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)
Filter by community
Atlas of the Unchosen
There are places that smell like burned time and wet wallpaper. Nothing ever happens but everything feels halfway done. Doors lead to attics full of sighs. The carpet remembers arguments. These poems are souvenirs from lives that almost happened. A kiss that flinched. A name someone almost said. It’s clutter. Leftovers from a future nobody picked. The lights buzz. The house breathes. No one moves but nothing sits still. This is where the unchosen pile up and hum.
By Fatal Serendipity6 months ago in Poets
The Woman Who Drank the Sky
The city had been dying for as long as anyone could remember. Now it just kept on dying. The sun loomed over the rooftops, its heat a relentless force, squeezing the life from the city. In the cracked canals, shallow water simmered, releasing lazy steam. Concrete walls, once sturdy, crumbled into chalky dust under the relentless sun. Roads, once smooth, lay fractured, their surfaces split like open wounds. The wind swept fine dust through the streets, moving it from one abandoned district to another. The desert, once a distant threat, had crept closer over the years, engulfing entire neighborhoods.
By Fatal Serendipity6 months ago in Fiction
Song in a Room Without Light. Top Story - July 2025.
I wasn’t okay, but I got good at performing the illusion, which made me an ideal freshman and unfit to survive. I escaped a small town by playing dead. I earned high grades, played a good kid, kept my voice tucked low. When I reached the university, no one looked twice. I dissolved into lecture halls and tried to stay visible enough not to vanish, quiet enough not to be pulled apart.
By Fatal Serendipity6 months ago in Writers
Breath Between Notes
The first note rises through the floorboards, and Janet pauses with her hand on the kettle, listening as the second follows, then the third, forming a phrase she knows by heart. It’s the piece she played every Sunday afternoon, the one she carried to Madeline’s bedside while the child drifted into sleep with one foot always dangling over the edge of the quilt.
By Fatal Serendipity6 months ago in Fiction
