Short Story
The Envious Man and the Man of Light
In a quiet town of modest size, where neighbors knew each other by name and life moved at a gentle pace, there lived two men in adjoining houses. At first glance, they seemed ordinary—just two residents sharing a boundary wall. But behind that wall grew a darkness that would soon change both their lives forever.
By Mariana Fariasabout 9 hours ago in Fiction
Wasp Talk. Content Warning.
Introduction This is inspired by a few things: My friend Chris said wasps were the football hooligans of the insect world, my recent post where I stated that some people are only happy when they are miserable or have something to complain about, and the book I am reading, "The Roaches Have No King" by Dabiel Evan Weiss which is about New York Apartment life observed by cockroaches.
By Mike Singleton đź’ś Mikeydred about 9 hours ago in Fiction
The Overnight Bus Where a Random Man Explored Every Inch of Me in the Back Seat (True Story). Content Warning.
Hi… it’s me, Lila. Twenty-five, sitting here in my little apartment with the rain tapping the window, thighs pressed together just thinking about it. This is what really happened on that long, sweaty overnight bus from Toronto to Montreal last summer. I never thought I’d do this. But my body betrayed me the second the engine started rumbling, and I couldn’t stop it if I tried.
By Chahat Kaurabout 15 hours ago in Fiction
The Letter I Never Meant to Open
I had always believed my life was ordinary. I worked at a small bookstore, went home to my tiny apartment, and rarely spoke to anyone outside my circle. But everything changed the day I found that letter. It wasn’t hidden, exactly. It was leaning against my apartment door, with my name written in a careful, almost familiar hand. There was no return address. Curiosity pried it open before I could even think twice. Inside was a single page, filled with messy handwriting: "I know what happened that night. I’ve been trying to tell you for years. Meet me at the old pier at 7 tonight if you want answers." I froze. My heart thudded. What night? Years ago, when I was seventeen, my best friend, Clara, disappeared for two days. She came back, shaken, never speaking of what happened. I had forgotten that night—or maybe I had buried it deep in my mind. I debated ignoring the letter, thinking it might be a prank. But something in me—a long-lost curiosity, or perhaps guilt—pushed me out the door. The city air felt colder than usual, each step echoing in the empty streets as I walked toward the pier. When I arrived, the sun was just dipping below the horizon. And there she was—Clara. Older, changed, but unmistakable. She looked at me, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears. "You came," she said softly. "I… I don’t understand," I stammered. She handed me a small box. Inside, I found an old photograph of the two of us, taken on the day she disappeared, and a tiny key. "Do you remember the treehouse by the river?" she asked. I nodded. It had been our secret place, where we hid from the world, told secrets, and dreamed of escaping to distant lands. But that night, the treehouse had burned down. Clara had vanished, leaving me alone to face the aftermath. "I didn’t disappear. I was trapped," she said, her voice breaking. She explained that she had fallen into an old underground storage space beneath the treehouse—an accident—and had been unable to call for help. No one could find her. I felt my knees weaken. Years of silence, of wondering, of guilt, all leading to this. She reached for my hand. "I wrote to you because I need to make things right. There’s something you don’t know." She handed me a folded note. Inside was another secret—a confession she had never dared to share. The night the treehouse burned, she had accidentally started the fire while trying to fix the old wiring. She had been too afraid to tell anyone. I had blamed myself for not seeing her before the fire, for leaving her alone—but it was never my fault. I stared at her, the weight of years melting away in one breath. Relief. Anger. Love. Forgiveness. All at once. We sat there for hours, talking about everything we had never said, filling in the missing years. I realized that life had given me a gift—not just the truth, but the chance to reconnect. By the time the moon rose high above the pier, Clara and I had made a silent promise: never to let fear or guilt keep us apart again. When I walked home that night, the city looked different. Brighter. Full of possibilities. And I knew, deep down, that sometimes the answers you seek come in the most unexpected ways—and that some letters are never meant to be ignored.
By Wasif islamabout 19 hours ago in Fiction
Ra'ad Does Not Dwell in Time
Ra'ad Does Not Dwell in Time By luccian layth Here collapses a corner of events — purely narrative, risen from the drain of our old house's gutter, seeping into the channels of a despondent city. Dark of atmosphere. Wretched to look upon. Like an old grey woman the ages have ruined, her sides ulcerated, spoiled like dried apple where worms have long since finished their work and moved on to something equally forgettable.
By LUCCIAN LAYTHabout 22 hours ago in Fiction
Perfect people on perfect social media pages.
Restaurant “N”. A week in advance, I reserve a table at one of the most popular restaurants in the city. I spend days preparing for the evening, imagining the atmosphere — elegant interiors, expensive details, a table overlooking the city at sunset.
By Eliza Woodstorma day ago in Fiction
My Oasis
I ran my fingers through my hair. The drinks were slowly taking over; I grasped the railings of the balcony and stood still; or so I thought. She walked over to me, watching me sway like a cosmos in the wind. She was something I couldn't make sense of, until recently.
By Rushali Prasada day ago in Fiction
The Horse and the Donkey story
The Horse and the Donkey Once, in a quiet village near a massive, dark forest, there lived a hardworking farmer. He owned a magnificent horse that was his pride and joy. This horse did everything he plowed the fields under the hot sun, carried heavy sacks of grain to the market, and traveled to distant towns whenever the farmer had business to attend to. Because the horse worked so hard, the farmer made sure to give him plenty of rest. Every evening, he would let the horse wander freely near the edge of the woods to graze on the fresh, sweet grass and cool down after a long day.
By Amir Husena day ago in Fiction
OLEKSANDR UND MAVRIN (Oleksandr and Mavrin)
The Russian artillery had been pounding for three days straight. By the fourth morning the field hospital was no longer behind Ukrainian lines. It was simply in Russian lines. The white flag that someone had tied to a broken antenna flapped uselessly in the cold wind like a dying bird. Soldiers in different uniforms now walked the corridors. Some still wore the pixelated Ukrainian pattern; most wore the green and brown of the Federation. No one quite knew who was prisoner and who was guard anymore. In war, the line between the two is always thinner than men admit.
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTARa day ago in Fiction
