Microfiction
The Goddess
She was the dust and the storm and the wind and the waves. She was the space between the pillars of existence, holding up the world on her shoulders while standing on the burning fires of the immortal realms. She was the invisible expanse of the sky and the solid reality of the earth.
By Amanda Starksabout a year ago in Fiction
Something Bugging You?
He scratched at his scalp with dirty fingernails, grinning a yellow grin. I've no idea where he came from, whether he is homeless, or unhoused, or nomadic, or or or... and we aren't meant to judge. We breathe through our mouths, and offer what help we can.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Dear George. Top Story - October 2024.
Dear George, Crooks is helpin' me write this. 'Cause you kno' I ain't good with words. I been thinkin' a lot. I wanna say sorry I make things hard for you. I kno' I ain't too smart. You always gotta look out for me. Sometimes, I think you'd be better off without me causin' trouble.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
282 Modern Miracles
1824 is interesting in southern America. Before Eli Whitney and his 1793 invention, the cotton gin, it took one slave 10 hours to de-seed one pound of cotton. The cotton gin, even as a hand-cranked machine, could separate 50 times as much.
By Gerard DiLeoabout a year ago in Fiction
Secrets Rising.... Content Warning.
Luke I'm spent. Carved out. My mouth feels dry and my teeth woolly. Rough. But sober, the bottle reflecting warm mahogany. This is emotional exhaustion but despite it, I feel a spark of gladness at being and it refills me with something. Hope?
By Rachel Deemingabout a year ago in Fiction
To My Headless Stalker
Dear Headless Horseman, I have decided to write you this letter because every time we get within speaking distance you try and cut off my head. I know that the jack-o-lantern you carry with you as a replacement for your missing head has no functioning eyes so maybe you can talk one of your undead friends with working eyes to read it to you. This is my last attempt at a peaceful resolution, so I hope it works.
By Mark Gagnonabout a year ago in Fiction
Hell's Doorstep. Content Warning.
She's asked me the question that I've dreaded. But we swore that day we'd never tell and I'm not starting now. The Scotch is peeping out of the bag and it takes all my nerve not to grab it. Instead, I suppress the urge to confess, to drink, to scream, as I've trained myself and I avert my eyes from hers, stare at my coffee and shake my head.
By Rachel Deemingabout a year ago in Fiction
