Microfiction
The Letters He Never Sent. AI-Generated.
Samuel Graves had not opened the study room in three years. Dust blanketed the shelves like tired snow; the curtains remained frozen in place, trapping darkness inside the walls. The house itself seemed to breathe differently when he stood at the doorway — as if recognizing him with a mixture of relief and sorrow.
By shakir hamid2 months ago in Fiction
The Last Song in the Snow. AI-Generated.
Anton Markovic was known only by the sound of his violin. He played every evening at the frozen train station under the city bridge, where footsteps echoed like ghosts and the cold bit the bones of anyone foolish enough to linger.
By shakir hamid2 months ago in Fiction
A Thanksgiving Story
When I woke up this morning, I couldn't believe that it was Thanksgiving week once again. Where has the year gone? I guess it's true as one gets older the years do go faster just as our parents said they would when they told you "Just wait till you're my age. You'll find out." Now planning the menu and seeing how many will actually be around for it seems they come and do all the requisite things that are supposed to be said and enjoy the food and company of family all together. Happy Thanksgiving and remember what is important.
By Mark Graham2 months ago in Fiction
The Man Who Sold Tomorrow. AI-Generated.
Gregor Vale had always believed time was not a river, but a marketplace. In the back corner of an old European alley, behind fogged glass and a tarnished brass sign, stood his tiny workshop — Vale & Sons: Custom Clocks Since 1882.
By shakir hamid2 months ago in Fiction
What Remains of the Day
Before I knew about what remains of the day, I could hear the whistling of the forests’ songs linger; the presence of what was once a society now evanesced along the lapless hills before becoming a memory. My ears cringe with fear as the ringing blurs deep inside that memory, like a flashback, it eclipses my singeing flesh, raw with pink-white palette melting and contorting. I feel the fine blades of grass that used to dance with flurry, now choked in broken, arid earth. My soles sink, bringing up colorful bits beneath the soil. Just past, I watch the crooked streams flow with a prismatic film, left behind by the coughing plant upstream; its trails of smoke escape from the crimson high towers afar, away from the people, but unavoidable to the pleasant, pedestrian life that rummages through the crumpled leaves, or that which drinks from the stream.
By Thomas Bryant2 months ago in Fiction
