Microfiction

The "What If" Lives of Jeanie the Dreamer
'Let’s have no two ways about it. Jeanie really could be a twat.' El leaned over the lectern and looked the front row of mourners straight in the eyes. She had one elbow on the celebrant’s notes, and for all the world looked like she was ordering a pint of Bishop’s Finger down at her local in Dalston.
By Muhammad Sabeel9 months ago in Fiction
Mark It Up
As a child, she started reading books very young. They were prized possessions, and there were rules attached, like no dog earing, and no lending to anyone untrusted.
By Belle9 months ago in Fiction
The Comedy of Errors
The Comedy of Errors: Shakespeare’s Hilarious Tale of Mistaken Identity "Meta Description" Dive into Shakespeare’s "The Comedy of Errors", a riotous farce of mistaken identity, twin mix-ups, and chaotic humor. Discover its plot, themes, and why it still delights audiences today!
By its_ishfaq_ahmad9 months ago in Fiction
The Drawing of My Life
When I was a child, I believed that pencils held magic. Not the kind of magic that turned frogs into princes or moved mountains—but the quiet kind. The kind that turned thoughts into pictures, emotions into shapes, and silence into color. I didn’t speak much as a kid. While other children chased each other on the playground or shouted answers in class, I sat in the corner of my own world, sketching stick figures and stars on the backs of my notebooks.
By Esther Sun9 months ago in Fiction
Good or Bad
It was the kind of morning that felt like a blank page. The sun rose soft and amber over the sleepy town of Willow Creek, painting golden stripes across rooftops, and chasing the mist from the cobbled streets. The air held that rare stillness that makes you feel like anything is possible.
By Ashley Anthony9 months ago in Fiction
The Girl at Table Nine
Every Sunday, like clockwork, she sat at table nine. Same black coat. Same tight bun. Same haunted eyes. She’d order a black coffee, two eggs over easy, and sourdough toast—nothing more, nothing less. She always came alone and never spoke unless spoken to.
By Ali9 months ago in Fiction
Unraveled-part 11
Patricia bolted out the door and grabbed Hoggleswash, who seemed pleased with himself. Howard assessed the gaping hole in the man's pants and calmly ushered him in the door while Samuel distracted the other 3 men with a scripture in Spanish. While they were discussing the message of Samuel's, Howard led the embarrassed man to the bathroom while Patricia flew into the laundry room and flung open the dryer door. She stifled a giggle and Yarnell instantly knew his hairdo was awful. Without missing a beat, Patricia pulled him out of the dryer and grabbed the sewing kit off the shelf, plunking it on top of the washer as she took out a spool of black thread and a needle. Howard had retrieved the man's pants and brought them to Patricia, and he stood looking at the thread while trying not to laugh at the frizzed ball of yarn sitting silently on the dryer. Patricia quickly looked away and said, "OK Yarnall, now's your chance to redeem yourself after all the incidents you've instigated.. I would like you to get with this nice thread here and fix these pants. So, introduce yourselves to each other and make us proud. I'll be back in about ten minutes" and turned and gave him a big smile. Before Yarnell could even finish "no, wait! hold on a...",
By Colleen Walters9 months ago in Fiction
The Bookstore Where Our Eyes First Spoke
The old bookstore on Elm Street was supposed to be torn down by spring. It smelled like dusty paper and warm cinnamon, with creaky wooden floors that whispered with every step. Leah had wandered in on a rainy Tuesday, hoping to kill time. She wasn’t expecting to find the last piece of her heart between the pages of a book—or in someone else’s eyes.
By The Waiting Tree9 months ago in Fiction
The Silent Artist of the Alley
The alley was a forgotten seam in the city's bustling fabric. It wasn't the kind of place you'd linger, not with its overflowing bins, the perpetual scent of damp concrete, and the shadows that clung stubbornly even on the brightest days. Here, dreams often came to rust, and ambitions dissolved into the grime. Yet, amidst this forgotten corner, lived a man known only as Elias. He was the quietest soul in the loudest city, a man who saw what others overlooked, and heard what others dismissed. Elias was deaf, and he spoke only in the language of his hands.
By Mian Nazir Shah9 months ago in Fiction
An algorithms last prayer
The sky was no longer blue. A dull amber glow hung like a dying bulb over the ruined skyline of Old Chicago. Concrete husks of skyscrapers jutted from the earth like shattered teeth, their glass eyes long since gouged out by fire, wind, and war. The streets below were veined with rust and silence, the echoes of humanity scattered to ash.
By E. hasan9 months ago in Fiction
Come Sunday Morning
Sunday morning and another day to say that 'I am here, and I am loved." Sundays are a day of reflection, but to be honest it's also day to catch up or to even get ahead in some other 'work' that one must feel must be done. It is a day to remember some basic rules of living this life that the creator has seen to give us to do with what we please with it, but do we always make the right decisions for ourselves and/or others that happen to be around us and to be truthful I try.
By Mark Graham9 months ago in Fiction
Memorial Day
So, another Memorial Day is upon us this month of May. It seems that we all seem to have fun on this first summer holiday. There are so many of us who plan some sort of family gathering that could mean barbecues of many kinds of picnic foods from the common hamburgers and hot dogs and potato salad and whatever seems to be of interest to share. There may be some who drink, but I hope they do wisely for this is a day to remember the fallen who gave their all to this country we love and live for.
By Mark Graham9 months ago in Fiction