Fatal Serendipity
Bio
Fatal Serendipity writes flash, micro, speculative and literary fiction, and poetry. Their work explores memory, impermanence, and the quiet fractures between grief, silence, connection and change. They linger in liminal spaces and moments.
Stories (86)
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How to Ruin a Day in Five Tracks (and Accidentally Save One). Content Warning.
Not every hymn belongs to God. Some belong to the grifters. Music is supposed to be art, and art isn’t meant to be pretty. It is supposed to move, create, destroy, heal. You fuck to it, scream with it, and if it works, it unsettles. As cliché as it sounds, it "comforts the disturbed and disturbs the comfortable."
By Fatal Serendipity5 months ago in Beat
Asphalt Years
The seat grips my legs, vinyl hot enough to brand. Hands slip on the wheel, sweat running fast, darkening the grip. Tar rises sharply; ink stings the air. Out in the lot old men haul chairs from trunks, metal shrieking, women hoist cardboard painted with the same demands. They settle in, knees braced, sweat dripping down their throats. The scrape of legs on asphalt hits again and again until it feels like the protest is hammering itself together.
By Fatal Serendipity5 months ago in Fiction
Apocalypse, With Peaches Part 1. Content Warning.
The water pulsed again, one sudden blip of pressure, sharp as a snapped rubber band, then settled back into its usual stream as though it hadn’t just made Simplicity Grace want to commit a federal crime against plumbing.
By Fatal Serendipity5 months ago in Fiction
The Boy With Half a Name
She noticed it first in his voice. He came in from the backyard, cheeks still flushed, cuffs heavy with grass. Her name rose on his lips and faltered, the sound snagging in his throat like a word left too long in silence. He lingered there, eyes narrowed, head tilted, as though the missing part might drift back on its own.
By Fatal Serendipity5 months ago in Fiction
The Equinox of Shadows. Top Story - September 2025.
The evening of the autumnal equinox settled across the playground with the color of ripe plums. Abigail darted past the swings with a group of children at her heels, her braids flying as she ran. Feet thudded against packed earth. A ring of girls skipped rope near a tree stump, their chant rising like birdsong. Two boys tore through the tall grass, leaping roots and flinging handfuls of leaves at each other as they ran.
By Fatal Serendipity5 months ago in Fiction
Spines. Content Warning.
Winnie leaned toward the mirror in her narrow bathroom, fastening the tag with her full name, Winslow Cooper, the letters too solemn for the face that studied them back. She pressed her collar flat, gathering her cardigan. Beyond the window the street waited, the hour of buses, bakery vans, stirrings of light. She swung her bag over her shoulder, locked the door, and stepped into the cold. The air nipped her cheeks and hurried her steps toward the library.
By Fatal Serendipity5 months ago in Fiction
one time the toaster told me to forgive my mother so now i only eat cold bread. Content Warning.
I sent the essay at 2:43 a.m., the hour that makes everything sound like a vow. The air pressed against my skin with that humid, indifferent weight that makes you feel examined. The apartment held its darkness except for the screen’s light and the toaster’s small orange eye. It had started to buzz at odd intervals these last few nights. Each time it did, I stilled and fixed my gaze on the screen, as though ignoring the sound might erase it.
By Fatal Serendipity5 months ago in Fiction
