Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Fiction.
A Dance at Midnight
By Royal Decree every seventy years to celebrate the aligning of the planets there was to be a grand festival; this festival was free and open to all: young and old, rich and poor, healthy and ill, and people of all races. While the festival itself was only one day, creatures came from all over the Quadrants for the event, so the local shopkeeps displayed their best and most colourful wares and offered special deals for days before. The inns and food vendors offered live music for their patrons and a wide variety of local and foreign foods were cooked, their aromas mixing in the streets. Throughout the city there were private parties for three days leading to the festival and for the next day after.
By Dionearia Red24 minutes ago in Fiction
The Ghost of the Letter Box
If you ever visit Seventh Street in Sukh Nagar, you will find nothing extraordinary there. It is an ordinary street lined with large houses whose gates open onto the road. Old trees and plants grow in front of the houses. On the wall of one house, a bougainvillea vine spreads its branches, blooming with pink flowers. Beneath that wall stands a red letter box. The vine bends over it gently. These days, the letter box is rarely used, but years ago, people used to drop many letters into it.
By Sudais Zakwan32 minutes ago in Fiction
Never Give Up Hope: Train More to Be More. Content Warning.
Never Give Up; Train Daily, Religiously. To become a master of any martial arts, you must practiced at least 60 hours a day, everyday, every week, and every year, and even dream of ways to improve your skills. Never ever, ever stop training. I have many black belts, for I was born in Korea and raised in Japan. There is no short cuts and no magic potions to mastering the deadly art of fighting. I have known many masters in Asia and earned black belts in their schools. In a real fight, they will no show mercy. Wearing a straw hat can help.
By SAMURAI SAM AND WILD DRAGONSabout 2 hours ago in Fiction
Hemlock
Mr. Perigo was dead. There was no doubt in this matter. It had been established by his mourning widow, the clergyman and the undertaker. He was as dead as an inanimate object could be. As dead as a cartwheel abandoned in a canal, as a flickering candle in a haunted mansion, as a penniless poet’s inkwell. Take your pick, he was defiantly a goner.
By N J Delmasabout 4 hours ago in Fiction
Mirror on the Wall
GillVille Drive was a quiet neighbourhood with recently paved roads, manicured lawns, a playground and soccer field, and houses much too large and extravagant for the average person to afford. Some houses had two garages, third floor balconies, backyard ponds, and one even had solar lights in the shape of owls and pinecones lining the walkway to its massive oak front door. This such house was the left half of a duplex. The other half was unoccupied, but balloons of yellow, white, and blue brushed against each other softly in the wind. On each balloon was written the words “open house” with too many exclamation marks. The balloons looked cheap and informal. They stood out for that reason. Two of the yellow ones had already popped. They dangled limply on their string.
By Gillian Corsiattoabout 9 hours ago in Fiction
The Un-Punxsutawney Protocol. AI-Generated.
The year 2042 was, in many ways, unremarkable. Flying cars were still prototypes, sustainable energy was perpetually "just around the corner," and humanity still hadn't figured out how to make a decent cup of coffee that wasn't sentient. But for the small, snowy town of Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, February 2nd remained sacred.
By Alicia Leneaabout 11 hours ago in Fiction
Field of the Fallen
Sunlight danced softly across the frost-crusted fields, making the little blades of grass sparkle like emeralds. The faraway chirrup of a songbird was the only disruption to the quiet of the morning. An icy chill, the last vestige of the dying winter, clung to the air, settling in a thick white mist at the far side of the open field. The heavy stench of decay hung in that mist, punctuation by the sharp tang of freshly spilled blood.
By A. J. Schoenfeldabout 11 hours ago in Fiction
