Short Story

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 2 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 4 hours ago in Fiction
What on Earth is He Doing?!
What On Earth Is He Doing? Or:
By Kariisa Buskellabout 4 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 6 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 11 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 11 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 12 hours ago in Fiction
Spring Sacrifice
The woods of Hollow Glen were quiet, save for the crunch of dead leaves underfoot. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the last rays of sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting long, eerie shadows. The group of teenagers—Ellie, Jake, Sarah, and Ryan—had ventured there on a dare. Rumors of strange happenings in the forest around Easter had been passed down for years, but none of them believed in ghost stories.
By V-Ink Storiesabout 13 hours ago in Fiction
Eggshells
Margaret Whitlock was known as the best artist in the sleepy town of Greystone. Her specialty was Easter egg sculptures—delicate, intricate creations painted with painstaking detail. Each egg was a marvel, depicting pastoral scenes, mythical creatures, and swirling patterns so fine they seemed almost alive. Every Easter, people from all over flocked to her gallery to admire and buy her work.
By V-Ink Storiesabout 13 hours ago in Fiction
More Orangutans
JOHN Chapman rode north on his alpaca. This was long before he acquired the alias, ‘Appleseed’, mind you. (English puritans would come to bastardize his exploits, associating them with those of copycat New England phil-apple-ists from years later, who sought to piggyback on his fame. They would say he had a horse, not an alpaca. They would say he walked barefoot beside this horse, because he did not wish to harm it. All untrue.)
By Noah Husbandabout 18 hours ago in Fiction
The Spot
No one blinked. As they gathered by the image processor, taking time to adjust all of their eye sockets and each dial and module on the machine, they simply stared and stared at what they were looking at. No one thought to make a mental note of this; no one thought that their psychic connection could handle this. But there it was and they had to process it.
By Kendall Defoe about 20 hours ago in Fiction
What Am I Missing?
Day 1 My mission is simple, to learn about humans by becoming one. They’ve got a written history, but I’d rather go in fresh and improvise. I’ve been doing this a long time and consider myself an expert at blending in. Confidence is the key. If you just look like you know what you’re doing, it’s generally accepted.
By Leslie Writesabout 20 hours ago in Fiction