Fatal Serendipity
Bio
Fatal Serendipity writes flash, micro, speculative and literary fiction, and poetry. Their work explores memory, impermanence, and the quiet fractures between grief, silence, connection and change. They linger in liminal spaces and moments.
Stories (82)
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The Library at the End of the World
The key doesn’t fit but the door opens anyway. It sighs through its hinges like it’s been waiting a long time. Dust hangs in the still air, soft as ash, turning gold where the light finds it. The sun looks wrong here, too tired to be real. The glow feels like an old photograph that’s been fading for years on a windowsill no one looks at anymore.
By Fatal Serendipity3 months ago in Fiction
Not For the Archives
Marion Cagle sent the email at 11:42 p.m. on a Thursday, five minutes after deleting a file labeled “Final_Letters.docx” and replacing it with “Final_Notes.docx,” which he assumed was the correct template. His eyes were dry from reading twenty-two stories in succession, and his wrists ached from annotating PDFs that he'd forget the moment he closed them. He didn't check the file. He didn't need to. His commentary, written in a tone that confused incision with intellect, was thorough.
By Fatal Serendipity3 months ago in Fiction
Choreography for the Devoured
CONCEPT This is an imagined correspondence. It takes place in a speculative world where some of my favorite poets and poetic thinkers exist in rooms of their own. They are beyond time, in a kind of dead letter office for the soul. They cannot see one another. They cannot speak. But they can write.
By Fatal Serendipity3 months ago in Fiction
The Quiet Things That Die. Content Warning.
Rick Mallory got the citation on a Thursday morning, just before the sun had finished rising. The mail carrier hadn’t bothered to knock. The envelope was crammed halfway into the box, plastic window already smudged with the dirty thumbprint of whoever had handled it last. Rick tugged it loose and carried it inside like it was a trap and he knew it. He stood at the sink and balanced the letter on his palm like a bad coin. The paper felt too thin. Government mail was always printed on paper that felt ashamed of itself.
By Fatal Serendipity4 months ago in Fiction
How to Ruin a Day in Five Tracks (and Accidentally Save One). Content Warning.
Not every hymn belongs to God. Some belong to the grifters. Music is supposed to be art, and art isn’t meant to be pretty. It is supposed to move, create, destroy, heal. You fuck to it, scream with it, and if it works, it unsettles. As cliché as it sounds, it "comforts the disturbed and disturbs the comfortable."
By Fatal Serendipity4 months ago in Beat
Asphalt Years
The seat grips my legs, vinyl hot enough to brand. Hands slip on the wheel, sweat running fast, darkening the grip. Tar rises sharply; ink stings the air. Out in the lot old men haul chairs from trunks, metal shrieking, women hoist cardboard painted with the same demands. They settle in, knees braced, sweat dripping down their throats. The scrape of legs on asphalt hits again and again until it feels like the protest is hammering itself together.
By Fatal Serendipity4 months ago in Fiction
Apocalypse, With Peaches Part 1. Content Warning.
The water pulsed again, one sudden blip of pressure, sharp as a snapped rubber band, then settled back into its usual stream as though it hadn’t just made Simplicity Grace want to commit a federal crime against plumbing.
By Fatal Serendipity4 months ago in Fiction
