Microfiction

Roots and branches
My roots formed in uncelebrated places — In kitchens heavy with silence, In prayers said without witnesses, In hands that learned endurance Before they ever learned rest. They grew quietly, gripping soil That knew both hunger and hope, Teaching me early that survival Is a kind of wisdom.
By Awa Nyassiabout a month ago in Fiction
The White Cliff and the Swift Dove
June 1942 · London The air-raid sirens tore through the London dawn. James Miller was in the vaulted basement of the British Museum, gently wiping the lens of a damaged theodolite. Three months into the Blitz, he had grown accustomed to the distant thunder; the steadiness of his hands had become a quiet form of defiance.
By Léo Youngabout a month ago in Fiction
The New Puppet Master
“How…how do you even know about your powers?” Elon stuttered. “I know myself very well. Call it a benefit of the ‘woke virus.’” Vivian smirked. “You have two choices: do as I say or die.”
By Stephanie Hoogstadabout a month ago in Fiction
The Way Out
They said I could go, everything was done, and it would all be fine. They showed me the door and let me out. The door slammed, and in front of me was a stone spiral staircase, going down to an exit.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred - EBAabout a month ago in Fiction
Where the Human Heart Still Speaks
Prologue Today marks the day of the Geminoids Meter Shower Peak and the 12/12 portal - associated with transformation and reflection.
By Michelle Liew Tsui-Linabout a month ago in Fiction
The Lighthouse . Content Warning.
I inherited the lighthouse the day my father vanished. No note, no explanation—just an empty house perched on jagged cliffs where the sea screamed endlessly into the night. People in town said the place was cursed, said the last keeper went mad. I didn’t care. I wanted solitude, a place to escape the chaos of my life. I got more than I bargained for.
By E. hasanabout a month ago in Fiction
THE LAST SANCTUARY OF NEON SKY
No one alive remembered the real color of the sky. Official history, as recorded by the Ministry of Perspective, stated that Earth’s atmosphere had always shimmered in neon hues—pulsing blues, electric greens, and streaks of violent pink that twisted like serpents across the heavens. Anyone who questioned it was, by definition, “Factually Distorted,” and removed for “Cognitive Rehabilitation.”
By Alisher Jumayevabout a month ago in Fiction
THE LAST LIGHT IN WILLOW CREEK
When I returned to Willow Creek after twelve years away, the town looked almost exactly as I’d left it—small, neat, peaceful—like someone had pressed “pause” on time. The wooden houses stood in rows like storybook cottages, the old bakery still filled the street with the smell of cinnamon buns, and the creek ran lazily beside the main road, singing its familiar whispering song.
By Alisher Jumayevabout a month ago in Fiction
Christmas Carols
Sitting around the fireplace on a Christmas Eve for now it's Storytime. Hope you like it. We Three Kings of Orient Are traveling along to that O little town of Bethlehem following a star that will lead us to a King somewhere away in a manger for we are hearing a carol of bells proclaiming what child is this. We see on our travels some decking of the halls with the hanging of the greens and hear some jingle bells for those bells are ringing hark the herald angels singing glory to the newborn King. Now we hear the phrase King of kings and Lord of lords has been born. Oh, come all ye faithful and come adore him and see the greatest gift of all that is love as the little drummer boy finds out. Happy Christmas to all!
By Mark Grahamabout a month ago in Fiction
The Pup in the Alley
When No One Listens, Someone Will. 🐕 Silence wrapped Bridgetown, a tawny blanket - too dense for its residents to appreciate. Waste bins hummed with the overwhelming calls of crickets.
By Michelle Liew Tsui-Linabout a month ago in Fiction
Broken Wings
Sasha "Sash" Torres stared at her phone, heart hammering in her chest. The news flashed across the screen—Mara "M" Williams found dead in alley, overdose suspected. The words hit like a physical blow, and she felt the room tilt around her, the floor beneath her feet becoming a distant memory.
By Aarsh Malikabout a month ago in Fiction
The Lantern of Quiet Choices. AI-Generated.
In the bustling town of Auravale, where neon lights gleamed against glass towers and drones painted the sky with streaks of silver, lived a 14-year-old boy named Rian Solis. Auravale was a place that believed louder was better—louder advertisements, louder opinions, louder celebrations. Yet, amid the constant clamor, Rian preferred quiet places, quiet thoughts, and quiet choices.
By shakir hamidabout a month ago in Fiction