfather’s face when he found me in the tree. But the thing about memories is that the more you member them, the less reliable they become. My mother, who grew up in that house, does not remember a mango tree. No matter how much I described it. “Not my father’s house,” she would say. “We were never allowed in the courtyard. How would you have gotten to a tree?” She’d ask in wonderment and confusion. I’m sure, if she could, my mother would call me a liar. But, instead, she said, “these memories are not yours, dear,” and waved me off, as all Haitian parents do. As if my memories could somehow belong to someone else. It did not matter. If my memories did not reconcile with hers, it was as though they never were. I remember visiting my grandfather before he passed. I wanted so badly to believe my memories and hold on to that day as it was; I booked a flight and made the one thousand five hundred mile journey back to Haiti to ask him about the day he found me in the mango tree. “My child!” he exclaimed with a smile and a warm embrace. In his arms and the warmth of his body, I felt that it had been too long since our last embrace. “What has an old man done to deserve this visit?” His voice, scent, the breeze, and the faint sounds of life passing just beyond the house gates all reminded me of how much I had missed home. It brought tears to my eyes that surprised us both. “Do not cry,” he quipped “you are here now.” And I remembered how uncomfortable tears made him feel. I never understood how a military man with so much strength and discipline could handle bullets, bombs, and the chaos of the battlefield yet floundered at the sight of tears. It made me smile. We sat in silence for some time on the bench facing the courtyard, enjoying the afternoon breeze and the evening sun. “Do you remember the mango tree, grandpa?” I asked him. “You mean this one right there? That you fell off of after I told you not to climb it?” He responded affectionately while pointing at the tree that cast shade on us. “Yes,” I smiled. I had forgotten that part. Or maybe I had blocked it out of my memory entirely. “Mama said we were never allowed in the courtyard.” “The courtyard? My courtyard?” He interrupted. “Yes. She said,”— “No.” He interrupted again, this time more certain. “Not my daughter. She would not say such a thing,” he continued shaking his head. “She and the boys were always in the yard, climbing my trees and spoiling my mangoes,” he chuckled. “No matter how much I insisted or how many times I punished you, I could not keep you off of it.” “You mean mama, right?” “What?” “You mean you could not keep mama off of it.” “Right,” he replied, almost in a whisper, and looked at me as though it were for the first time. “That’s what I said. Maybe she is confused,” he continued. “Those memories aren’t hers.” I remember we sat in silence afterward. The evening became dusk, and our versions of events filled up the space between us. I wonder if there will come a day when I will dismiss my daughter’s recollection of her life. If this disconnect is a right of passage into motherhood, and if she will quietly accept it as I have.
By M Uzair Khan (UK)4 months ago in Fiction
Dreamwalker Protocol. Content Warning.
As he lay motionless on the leather recliner I had invested in to offer my clients more than the usual comfort, I prepared myself. It was never easy walking through another's dreams, no matter how many decades I had been a practitioner of this so-called dark art. I always had a generous two thumbs, forget the fingers, of 10-year Islay whisky to settle my heart and lungs. Then I could begin. As long as I had my subject at the forefront of my mind, it was straightforward in principle. In practice it was like a bad fucking trip. Having this session monitored and streamed online made it even trickier.
By Paul Stewart4 months ago in Fiction
Blood Between Brotherhoods
The ending of Assassin’s Creed: Forsaken isn’t just about Assassins and Templars anymore. By the end of the story, it becomes something much more painful — a story about a father and son who were never truly able to understand each other until it was too late. Haytham Kenway had spent most of his life believing he was fighting for order. Ever since he was a child, his world had been shaped by violence, betrayal, and manipulation. After losing his father and being raised by the wrong people, he grew into a man who trusted control more than freedom. To him, chaos destroyed lives. Order protected them. Connor, however, believed the opposite. Connor saw what the Templars had done to innocent people, especially to his own village and his people. He believed freedom mattered more than control, even if the world was imperfect. And because of that, father and son slowly became enemies standing on opposite sides of the same war. But deep down, neither of them truly hated the other. Throughout the story, there are moments where Haytham tries to connect with Connor. He fights beside him at times, saves his life once, and even tries to explain that the world is not divided into simple heroes and villains. Connor listens, but he cannot forget the pain caused by the Templars. As the war reaches its end, the final confrontation happens at Fort George. Haytham stands in Connor’s way while Charles Lee escapes. Their fight feels less like two enemies battling and more like two broken people forced into a tragedy neither wanted. Haytham knows Connor has become strong. Connor knows his father is not completely evil. Yet both believe they are right. The fight ends with Connor stabbing Haytham using the Hidden Blade. For a moment, everything becomes quiet. Haytham’s final words carry anger, regret, and sadness all at once. It feels like a father realizing he lost his son long before this battle ever began. After Haytham dies, Connor finds and reads his father’s journal — the very journal that tells the story of Forsaken. And for the first time, Connor truly understands him. He learns about Haytham’s childhood. About the murder of Edward Kenway. About the manipulation by Reginald Birch. About the years of pain and loneliness that shaped the man he became. Connor finally realizes his father was never simply a monster. He was a damaged man trying to create a better world in the only way he knew how. That realization hurts Connor deeply because now understanding comes too late. The man he wanted answers from is already gone. Later, Connor hunts down Charles Lee, the last major enemy left. But even that moment feels empty. There is no satisfaction in revenge anymore. Connor kills him quietly, almost without emotion, as if he already knows revenge cannot repair what has been lost. Then comes the most heartbreaking part of the ending. Connor returns to his village hoping to see his people safe again… only to discover the village abandoned. The new American government forced the natives away from their land despite all the promises of freedom made during the Revolution. Connor watches people being sold as slaves in the streets and finally understands a painful truth: The world did not become better just because the war ended. Freedom existed for some people, but suffering still remained for many others. In the final moments, Connor buries Haytham’s amulet and reflects on everything he lost — his mother, his people, and finally his father. He realizes the world is far more complicated than he once believed. And that is what makes Forsaken unforgettable. It is not really a story about winning. It is a story about loss, misunderstanding, and the tragedy of two people who loved each other but could never stand on the same side.
By M Uzair Khan (UK)4 months ago in Fiction
MY 21ST BIRTHDAY
By: Priscilla Kachipapa Phiri My eyes were locked on the plate of fried chicken I’d ordered. Drumsticks, burning hot, with a bottle of Coke beside me. I was laughing at myself for not asking for mild when a hard slap landed on my right cheek. Before I could look up or speak, another one hit my left.
By Priscilla Kachipapa 4 months ago in Fiction
Moonlit Whispers. AI-Generated.
**Chapter 1: The Whispering Walls** The moon cast its silvery glow over the crumbling mansion, as if trying to awaken the secrets that lay hidden within its ancient stones. Lena stood at the edge of the forest, her eyes fixed on the turrets and towers that seemed to stretch towards the stars like skeletal fingers. She had always been drawn to this place, ever since she stumbled upon it during one of her midnight wanderings.
By Alpha Cortex4 months ago in Fiction
The Crashed Train in the Jungle.
The Crashed Train in the Jungle We were five friends chasing an old rumor during our trip through Central Java. Me (Adi), my cousin Budi, Lina, Reza, and Sara. The story was about a passenger train that derailed and disappeared into the jungle in the 1980s. Locals said it was still there, overgrown and untouched. It sounded like the perfect adventure for our last night before heading back to the city. We hired a local guide who took us deep into the jungle for four hours until he suddenly refused to go further. “That place is not for visitors,” he said, then turned back alone. We laughed at his superstition and kept walking. Then we found it. The train was lying on its side like a dying metal snake, half swallowed by thick vines and trees. The carriages were covered in moss, but the windows were strangely clean. Some doors were still closed. The number on the side read “KA 472” — a train that officially vanished in 1987. “Wow… this is insane,” Reza whispered. The sun was already setting. Instead of turning back, we decided to explore quickly and camp nearby. Big mistake. We entered the first carriage through a broken window. Inside, everything was eerily preserved. Seats were upright. Luggage still sat in the racks. A newspaper dated 1987 lay on a table. The air smelled of old dust and something sweet, like rotting flowers. That’s when we first heard the breathing. Soft, wet breathing coming from multiple directions at once. We told ourselves it was just the jungle wind. But then we saw the first creature. It was sitting in seat 14C, wearing the remains of a faded blue train uniform. Its body was twisted — spine bent at an unnatural angle, arms too long, fingers stretched like they had been pulled. Its head was turned 180 degrees, facing backward. The skin was pale gray and stretched tight. No eyes. Just smooth skin. But it knew we were there. It slowly turned its head toward us with a wet cracking sound. Its mouth opened slightly, showing small, crowded teeth. Then it whispered in perfect Indonesian: “Ticket… please.” We ran to the next carriage. The further we went, the worse it became. Every carriage had more of them. Twisted passengers still sitting in their original seats. Some had broken necks. Some had limbs folded in impossible positions. They all looked like they had been rearranged after the crash — bones reset wrong, bodies forced back into sitting positions. Lina started crying when one of them reached out and gently touched her hair. Its fingers left a wet black smear on her cheek. “You smell like my daughter,” it whispered with a voice that sounded like multiple people speaking at once. We tried to leave, but the jungle had changed. The path we came from was gone. Vines had grown across it in minutes. We were trapped. Night fell fast. The creatures began moving. They didn’t run or chase aggressively. They moved slowly, patiently, crawling over seats and along the ceiling like broken spiders. Their joints made constant soft popping sounds. They seemed to enjoy our fear. The more we panicked, the more active they became. Reza was the first. At around 1 a.m., while we were hiding in the dining car, one creature pressed its face against his. It stayed there for a long time, breathing into his mouth. Reza started shaking violently. When the creature pulled away, Reza’s eyes were completely white. He looked at us with a sad smile and said, “The train is leaving soon. We have to stay in our seats.” Then he walked straight to an empty seat and sat down. His neck snapped backward with a loud crack as he settled in. He never moved again. We couldn’t even scream anymore. Sara lasted until the third night. She kept saying she could hear her mother calling her from another carriage. One of the creatures had learned her mother’s voice perfectly. It kept whispering “Sara… come home” from the darkness. Eventually she broke. She walked toward the voice crying. We heard her scream once, then nothing. When we found her body later, she was sitting neatly in a seat, hands folded on her lap, with a peaceful expression. Her spine was bent exactly like the others. Budi tried to burn the train. He poured our remaining kerosene on the floor of one carriage. The creatures watched him silently from the shadows. When he lit it, the fire burned for only a few seconds before dying out completely, as if the train itself refused to burn. One creature then slowly crawled down from the ceiling and placed its long fingers around Budi’s head. It pressed until we heard his skull crack. He died whispering apologies to his mother. Now only Lina and I remain. We have been here for six nights. The creatures no longer hide. They sit around us, watching. Sometimes they copy our voices and have conversations with each other, pretending to be us. They argue about whose turn it is to die next. Lina is getting weaker. She hasn’t spoken in two days. One of the creatures has been sitting next to her for hours, gently stroking her hair and whispering childhood memories only she would know. Her eyes are starting to turn white. I am typing this on my phone with 6% battery, hidden in the toilet of the last carriage. They know I’m here. I can hear them outside the door, breathing patiently. The train feels different now. Sometimes I feel it moving slightly, as if trying to continue its journey. The creatures seem excited. They keep bringing me food — fruit and rice that appears fresh every morning. They want me strong enough to last longer. If you ever hear about a crashed train in the jungle, do not look for it. The passengers never completed their journey. And they are still collecting tickets. Lina just screamed my name from the next carriage. But it wasn’t her voice. It was mine. They have learned me now. The door is opening.
By Esmat Zafari4 months ago in Fiction
