Horror
THE PETRIFACT
The medication was still dissolving under Vera's tongue when she realized the lake was breathing, was expanding and contracting in rhythms that had nothing to do with wind or tide or any natural hydrodynamics she'd studied during her three semesters of marine biology before dropping out to care for her mother who was currently dying in the facility on Korčula's northern coast in a room that smelled like industrial bleach trying to hide the particular odor of bodies giving up, and Vera was supposed to be there, was supposed to be holding her mother's hand and saying comforting things about heaven and reunion with Vera's father who'd died in the war, the real war not the economic one, who'd been shot in Vukovar when Vera was six months old so she had no memories of him except photographs and her mother's stories which had changed over thirty years, had been refined and edited until they bore no relationship to actual events but were instead mythology, were founding narrative of their family of two, and now that family was ending, was reducing from two to one, and Vera was at the lake instead of the facility because being at the facility meant watching her mother dissolve and Vera had already watched enough dissolution, had spent six months documenting her mother's cognitive decline, her personality fragmentation, her transformation from woman who'd raised Vera alone into something that wore her mother's face but wasn't her mother, was just biological process, was just neurons misfiring, was just body forgetting how to maintain itself.
By karlolegend2 months ago in Fiction
The Letters He Never Sent. AI-Generated.
Samuel Graves had not opened the study room in three years. Dust blanketed the shelves like tired snow; the curtains remained frozen in place, trapping darkness inside the walls. The house itself seemed to breathe differently when he stood at the doorway — as if recognizing him with a mixture of relief and sorrow.
By shakir hamid2 months ago in Fiction
The Last Song in the Snow. AI-Generated.
Anton Markovic was known only by the sound of his violin. He played every evening at the frozen train station under the city bridge, where footsteps echoed like ghosts and the cold bit the bones of anyone foolish enough to linger.
By shakir hamid2 months ago in Fiction
The Bad Articles Audio Drama
I'm not entirely certain how to describe The Bad Articles. It's a podcast that contains horror, improv comedy, audio fiction, a paranormal investigation, and nostalgia. It's the kitchen sink metaphor, except that The Bad Articles is superb in its own wacky way.
By Frank Racioppi2 months ago in Fiction
The Return of Covid in the UK
The Return of Covid in the UK I could feel it before anyone said a word. That quiet shift in the country, the same uneasy breath people took years ago when Covid first arrived. And now it is circling again in the UK, rising in numbers, slipping back into headlines, making its way through towns the way cold air moves through open doors.
By Marie381Uk 2 months ago in Fiction
The Man Who Sold Tomorrow. AI-Generated.
Gregor Vale had always believed time was not a river, but a marketplace. In the back corner of an old European alley, behind fogged glass and a tarnished brass sign, stood his tiny workshop — Vale & Sons: Custom Clocks Since 1882.
By shakir hamid2 months ago in Fiction
Doctor's Orders
Donna was walking along past the same houses and shops she always walked past on her way home from work. She was in a good mood, as she had recently discovered she was due a promotion. Nothing was out of the ordinary until she was drawn rather magnetically towards a strange and uncanny door. What made it uncanny? She was unsure, but it felt decidedly "off." Not least of all because she had never seen it before.
By Paul Stewart2 months ago in Fiction
