Latest Stories

Most recently published stories in Fiction.

Who(m)ever said, 'an apple a day keeps the doctor away' is such a fibber. 🍎🍎🍎
DISCLAIMER: I am in no way discouraging the consumption of apples to assist in the health of any individual personage. This is very true and fictional story.
By Novel Allenabout an hour ago in Fiction
Chapter 1: Jasmine in the Spine
PROLOGUE — The Sea Swallowed Me London Docklands — Years Ago The water didn’t look like water at night.
By Novelabout 3 hours ago in Fiction
Proof
At 03:17 UTC, the observatory computers pinged again. Ben froze, eyes locked on the screen. The sequence blinked back at him like a heartbeat encoded in numbers. Twenty-three measurements. Then repeat. No units. No scale. Just structure.
By Mark Stigers about 3 hours ago in Fiction
Cassian-13. Content Warning.
High Dominion Calendar date: day 106 of the year 237 The night’s humidity stressed every pressure point of Cassian-13’s enhancements, especially his right shoulder. Maybe the clouds would burst. That might help. As would upgrades. But hunters at the end of their lifecycle received standard policy rejections regardless of the requests. Assholes.
By Jean-François Lamotheabout 3 hours ago in Fiction
A Single Mother & A Stranger Boy – An Unexpected Love Story
It was raining that evening—the kind of rain that makes everything feel heavier than usual. Ayaan stood under a small café shed, watching the droplets hit the ground like broken memories. He wasn’t waiting for anyone. He never was. Life had taught him to keep moving without expectations. That’s when he saw her. She rushed in, holding her child close to her chest, her hair slightly messy, her face tired—but still… beautiful in a way that didn’t try to impress anyone. “Can we sit here?” she asked softly, pointing to the empty chair beside him. Ayaan nodded. Her son, maybe five years old, clung to her arm. She smiled at him gently, brushing his hair back. “You’re safe, sweetheart.” There was something about her voice… warm, protective, yet hiding a quiet sadness. Minutes passed in silence. Rain poured harder. “You come here often?” Ayaan finally asked. She let out a small laugh. “No… life doesn’t really give me that luxury.” He smiled. “Yeah… I get that.” She looked at him for a moment, studying his face like she was trying to understand something deeper. “I’m Sara,” she said. “Ayaan.” And just like that, something shifted. The next few days, Ayaan kept coming back to that café. Not because he liked the coffee… but because somewhere deep inside, he hoped she would be there again. And she was. Same corner. Same quiet strength. But this time, she smiled first. “You again?” “Maybe I like the rain,” he said. “Or maybe you like coincidences.” “Or maybe… I like conversations that haven’t finished yet.” She looked away, hiding a small smile. Days turned into weeks. Their conversations grew longer. Deeper. He learned she was a single mother. Her husband had left years ago. No explanations. No support. Just silence. “I stopped waiting for him,” she said one evening. “But I think a part of me stopped waiting for everything else too.” Ayaan didn’t say anything. He just listened. Because sometimes, being heard is more powerful than being fixed. One night, the café was closing early. Rain had started again. “Let me drop you home,” Ayaan offered. She hesitated. “I don’t usually trust people easily.” “I’m not ‘people’ anymore, remember?” he smiled. She looked at him… and for the first time, she didn’t say no. Her house was simple. Quiet. Her son had already fallen asleep in the car, and Ayaan carried him inside carefully. “Thank you,” she whispered. Their eyes met. And for a moment… the world outside disappeared. There was something in the air. Something unspoken. She stepped back. “I should… go inside.” “Yeah… you should.” But neither of them moved. Weeks passed. The distance between them slowly faded. Late-night calls turned into long walks. Casual smiles turned into lingering glances. One evening, sitting on a bench under dim streetlights, she finally said it: “You know this isn’t simple, right?” “I never wanted simple.” “I have responsibilities. A child. A past…” “And I’m not scared of any of that.” She looked at him, almost searching for doubt. But there was none. “Why?” she asked softly. Ayaan took a deep breath. “Because when I’m with you… everything feels real. Not perfect. Not easy. But real.” Her eyes filled with emotion. “No one has said that to me in a long time.” That night, something changed. Not suddenly. Not dramatically. But deeply. They didn’t rush into anything. Their connection wasn’t built on just attraction—it was built on understanding. But yes… there was attraction. The kind that makes your heartbeat louder when they’re close. The kind that makes silence feel heavy. One evening, as they stood in her living room, just talking… she stepped closer. “You’re dangerous,” she whispered. “Why?” “Because you make me feel things I promised myself I’d never feel again.” Ayaan didn’t respond. He just looked at her. And that was enough. She didn’t step away this time. Their relationship wasn’t perfect. There were doubts. Fears. Moments when she pulled away, afraid of losing everything again. “People like me don’t get happy endings,” she said once. Ayaan smiled gently. “Then let’s not call it an ending. Let’s just call it… now.” Her son started calling him “Ayaan bhai” at first… then slowly, just “Ayaan.” And somehow, without forcing anything, they became something like a family. Not by name. But by feeling. One rainy evening, just like the first day they met, they sat together at the café. “You know,” she said, “I used to hate the rain.” “Why?” “Because it reminded me of everything I lost.” “And now?” She looked at him… smiling softly. “Now it reminds me of everything I found.” Ayaan leaned back, watching the rain fall. Life hadn’t become easier. But it had become meaningful. And sometimes… that’s more than enough.
By Umar Farooqabout 4 hours ago in Fiction
New Beginnings
We are all set. Previous inspirations ran out of sand and flashed into the sad river of forgetfulness. Now, with a fresh mind, we can start thinking about the next chapters of a new book. It always starts like this; it always will be.
By Moon Desertabout 5 hours ago in Fiction
What on Earth is He Doing?!
What On Earth Is He Doing? Or:
By Kariisa Buskellabout 5 hours ago in Fiction
Beginner's Luck: Critical Mass 5
The Librarian was mentally exhausted from the emotional trauma of the day. He gritted his teeth realizing that they were not about to execute the beast in front of him. What was it that the golem had called it? A Derboul? Knowing the name of the Outsiders didn't make them any less despicable. His body was also exhausted and the number of places across his being that began to scream at him increased by the minute as his adrenaline wore off. As much as he hated the idea of keeping the invader alive, he had to admit it was a genius idea: Use the enemy as combat training for the golem Q and for the boy Fluke. It was a good idea, but he didn't have to like the idea no matter how good it was.
By Everett Scaifeabout 6 hours ago in Fiction
The Worst Summer Ever
Dear Diary, March 13th, 7:30 a.m. Nothing could be worse than having to go to school when Spring Break is just around the corner. All these rumors going around school that we are going to be on eLearning for two weeks because of a global pandemic. I just don’t believe it. Not because I don’t believe that there is a global pandemic, because I do, but because it is just a silly rumor. What is the harm of it? Nothing can keep us from school or our friends. Can it?
By Lea Rueabout 7 hours ago in Fiction
The Necessary Documentation
In a town built on order, even the wind knew its place. 🎺🏛️🌬️🪶📋 We had been briefed a week before Windswept's annual, must-have parade. Principals had briefed us teachers; there was a mass issuance of consent forms.
By Michelle Liew Tsui-Linabout 12 hours ago in Fiction
The Debt of The Extraordinary
Thanatos was chained by Sisyphus. A moment of curiosity with a secret aim led to death having no power over humanity. Sisyphus made it so. But this story is what the myth gets wrong.
By Caitlin Charltonabout 12 hours ago in Fiction
The Wind at My Window
The wind always finds a way. It tapped gently at my window that morning, soft as a hesitant knock. I paused, pen hovering over my journal, and listened. There was no urgency in its rhythm, only a persistent insistence—as if it carried a question meant for me alone. I shivered and pulled my sweater tighter around my shoulders, the room’s dim light feeling suddenly inadequate against the chill that pressed against the glass.
By Luna Vaniabout 13 hours ago in Fiction