Fatal Serendipity
Bio
Fatal Serendipity writes flash, micro, speculative and literary fiction, and poetry. Their work explores memory, impermanence, and the quiet fractures between grief, silence, connection and change. They linger in liminal spaces and moments.
Stories (86)
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I’ve tried to reach you, but the words always disappear before I finish. It felt like a glitch in the universe, like I wasn’t supposed to speak to you but did anyway. There remains an impulse in me that will not surrender. I’ve been watching the world move in slow motion, waiting for you to say something. You never did. That silence taught me everything.
By Fatal Serendipity4 months ago in Confessions
Not On the Menu
The buffet promised happiness, but even from the sidewalk, Quentin wasn’t sure if he was hungry or just tired of himself. He stood at the door and looked up at the sign that read All You Can Eat Fulfillment. It buzzed too loud for this hour, spilling a pale light that made everything look clean in a way that felt off. The glow stuck to the glass like static. He didn’t move. The words meant something, probably, but he couldn’t feel it.
By Fatal Serendipity4 months ago in Fiction
The Library at the End of the World
The key doesn’t fit but the door opens anyway. It sighs through its hinges like it’s been waiting a long time. Dust hangs in the still air, soft as ash, turning gold where the light finds it. The sun looks wrong here, too tired to be real. The glow feels like an old photograph that’s been fading for years on a windowsill no one looks at anymore.
By Fatal Serendipity4 months ago in Fiction
Not For the Archives
Marion Cagle sent the email at 11:42 p.m. on a Thursday, five minutes after deleting a file labeled “Final_Letters.docx” and replacing it with “Final_Notes.docx,” which he assumed was the correct template. His eyes were dry from reading twenty-two stories in succession, and his wrists ached from annotating PDFs that he'd forget the moment he closed them. He didn't check the file. He didn't need to. His commentary, written in a tone that confused incision with intellect, was thorough.
By Fatal Serendipity4 months ago in Fiction
Choreography for the Devoured
CONCEPT This is an imagined correspondence. It takes place in a speculative world where some of my favorite poets and poetic thinkers exist in rooms of their own. They are beyond time, in a kind of dead letter office for the soul. They cannot see one another. They cannot speak. But they can write.
By Fatal Serendipity4 months ago in Fiction
The Quiet Things That Die. Content Warning.
Rick Mallory got the citation on a Thursday morning, just before the sun had finished rising. The mail carrier hadn’t bothered to knock. The envelope was crammed halfway into the box, plastic window already smudged with the dirty thumbprint of whoever had handled it last. Rick tugged it loose and carried it inside like it was a trap and he knew it. He stood at the sink and balanced the letter on his palm like a bad coin. The paper felt too thin. Government mail was always printed on paper that felt ashamed of itself.
By Fatal Serendipity4 months ago in Fiction
