Microfiction
When Pumpkins Breathe
What one loves is seldom left behind. Happy Hallowtide, all! 🌕🍂🎃🌾🎃🍁🌕🎃🍂🌾🎃🍁🌕🍂🎃🌾🎃🍁🌕🎃🍂🌾🎃🍁 The garden bathed in silver moonlight, pumpkin vines coiling beneath fresh soil. Sandra's fingers ran along the cool skin of a pumpkin--it throbbed, as if in a dream.
By Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin3 months ago in Fiction
"Unnatural"
It was a beautiful day. Always was, with her. My perfect wife. It should've been a beautiful day. We walked hand in hand through the park. I tried to concentrate on the sunlight, the smell of cut grass. Her smile. The feel of her hand, that little bite of static.
By L.C. Schäfer3 months ago in Fiction
A Message Written in Moon Dust
Dr. Aris Thorne was a geologist, a woman of rock and reason. The first human mission to the lunar farside was her life's work. As her lander settled into the dust of the Mendeleev Basin, a place of eternal Earth-shadow, her heart beat with a purely scientific thrill. She was here to read the moon's oldest stories, written in stone.
By Habibullah3 months ago in Fiction
Letters From The Room That Doesn't Exist. AI-Generated.
Aarav had always been fascinated by old buildings, especially the abandoned Willowcrest Manor — a weather-beaten mansion at the edge of town, wrapped in vines like nature was trying to bury it. Locals said it was cursed, swallowed by time and sorrow.
By shakir hamid3 months ago in Fiction
The Cracked Piece of Moon
It fell on the night the sky wept silver. A meteor shower, the elders called it. But to a young, orphaned girl named Lyra, it was the night a star fell into the woods behind her village. While others stayed indoors, she followed the trail of fading light.
By Habibullah3 months ago in Fiction
The Graveyard
A place of peace also, of serenity maybe but just be wary of.... ********* Do you ever walk through a graveyard and wonder who, what, when, where and the why? Is it a place to remember those that we lost for are they really lost at all for the most part aren't they not in a better place. They or most of them of found their way home. As in the image those markers of lanterns may have led them home for, they have seen the light. For a graveyard is like a way station between two worlds or three.
By Mark Graham3 months ago in Fiction
The Sound of Rain That Never Falls. AI-Generated.
No one in Hollowbridge could remember the last time it had rained. The clouds gathered every evening, dark and heavy, but no drop ever touched the ground. People called it The Dry Storm, a strange curse that made thunder echo but never bless the soil.
By shakir hamid3 months ago in Fiction
