Short Story
Silken Chains
Silhouettes of the female form were given flesh and bone. Silken skin glistened under the spotlight. Dry ice rose around our Icons as they danced atop their podiums in the Square. Heralded for their beauty, their movements were slight, powerful, and sensual.
By Paul Stewartabout 7 hours ago in Fiction
We Set a Place for Her Out of Habit
On the first Sunday after the funeral, my mother set out five plates instead of four. She did it the way she did everything in the kitchen—without flourish, without apology, as if the act were too ordinary to notice. The roast came out of the oven. The green beans steamed in their bowl. The good napkins, still faintly smelling of starch, were folded into rectangles and laid beside the forks.
By Edward Smithabout 8 hours ago in Fiction
The Giraffe of Ipanema
"Jesus Murphy," Lisa muttered plunging her fork into her fruit bowl, "He's doing it again." I didn't need to look. The hairs on the back of my neck had stiffened the second I heard the neighbor's sliding door. The routine had become familiar: the rustle of curtains, the flapping of flip-flops on concrete, and then – the inevitable slow, but deliberate swiveling of an atavistic head.
By Joe Skaramangaabout 10 hours ago in Fiction
The Reflection That Didn't Match
The first time I noticed, we were getting ready for the Hendersons' anniversary party. Daniel stood at the bathroom mirror, adjusting his tie. I was behind him, pinning my hair, watching his reflection in the glass.
By Edward Smithabout 11 hours ago in Fiction
The Secret Hidden Behind Her Smile
It was the kind of smile that could light up a room instantly. The kind strangers trusted and friends admired. Whenever he walked into a place, people felt calmer, happier — almost like the world suddenly made a little more sense.
By imtiazalamabout 13 hours ago in Fiction
The Drawing Room Tide
The tea service was laid out with the precision of a surgical tray. Mrs. Gable adjusted the silver tongs by a fraction of an inch, ensuring they were perfectly parallel to the edge of the mahogany table. Sunlight streamed through the bay window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and the thick, viscous pool of dark, brackish water that covered the entire floor of the drawing room to a depth of four inches.
By Tim Carmichaelabout 13 hours ago in Fiction
The Tuesday It Rained Inside
The first drop landed in my mashed potatoes with a soft plip. I didn't flinch. I didn't look up at the ceiling. I simply scooped the wet potato into my mouth, chewed, and swallowed. It tasted like starch and cold water.
By Edward Smithabout 15 hours ago in Fiction
