Microfiction

Bread across barbed wire
The Weight of Sweat The summer sun scorched the rooftops as Kurt dragged himself home from school, sweating lines down his dust-covered face. upon arriving home, his mother woke up, who was taking a siesta rest break. She woke up and fried yesterday’s cooked beans by adding some tomatoes and served him the meal. After making his lunch, his mother told him to check upon his father, who did not come to the lunch, which was unusual.
By Ihtisham ul haq8 months ago in Fiction
The Compass That Called My Name
For VIM's July Challenge The bell doesn’t toll to accuse—but to awaken. 🌲🌳🌲💡🧭🔔v🌲🌳🌲💡🧭🔔🌲🌳🌲💡🧭🔔🌲🌳🌲💡🧭🔔
By Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin8 months ago in Fiction
The other me woke up first . Content Warning.
The first thing I remember was the light — sharp, unnatural. My eyelids refused to cooperate. My limbs were limp, soaked in sweat, tingling like I’d just returned to them after years. There was a hum in the ceiling. A coldness in the floor. And someone breathing.
By E. hasan8 months ago in Fiction
The After Effect
Alright, settle in, because we're about to dive deep into a story that, let me tell you, got a lot of people talking. And arguing. And maybe even crying a little. We're talking about "After" by Anna Todd, a phenomenon that started as fan fiction and then just exploded. It's a story about love, sure, but it's also about chaos, obsession, and what happens when two people who are completely wrong for each other just can't seem to stay away.
By Kippler8 months ago in Fiction
You left the door open . Content Warning.
You left the door open. That’s what the note said—scrawled in looping, childlike handwriting on the back of an old gas station receipt.
By E. hasan8 months ago in Fiction
A Friend
Have you ever met a true friend and then realized that the day you first met would be the last. That’s the way it was with me and Nightingale. I never found out his first name, but it didn’t matter. All of his friends only called him Nightingale. Let me tell you how we met.
By David E. Perry8 months ago in Fiction
Mr. Nightingale
I was only 3 years old when Mr. Nightingale came into my life. To me, he was a friend, everything but imaginary. He stood 7 feet tall, dark red skin, black shirt and pants, and a white trench coat that was always clean regardless of what we did together. He also had a black walking stick with a bird on top.
By David E. Perry8 months ago in Fiction
Countenance of Constance
Roland’s standards for a potential life partner were high. Some might even go so far as to say they were impossibly high, but he would beg to differ.
By R.J. Winters8 months ago in Fiction
Looking up
Your father’s old coat is too big on you, sleeves falling past your fingers. He looks at you and puts his hands on your shoulders as you stare down at the trailing sleeves. You don’t hear what he says.
By Gloria Liu8 months ago in Fiction
In the pond
You stare forward into the pond, ripples dancing across its surface. A creature looks back at you, with algae for hair and shells for a torso, twisted and inhuman.
By Gloria Liu8 months ago in Fiction
Snowball the West Highland Terrier: The Whistle in the Walls
The Snowball saga continues--welcome to the second instalment of her young people's microfiction dog sleuth series! She went on her first quest here:
By Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin8 months ago in Fiction
Shadows of the Same Star
In the quiet town of Elmsridge, nestled between the rolling hills and whispering forests, lived two boys—Eli and Marcus—who had been friends since the age of five. From the moment they built their first fort out of sticks and leaves in the woods behind their houses, the world seemed to exist only for the two of them.
By NIAZ Muhammad8 months ago in Fiction