Microfiction
Dust and Static. Top Story - December 2025.
Just one more box. Frank thought to himself as he turned back into his childhood home. The loss of his parents was, on paper, a tragedy, a car crash that couldn't have been avoided, but in reality it was no real loss to him. It had been years since he'd spoken to them, and even longer since he'd seen them.
By Liam Stormabout a month ago in Fiction
The Room that Remembered. Content Warning.
He woke on cold stone, cheek pressed against grit. A throb pulsed behind his eyes—deep, steady, like a slow hammer striking bone. When he tried to move, pain shot through his shoulders. His wrists were bound behind him with coarse rope, tight enough to bite.
By SUEDE the poetabout a month ago in Fiction
Safe is where you choose it to be.
The key is still in the lock. It seems I was in a hurry to get out. I grasp onto the handle, as I have done every time before. My knuckles white, I rub at the ornate filigree tip. Glancing down, I can glimpse my reflection in that sliver of brass. Polished to gleaming from my every attempt. I note the notches along the doorframe. Two, four, six and eight.
By Sarah O'Gradyabout a month ago in Fiction
When Everything Beeps. Content Warning.
When he walked through the door, there was a beep. It didn't bother him; maybe it was a security thing. He came in and put the television on, but before it came on, it beeped. Each time he changed a channel, it beeped. This was beginning to grate a little.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred - EBAabout a month ago in Fiction
True Peace for Soldiers
Old white men, they were, their bodies a rolling landscape of skin pulled tight and fallen loose. Pockmarked with moles and freckles, splotches of red, white, blue, and green, colors and shapes that hide behind the skin and fat of younger men. When they smiled, their eyes would become lost in the wrinkles and cracks of their brow.
By Devang Vashisthaabout a month ago in Fiction
The Almanac's Whisper
For generations, the Thornfield Farm yield was the envy of the valley. Their secret wasn’t just skill; it was the Almanac. It wasn’t the mass-produced kind. This was a thick, leather-bound tome, handwritten by every Thornfield heir since 1782. Its predictions were uncanny: “Plant after the oak leaf unfurls, but before the swallow returns,” or “A hard rain will come on the second day when the wind smells of wet stone.” It spoke not in dates, but in signs. It was magic, plain and simple.
By Habibullahabout a month ago in Fiction
The Horse of the Rising Dawn
The first rays of the rising dawn stretched across the quiet valley as Arman tightened the saddle on his young but spirited mare, Zaria. She was a snow-white beauty with sharp, intelligent eyes that reflected both innocence and strength. Arman had raised her since she was a foal, and in those years, she had become more than just a horse—she was his companion, his pride, and the heartbeat of his every journey.
By darus sahil2 months ago in Fiction
