Microfiction
Remember...
They queue at the kiosk like it’s a coffee stand. A man sells the memory of his morning commute—gray sky, same billboards. The woman after him trades her daughter’s fifth birthday party. Advert screens flicker: “Free yourself. Sell your heartbreak today.” The technician’s gloves glint. A syringe, a blink, a memory gone. No one lingers.
By Stéphane Lallée11 months ago in Fiction
Scared Straight
It was a typical Monday for Erica Harrell, as she was seated at her desk, in her fifth period English class, fast asleep. Erica's passion was less about learning and attending classes, and more about attending the latest wrestling event. Erica was supposed to do a big weekend assignment, but she couldn't help but attend that event, especially since the event featured a wrestler known as Queen Chaos, one of the most feared villainesses in women's wrestling.
By Clyde E. Dawkins11 months ago in Fiction
The Power of Manifestation: A Journey to Create Your Own Reality
For a long time, I believed that life was a series of random events. Things happen, and you either accept them or resist them. But this mindset changed when I discovered manifestation. It wasn’t an instant revelation, but rather a gradual awakening shaped by real-life experiences that showed me the power of thoughts and intentions.
By ZLATO Peak11 months ago in Fiction
"Wind Whispers"
"Wind Whispers" Emily first heard the whispering in the late afternoon. She was seated on the weathered wooden bench beside the lake, staring at the glistening water. Her hair was tousled by the chilly breeze, and the air was filled with the sound of leaves rustling. Emily, an artist by profession, found solace in Willowbrook's quietness. Peace, however, had begun seeping through her fingers all of a sudden, like water through pipes. She had been dealing with the recent death of her mother, and even though the town was beautiful, she felt a void in her heart.
By Rajoan Islam11 months ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Daughter
The Clockmaker’s Daughter The bell above the door chimed softly as Clara stepped into the tiny clock shop tucked away on the corner of Maple Street. The air was thick with the scent of oil and aged wood, and the faint ticking of a hundred clocks filled the room like a heartbeat. The walls were lined with timepieces of every kind—grandfather clocks with polished mahogany frames, delicate pocket watches with intricate engravings, and cuckoo clocks that seemed to watch her with their tiny, painted eyes.
By Dinesh Maurya11 months ago in Fiction
