Short Story
Childhood Love
The sound of laughter filled the air, mingling with the rustling leaves and the occasional chirp of a cricket. Summers in our little neighborhood always seemed magical, as if time slowed down just for us. Among the crowd of children running about, one face stood out to me, even then – her name was Mia. With her unruly curls and a mischievous grin, she was the sun in my otherwise ordinary days. We met when we were six. I had just moved into the neighborhood, clutching my favorite toy truck and feeling small amidst the newness. My parents nudged me toward the group of kids playing hopscotch, but I hesitated. That’s when Mia marched up to me, a trail of confidence in her wake. “Hi, I’m Mia. Want to play?” It was simple, really. No introductions, no pleasantries, just an offer of friendship. Before I knew it, she was pulling me toward her world of chalk-drawn castles and make-believe dragons. She handed me a stick of blue chalk and declared, “You’re the prince today. Save me from the dragon!” From that day on, we were inseparable. Mia and I built forts, shared secrets, and painted the world with our imaginations. She had a knack for finding adventure in the most mundane places. An empty cardboard box wasn’t just trash; it was a spaceship bound for the stars. A rainy day wasn’t gloomy; it was a chance to hunt for worms and pretend we were scientists. As we grew older, the adventures evolved. By the time we were ten, we had a “clubhouse” – an old treehouse in her backyard. We spent hours there, swapping stories and dreaming about the future. Mia wanted to be an artist, her notebooks always filled with colorful sketches. I, on the other hand, aspired to be an inventor, scribbling ideas for contraptions that never quite worked. “One day, you’ll invent something amazing,” she told me, her voice full of certainty. “And I’ll paint it.” Her faith in me was unshakable, and I, in turn, admired her boundless creativity. She was the kind of person who could make you believe in magic. But life, as it often does, had other plans. When we turned thirteen, my family announced that we were moving to a different state. The news hit me like a thunderbolt. I remember sitting on the steps of the treehouse, my chest heavy with the weight of impending goodbyes. “You’re leaving?” Mia’s voice was small, her usual spark dimmed. I nodded, unable to meet her eyes. For a moment, there was silence. Then, without warning, she grabbed my hand and said, “Wait here.” She disappeared into the house and returned minutes later with a shoebox. Inside were trinkets from our adventures: a feather from the “rare bird” we had spotted at the park, a pebble from our “secret” hideout, and a bundle of her drawings. “This is for you,” she said, placing the box in my lap. “So you don’t forget.” “I could never forget you,” I whispered, my voice cracking. The day I moved away, Mia stood on the sidewalk, waving until our car disappeared around the corner. I clutched the shoebox tightly, tears streaming down my face. Years passed, and life marched on. We tried to stay in touch, writing letters at first, but as high school and responsibilities took over, the letters grew infrequent. Eventually, they stopped altogether. I missed her terribly, but I convinced myself it was just part of growing up. It wasn’t until a decade later, during a visit to my old neighborhood, that I saw her again. The treehouse was gone, replaced by a neatly trimmed backyard. I stood there, reminiscing, when a familiar voice called out. “Ryan?” I turned, and there she was. Mia. Her curls were shorter, and her face more mature, but her smile was exactly as I remembered. We stood there, frozen in time, before she ran up and hugged me. Over coffee, we caught up on the years we had missed. She had become an artist, just as she had dreamed, her work displayed in galleries across the state. I shared stories of my inventions, now no longer just sketches in a notebook. It was as if no time had passed, our bond as strong as ever. Before I left, she handed me a small painting. It was a watercolor of a boy and a girl sitting in a treehouse, the sky above them filled with stars. “For old times’ sake,” she said, her eyes twinkling. Childhood love is a rare and precious thing. It’s innocent, untainted by the complexities of the adult world. For Mia and me, it was a foundation, a reminder of who we were and what mattered most. And though life had taken us on different paths, the memories we created would forever be etched in our hearts, like crayon drawings on a weathered piece of paper.
By INFO INSIDER 2 years ago in Fiction
Dr Knives
The lobotomist felt at home in the old, abandoned asylum. The doors that clanged themselves and flickering lights didn't faze him in the least. Nor did the whispers, the random chilly patches, or the feeling of dread that seemed to ooze out of the very walls. Most people, people you might call "normal", were unnerved by the equipment that was reminiscent of torture devices, and sinister brown leather straps. Not the Lobotomist. He had started his illustrious * career in the Brain Wash. A clinic set up to help people remove unwanted or unnecessary memories, and sharpen beloved ones. Nobody considered this to be like lobotomy. It's a word with connotations, isn't it? It inspires revulsion and horrified withdrawal. A little cleaning up of your mind, though, what a handy thing! Humming, he collates and arranges his equipment. He wonders how he will secure his first subject. A runaway might be his best option. He drives to the next town over and cruises around the train station and the bus depot, looking for a likely target. First, he decides, he must be patient and cunning. If he plays his cards right, then in future his victims subjects will come to him, rather than him needing to seek them out. They will come along willingly and unafraid. He will not need to drug or subdue them. On the other hand, if he gets this wrong, then he won't be able to cast his net in these again, or at least, not soon, and not often. Word will get out. The vulnerable will be suspicious, and so will the police. It is for all these reasons that he doesn't give in to his primary inclinations at first. He gives out some hot drinks, tosses coins into cups. A pike shaking hands with minnows. He lures no one away with him this time. He resolves that next time he will simply book a hotel room for an unfortunate who has nowhere to go. When he has a reputation for doing this, he is less likely to be under suspicion if his experiments don't go well. A boy with a long fringe hanging down over his eyes and unusual, mismatched clothes catches his eye. He's a narrow sort of boy, with a long, pale face. The Lobotomist walks closer, almost cursing his decision not to actually pick anyone up tonight. This one would have been perfect. He's shivering, and his teeth are chattering. The ground is already sparkling with frost. He hesitates. It's a little like when you find a bargain in the supermarket, and you're not sure whether it will be in stock next time. All I can do is lay some groundwork and hope. He walks over to the boy, squashing, for now, all predatory thoughts, lest they glint in his eyes and give him away.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
The Price of Yesterday. AI-Generated.
Chapter 1: The Carnival of Lost Souls Sarah Matthews was no stranger to the impossible. As a quantum physicist at Cambridge University, she'd spent her career probing the boundaries of reality, seeking answers in the spaces between moments. Yet nothing in her academic training had prepared her for the sight that greeted her on an otherwise unremarkable Thursday evening.
By Shane D. Spear2 years ago in Fiction
Bite-sized excursions
"I don't understand why you stay when you say you hate it so much." It was a statement that she had asked herself over and over again. She knew the reason. It was because there was nowhere else for her. And she was a coward, scared to set off on her own again, leaving a life behind that she knew, for uncertainty. There were times where she longed for the freedom of difference, a life where she was not measured in terms of who she was with - husband, kids. To start again, afresh! Yes!
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
TCoE: A Widow’s Hunt
A tan man stumbled through the dark forest, his brown gaze vast with fear as he caught sight of multiple glistening pairs of eyes throughout the shadows surrounding him. He panted as he frantically scrambled through the undergrowth, crashing through plants and thorns, ripping open his skin to draw blood from within his veins.
By Mel E. Furnish2 years ago in Fiction
