Microfiction
The Last Goodbye Beneath the Lights
The engine hummed as my fingers grazed the cool leather of the steering wheel. With a steady breath, I pressed the button, and the window slid down, allowing the night air to creep in. I turned my head one last time, my gaze locking onto faces I had known for a lifetime—faces I would soon become nothing more than a memory to.
By arafat chowdhury11 months ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Dreamed of Gold
Lena wiped the sweat from her brow, her small hands trembling as she scrubbed the last of the dishes. The kitchen was cramped, the air thick with the smell of grease and boiled cabbage. Through the thin walls, she could hear her father coughing—a deep, rattling sound that made her chest ache.
By Patrícia Prado11 months ago in Fiction
Poison King
He was in love with poisoning himself. First it was too much juice, enough to make him puke all across his grandmother's paisley rug. It was a family heirloom or something like that. She sat him down and told him the story so he would at least hold the memories of what he ruined except he was buzzing so hard with the urge to puke again that he remembered nothing other than the unshed tears in her eyes.
By Silver Daux11 months ago in Fiction
Gastien and the Golden Wine
Gastien held a single grape in his fingers, looking down at it with curiosity. He had never seen anything like it before. It wasn’t dark and purple, nor was it light and green. It looked golden, and almost transparent. Like a glass marble, filled with amber juice.
By Paul Plett11 months ago in Fiction
The Patient Part 1
Trust the doctor. -Michelle Liew ****************************************** Liam tossed and turned in his hospital bed, the medicinal odour of antiseptic burning his nose---and underneath it, something else---sharp. The walls were too white, too---sanitized, as thought they had something to hide.He couldn't remember how he got there.
By Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin11 months ago in Fiction
Words shape the World
When Words Shaped the World The town of Inkspire was renowned far beyond its borders for one peculiar trait: its people lived and breathed stories. Every cobblestone path, every whisper of the wind, seemed to carry fragments of untold tales, waiting to burst into existence. Writers were more than artists here—they were considered guardians of the very essence of humanity’s connection powerful; it was sacred.
By Saroj Kumar Senapati11 months ago in Fiction
