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Episode 8: Paper Dog Tags
So everyone was already gone when Unit Twelve reached the supermarket. The roof had caved in. The shelves were burned. The cold cases hummed with nothing. The only sound was the clink of broken jars rolling gently under Marla’s boots. Once upon a time this place sold ice cream and aspirin and checkout-line horoscopes. Now it sold death in six aisles and a parking lot full of empty shoes.
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
The Never-Ending Midnight
The morning sun cast long shadows across Anchor's End's cobblestone streets as Finn Mercer leaned against the weathered brick wall of Gulliver's General Store, his dark eyes scanning the small crowd gathered around Mrs. Henderson's produce stand. At seventeen, he possessed the kind of easy charm that made people forget to count their change and the quick wit that turned every conversation into an opportunity. His unruly brown hair caught the coastal breeze, and his crooked smile suggested he knew something you didn't—which, more often than not, he did.
By Shane D. Spearabout a year ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Fell in Love with Silence
The world knew Elena Grey’s voice. It was velvet and fire, filling stadiums, breaking hearts, topping charts. Her songs were love letters to millions. Until one day, her voice vanished. A rare condition stole it—silence swallowed her whole. No farewell tour. No final note. Just gone.
By Shakespeare Jrabout a year ago in Fiction
The Taxi Only Comes at Midnight
I first noticed it two weeks after moving into Apartment 7B. Every night at exactly 12:00 a.m., a black taxi pulls up to the curb outside my building. Its headlights cut through the mist like twin blades. The engine hums low, steady, as if it’s been waiting for centuries to be heard. Then it just... waits. I assumed it was someone’s late-night ride at first. Maybe a neighbor working a graveyard shift. But no one ever comes out to greet it. No driver steps out. No door opens. And at exactly 12:10 a.m., it drives away, vanishing into the empty street like smoke. It happened again. And again. Always the same. So last night, I did something I wasn’t sure I had the nerve for. I got in. --- It was cold inside the taxi. Colder than it should’ve been. The kind of cold that creeps beneath your skin and makes your bones remember sadness. The driver didn’t speak. I couldn’t even see his face, just the faint outline of a cap and gloved hands on the wheel. A quiet, vintage jazz tune played on the radio — something from another era, soft and warped like an old memory. I cleared my throat. “Where are we going?” He didn’t answer. The city outside the windows looked… off. Familiar buildings in the wrong places. Streetlights blinking in patterns that didn’t feel random. The people we passed—if they were people—moved like they were stuck between frames of film, stuttering through time. I pressed my hand against the window, and it felt like glass and something else — something humming and alive. After what felt like hours but could’ve been minutes, the taxi stopped. --- We were in front of a small diner with no name, glowing faintly under a flickering neon sign that just said: OPEN. I stepped out. The door creaked behind me as I entered. The air inside was warm, filled with the scent of coffee and pie and something softer — like nostalgia. There were people in the booths, talking in hushed tones, none of them making eye contact. The waitress behind the counter looked up and smiled like she’d been expecting me. “You’re late,” she said. “I wasn’t told where I was going.” “Doesn’t mean you didn’t need to be here.” She poured me a cup of coffee without asking. I took a sip. It was perfect. Not just good—perfect. Like every warm drink you’ve ever needed during your coldest hour. Then a voice behind me whispered my name. I turned. It was my mother. But she had died five years ago. She looked the same. Younger, maybe. Healthier. Her eyes held no pain. “Hi, sweetheart,” she said, reaching out like we’d just seen each other yesterday. I couldn’t speak. “I only have a few minutes,” she said. “The taxi waits for no one.” We talked. I don’t know how long. She didn’t explain how or why. Just smiled. Told me she was proud of me. Told me to let go of the guilt. That her leaving wasn’t my fault. That I could stop punishing myself now. I cried. When I turned to wipe my tears, she was gone. And the waitress was at my side again. “Time to go.” --- The taxi was waiting where I’d left it. This time, as we drove, the streets felt calmer. The glitching figures were gone. The lights seemed to flicker more warmly. When we pulled up to my building again, the driver finally spoke. “Next time, bring someone who needs to say goodbye.” I blinked. “There’ll be a next time?” He didn’t answer. But as I stepped out and turned around, the taxi was already gone — dissolved into the misty night like it had never existed. --- It’s been five nights since. The taxi still comes at midnight. And now, I wait too. Just in case someone else needs that ride.
By Firdos Jamalabout a year ago in Fiction
Hamlet
The neon skyline of Elsinor City pulsed red against the smoggy night as Hamlet pressed his hand to the bulletproof glass of the penthouse window. Below, the city lived and died on rhythm and betrayal—just like the stories whispered through the halls of the CrownCorp towers. Hamlet Sinclair III had it all: power, privilege, and a family legacy carved from steel and secrets. But tonight, it all felt hollow. “Your father was murdered.” The words still echoed from the encrypted message he’d received just hours ago. Anonymous. Precise. Cruel. He had believed the official report: heart failure. But the whisper of doubt had never quite gone silent. And now, it screamed. --- “Are you sure about this?” Ophelia asked, perched on the leather armchair in his office, eyes full of worry. “No,” Hamlet admitted, pouring a drink. “But if there’s even a chance it’s true, I can’t let it go.” “They’ll call you paranoid.” “They already do.” Ophelia rose and took the glass from his hand, setting it aside. “Then don’t do this alone.” Hamlet looked at her—the only one who saw through the crown and chaos. He wanted to believe she’d still be there when it all collapsed. “I don’t trust anyone else,” he said. “Not even my mother.” --- His investigation began with silence. Then came surveillance footage from the night of his father’s death—altered. Then a financial paper trail—buried transactions between Claudius Sinclair and shadow brokers. Claudius, his uncle. Now CEO. Now married to his mother. Now suspect. The betrayal tasted metallic. Hamlet stood before the family portrait in the grand atrium, staring into his father’s painted eyes. “I’ll make them pay,” he whispered. --- At a shareholder gala, under the guise of toasts and tailored suits, Hamlet cornered Claudius near the private bar. “I’ve been thinking about Father a lot lately,” Hamlet said, swirling his drink. Claudius’s smile didn’t waver. “We all miss him.” “Do we?” A flicker of something passed over Claudius’s face. Hamlet leaned in. “Funny how your fortune doubled the week after his death.” “You sound accusatory, nephew.” “And you sound guilty.” A beat of silence. Claudius smiled again. But it was colder this time. “Careful, Hamlet. Grief can make you see ghosts where there are none.” Hamlet downed his drink, eyes locked. “And guilt buries bodies in boardrooms.” --- Later that night, Hamlet found Ophelia waiting in his penthouse. Her hands trembled as she handed him a flash drive. “I hacked the servers,” she said. “I didn’t want to. But you need to see this.” On the screen: an audio file. Claudius’s voice. “…take him out. If the old man finds out, we lose everything. Make it look natural. Heart failure. Clean.” Hamlet sat in stunned silence. Then he stood. “This is it. This is the truth.” Ophelia caught his wrist. “Don’t do what I think you’re about to do.” “He took everything from me.” “And if you kill him, you’ll lose yourself, too.” --- The confrontation came not with bullets or board votes, but in the family chapel, lit only by a stained-glass moon. Claudius stood before the altar, alone. “I know what you did,” Hamlet said, voice echoing. Claudius turned. “Do you?” “I have the recording. You killed him.” Claudius stepped closer, unafraid. “What will you do with it? Expose me? Ruin the empire your father built? Or will you bury the truth, like we buried him?” Hamlet’s hand hovered near the gun in his coat. “You want me to pull the trigger,” Hamlet said bitterly. “I want you to choose,” Claudius replied. “Are you a son… or a prince?” --- He didn’t shoot. Instead, he played the recording for the board. And the press. And the world. Claudius was arrested. His mother left the city. The empire cracked under scandal. Hamlet watched it all unfold from a hotel room far from Elsinor. Ophelia called. He didn’t answer. He’d won—but he felt empty. Like a ghost. Because in destroying Claudius… he’d buried something of himself. Not just a prince. Not just a son. But a man who believed justice could restore what revenge never could.
By Shah Nawazabout a year ago in Fiction
Snack Bag
“Let’s get married!” He exclaimed as I choked on my water, almost spitting it out. Staring into his crystal blue eyes, with a strand of his brown hair skimming his eyebrow, I ask, “Wait what?” Smirking, he repeats, “Let’s get married!” Not being able to even say a word, he takes the opportunity to finish his speech, “I know, I know, it sounds crazy, but who cares? We never intended this to happen and we both know this feels right.” Taking a deep breath in before speaking, “I’ve only been divorced for like 6-months, so this literally seems so unreal! But you’re right though, I’ve never been happier!” Before grabbing my hand, he waves the waiter over. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small, black box and I ask shockingly, “So you actually planned this?” Nodding, he takes the ring out of the box and places the princess cut diamond on my left ring finger. As the 6’3,’ blonde-haired waiter approaches, pulling out his notepad, he asks, “Hi, did you guys decide what you would like?” Jake turns his gaze to the waiter, “We would like some champagne, she said yes!”
By Susie Gundersonabout a year ago in Fiction
PARASITIC RELATIONSHIPS
Picking up my purse, I prepared to leave the strange flat. Looking around at my unfamiliar surroundings, I soon found something untraceable that I wanted. I grabbed the stones I saw inside a bowl on the side table, and then noticed last night's Fling’s wallet beside the bowl.
By Mother Combsabout a year ago in Fiction
Episode 7: Silver Like Mercy
So Ant woke up chained to a radiator in a room that didn't remember what heat felt like. That's how it started. The floor was concrete. The walls were insulted - by water damage. A single bulb hung like it had been sentenced to watch. His mouth tasted like copper and forgetting. His chest ached where someone had written pain in fists. And his arm - his arm had teeth in it. Two rows. Familiar ones.
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
