Short Story
Selections from the Grand Bazaar
Missy was ecstatic. She finally had enough cash to get her hair trimmed and maybe even enhanced with some synthhair product if she could sweet-talk the stylist. She’d worked fifteen-hour days at the Buzzway coffee shop for a month straight to afford it, and it was finally time to get her style where she wanted it to be.
By R.R. Stephenson2 years ago in Fiction
"A People Person"
Ira was one of my favourite students. Do you know, I remember her first shift? She was under my supervision. A woman had come in via ambulance. Gail, her name was. She'd been planning to give birth at home, but everything had gone on too long, and she was exhausted. After I'd introduced us to Gail, Ira stepped up to the bedside and took her hand.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
Cupid's Day Off.
‘Ugh!’ I grunted. ‘Another request. Does it ever end?’ My email pinged, letting me know that another mortal had made a wish. I already knew what it would contain – the emotional outpouring of some sad soul desperate for love. How finding ‘the one’ would make life complete...The gods gave me the role of matchmaker for their own amusement, not caring how draining it would be, and certainly not caring how stupid I felt wearing these baby-sized wings, and carrying that stupid child’s bow and arrow set! They found it funny. I found it degrading.
By Deborah Robinson2 years ago in Fiction
Selections from the Grand Bazaar
“Now, don’t talk when we meet these guys. If you get flatlined out here, no way I’m sticking around to clean up the bits.” Chuck said it with such nonchalance that Blanco almost had to stop himself from asking if he was serious.
By R.R. Stephenson2 years ago in Fiction
The Last Letter
The ancient oak tree stood firm at the meadow's edge, its branches reaching out like the hands of an old friend. Eleanor sat in its shade, shaking a yellowed envelope. The handwriting was unmistakable—stylish, unique, and clear. Fifty years. That’s how long it had been since James walked out one crisp autumn morning, promising to return but never did.
By Mirza Afzal Baig2 years ago in Fiction
The Old Man and the Golden Fortune
The ocean had been Albert's friend since childhood. A salty old fisherman, he had spent more than sixty years out on the waves, surviving off the ocean's mercurial largesse. Now, seventy-five years young, his aged hands still grasped the oars with conviction, and his heart seethed with a final quest. Albert had been hearing rumors about a lost shipwreck, a story the sailors told who said it contained gold before the vessel disappeared in the turbulent darkness. The rumor intrigued him, and while everyone else wrote it off as folklore, Albert held out hope otherwise. He didn't have much to lose—he'd lost his family, and his fishing boat kept him treading water only. If there was even the slightest chance in the legend being true, he had to pursue it. One day, early before dawn, Albert embarked alone. The horizon was smeared with pink and golden colors, but his thoughts were on the depths of the sea. He had read maps and archival documents, piecing together where the ship might have been when it sank. It would be a test of endurance, but he had battled the sea all his life. He could do it again. For days, he fought the waves, his aged boat groaning under the pressures of the open sea. There was little food, and the sun pounded relentlessly. At night, he spoke to the stars, pleading with them for direction. When a storm broke out on the fourth day, Albert's boat was hurled about like a toy in the raging sea. His gear washed overboard and he clung to the mast by sheer will, the thunder booming above. By the time the tempest had passed, Albert was spent, his body battered and bruised. His boat was way off course. He thought of going back, but something within him told him that he was close. He got out one final rally of strength and pressed on. On the seventh day, his patience was rewarded. Through the fog, he saw the ghostly outline of a shipwreck, its mast rising from the sea like a bony finger. His heart raced with excitement. Could this be it? Reaching the ship was not easy. The waves were powerful, and the wreckage was not stable. He secured a rope around his waist and plunged into the water, fighting the current. The ship had run aground on a sandbank, the lower decks submerged in the ocean. Panting for air, Albert crawled onto the wreckage of the deck, his hands splintered by the rough wood. He thought frantically, splintering open decayed crates and corroded chests. They contained little more than destroyed equipment. Despair crept in, but he suppressed it. Then, in a secret space beneath an unscrewed plank, he glimpsed it—a glint of gold. His heart stopped. Burrowing deeper, he found piles of gold coins and trinkets, their brightness unmarred by the years. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He'd done it. All the effort, all the suffering, all the isolation—it had all been worth it. But there was a new problem: how would he retrieve the gold to his boat? With the last bit of strength left in him, Albert came up with a homemade pulley system using ropes from the wreckage. He pulled in the treasure piece by piece on his boat, one at a time. It took him hours, and he was exhausted. But he never gave up, never letting the sea claim his triumph. As he sailed back home, he felt a profound sense of satisfaction. This voyage had strained every shred of his will, yet he had held out. He had shown that age mattered not, that will power could even conquer the bleakest of chances. When finally he arrived at the shore, he was no longer merely a fisherman—but a legend. The village was amazed at his wealth, but what they admired the most was not gold—it was the indomitable spirit of the old man who had been willing to pursue his fantasies up until death.
By Sikandar prasad2 years ago in Fiction
