Latest Stories

Most recently published stories in Fiction.

The Chair by the Window That No One Sits On Anymore
The chair is still there, facing the window, exactly where it has always been. Dust gathers on it now, quietly, patiently, like it knows no one is coming back to claim it. Some absences do not leave empty rooms. They leave furniture behind.
By Salman Writesa day ago in Fiction
The Harmless Detail
Wisdom is in the little details. 🌹🧠🩸 It started with a small rose-like patch on his skin. Reddish-brown, almost like a little tattoo that had etched itself on Barry Leong's right wrist. He glanced at it, barely, then paid it no mind. It itched, very slightly. Nothing worth discussing at the dinner table. Too unnoticeable to interrupt the day.
By Michelle Liew Tsui-Lina day ago in Fiction
Selena Gomez and Benny Blanco Are Ready to Start a Family: Exploring Surrogacy and Adoption. AI-Generated.
Selena Gomez and Benny Blanco are officially ready to turn the page on their next chapter. Following their wedding in September, insiders report that the newlyweds are eager to start a family immediately. The couple is reportedly moving with a sense of urgency, actively exploring alternative paths to parenthood, specifically surrogacy and adoption.
By Ann D. Burcha day ago in Fiction
How I Turned My Life Around After Hitting Rock Bottom
I never imagined I would find myself in a dark abyss, a place so deep that even the smallest glimmer of hope seemed utterly unreachable. Yet, life has a relentless way of humbling us, and I reached the lowest point of my existence. The journey to recovery was gruelling, painful, and slow, but looking back now, I realize that every setback was a stepping stone toward the life I live today.
By Omid khana day ago in Fiction
My Dead Father Sent Me a Voice Message at 2:13 AM — And It Exposed the Darkest Secret of Digital Immortality
The last message arrived at 2:13 AM. Not a notification. Not a call. A voice note. From my father. My hands froze. My father had been dead for three years.
By Omid khana day ago in Fiction
Love Ends, Memories Don’t
Love didn’t end loudly for us. There was no final argument, no shouting, no dramatic goodbye that could be replayed in my mind. It ended quietly, almost gently, like two people slowly letting go without knowing how to say it out loud. Like a candle burning out in an empty room, leaving darkness behind without making a sound. I still remember the first time we talked. It wasn’t special or planned. Just a normal moment, the kind that usually fades into nothing. But somehow, it stayed. Your words felt familiar, like I had heard them before in a dream. Your laughter settled somewhere deep inside me, warm and comforting, as if it had always belonged there. We didn’t fall in love suddenly. There was no instant spark, no dramatic realization. We drifted into love slowly, quietly, without noticing the moment it began. One conversation turned into many. Late replies turned into sleepless nights. And before I knew it, your name became my favorite sound. We shared the smallest things, and they meant everything. Late-night talks when the world felt peaceful. Inside jokes no one else would ever understand. Comfortable silences that spoke louder than words. You knew my fears without me explaining them. I learned your moods from the smallest changes in your voice. For a while, love felt effortless. It felt safe. It felt permanent. We talked about the future like it was guaranteed. Like love alone was enough to protect us from everything that could go wrong. But love isn’t always destroyed by betrayal or hatred. Sometimes, it fades. Sometimes, it’s defeated by time, distance, and silence. By conversations we postpone. By feelings we ignore. By problems we promise to fix later, until later never comes. We began to change, slowly and quietly. Smiles required effort. Replies took longer than they used to. Conversations felt heavy instead of exciting. “Good night” became a habit, not a feeling. And I noticed it, but I chose to ignore it. I told myself it was temporary. You told yourself the same lie. We both believed love would survive on memories alone, without care, without effort, without presence. It didn’t. The day everything ended was painfully ordinary. No dramatic scene. No cruel words. Just honesty wrapped in exhaustion. “We’re not the same anymore,” you said softly. And I didn’t argue, because deep down, I already knew. We had become two people holding onto memories instead of each other. Love ended that day. But it didn’t leave alone. The memories stayed. They stayed in the songs I still can’t skip. In places I avoid but remember perfectly. In moments when something funny happens and my first instinct is to tell you. Then reality hits, and I remember you’re no longer part of my life. I moved on, or at least that’s what I tell people. I learned how to smile again. I learned how to laugh without looking at my phone. I learned how to live without you being part of my daily routine. But moving on doesn’t mean forgetting. Because memories don’t move on. They wait. Quietly. Patiently. They show up when I least expect them. In the middle of the night. In the middle of happiness. In the middle of meeting someone new. Sometimes I wonder if you remember me the same way. If my name ever appears in your thoughts without warning. If you ever miss the version of yourself you were when we were together. If you ever think about how close we came to forever. I don’t want us back. Not anymore. Some stories are beautiful because they end. If they continued, they would lose the meaning that made them special. Love, sometimes, is meant to be remembered, not repeated. Still, I am grateful. Grateful for the love that taught me how deeply I could feel. Grateful for the heartbreak that taught me how strong I could become. Grateful for the memories that remind me I once loved honestly, without fear. Love ends. People change. Lives move in different directions. Dreams shift. Promises fade. But memories don’t. They stay quietly inside us. Not to hurt us. Not to hold us back. But to remind us that what we felt was real. That once, someone mattered enough to leave a permanent mark on our hearts. And sometimes, that reminder is enough.
By Jack Noda day ago in Fiction
We Stand in Moonlight
We walked around the castle’s defences again. The moon is full tonight and she is stronger than me. As we walk, the guards stare at us, probably wondering which one of us they watch. No one approaches us; they never do. We stand and watch the moon rise over the tallest tree that was planted generations ago. Soon, the moon will reach its highest point. We wait; she wants to see the castle’s lands by silver light and I have neither energy nor inclination to resist her. I do resist sometimes, usually out of anger but sometimes out of fear. Sometimes, the guards don’t even look at us, unsure of which one of us we are or of interrupting us. Sometimes, people even fear to approach us during the day, not even waiting until moonrise to wonder. I do not understand how they can make such a mistake; we act differently and dress differently – something that used to result in a fight, but I have since learned to pick the battles to expend energy on – and her eyes are silver. Even when we wear my clothing and the sun shines, our eyes give us away.
By Dionearia Reda day ago in Fiction
No Signal
The first thing Lorelei noticed was the sound. Not silence — she had expected silence — but a roaring, ceaseless, all-consuming noise. The surf. It came from every direction, a white static that swallowed everything else, and for a long, disoriented moment she thought she had gone deaf and the world had filled the gap with its own voice.
By Parsley Rose a day ago in Fiction
Kiss the Frog, John
Note: translated from original using AI translator. John tossed the note with its dubious contents onto the desk and pushed himself back from it.
By Batiaa day ago in Fiction
The Short Career of a Serial Killer
He was a happy man he really was, Fred had it all. A wonderful wife named Laura and two little girls - Megan and Pam. He was a nine to five man, working at the local cannery. They packed up vegetables and he even got cans to take home. Being a middle size town, the cannery was the center of it all. So each noon the big whistle would blow, announcing that lunchtime had arrived. It happened rather oddly, strangely I might say.
By Rasma Raistersa day ago in Fiction
The Quilt Maker
The Quilt Maker The woman shifted and shuffled the different cubes of fabric. All of them held different colors, patterns, and shapes. Each one was a different emotion of things. She didn’t know what to put together, but she never really knows. This was part of her process.
By David S. JohnsonWilliamsa day ago in Fiction
The Kolobok Who Learned to Listen. AI-Generated.
Once upon a time, in a small cottage at the edge of a great forest, there lived an old man and an old woman. One chilly morning, the old woman decided to bake a round bread roll — a kolobok. She gathered flour from the barn, eggs from the hen, sour cream from the cellar, and butter from the pantry. She mixed everything together, shaped it into a perfect golden ball, and placed it in the oven.
By Julia Lemona day ago in Fiction