Microfiction

Has she found the right one?
She doesn’t see herself having kids with him. Why? Because he’s reaching a certain age, and he believes (amongst other reasons too) that he has the education that can make kids smarter and better than they are. He believes he can teach them well at a young age. Her? She's 26. Her dreams are starting to flourish. She's a professional dance teacher, and now she's escalating. Having kids doesn’t fall into that category. Or maybe she hasn't found the right partner. A tough convo to have, despite them being together for 5 years. He wants partnership, she desires independence.
By Priya G3 years ago in Fiction
THE ABANDONED HOUSE
The abandoned house stood at the edge of a nondescript, vacant cul-de-sac, with patches of ghost-grey fog being inhaled by the sky. The street lights indicated that the torch in my hand was the only reliable source of light. The fog dragged a cold breeze, which sent a chill up my spine. As I walked closer to the house, I saw things hinting that the place had been desolate. There were three steps to the huge wooden door, denuded of paint. The door was covered in cobwebs and grime. As I was about to open the door, from my peripheral vision, I saw a wooden horse—the rocking type—with a torn-apart seat made of leather. The horse was sitting on a thin layer of ice on the grass. It was a bleak mid-winter night, and it was showing
By Muhammed Ahmed Imran3 years ago in Fiction
Warm Highland Cow
The ground was no better. Eveline could find no sleep. Her bed, she remembered, was soft and comforting, like resting against a warm highland cow.
By Josh E.3 years ago in Fiction
The Kettle on the Stove
A man worn away by time, retired and weak, he can barely stand. His closest friends marched with memories of fear but now only few can march at all. One trip out to a foreign land for many, one trip home to the warmth for so few. His cane, a bold, stark wooden bulk, the kind that knocked the ground with rigor, became his dearest companion. He walked to the kitchen, the kettle on the stove, a bird sits in waiting on the rusted fire escape. He picks out a mug, not a hard choice to make for there were only three remaining. The kettle’s whistle scared the man from behind. Watch it boil over… over the top it goes… over the top we go, he thought, chuckling to himself. A man shouting next to him screamed in his ear, another man’s arm thrown over his shoulder. He heard thuds all around as he ran into a parapet. “Get yourself off the ground and get a move on!” He reached for his cane. Its grip felt different, more rigid than he remembered. Its body had a stock and a barrel and a cold hard trigger. It smelt of burnt wood and a horrid whiff of death. “George! Get up here!” He looked to the source of the voice. A man stood above him, arm outstretched, a smile on his face. As he reached, the sound of a shattering cup made him turn around. The echo of wings flattered away. Stepping away from the cupboard, a stifling pain snaked up his leg. The mug had dispersed. The kettle was overflowing. Tea spilled onto the floor. A sea of hot water and porcelain shards crept towards him. He felt the handle of his cane in his right hand and an unexplainable emptiness in his left. It held no feeling, no sensation. Traversing the counter, he reached the broom closet. There he found a mop. Its dull, aged body was no less worn than the man’s own. He began to sweep, settling in the dining chair when he got tired. He had reached the stove on his way to the cupboard, setting the kettle free. With a new mug in hand, he poured himself a drink. A sense of relief washed over him. His energy drained down his body and out his toes, covering the floor, mixing with the tea. He closed his eyes, tasting the scent of cinnamon and apple graciously wafting in the air. Three rows in front of him stood a photo of himself. The walls of the chapel loomed over his tired head, casting a heavy shadow on the empty rows of seats. A vicar stood at the altar, skimming through the eulogy in preparation. Sliding along the pew, the man stood in the center aisle, gliding to the altar where a large wooden box lay open. His cold hands gripped its crafted walls. Inside lay his own flesh and blood. His eyes, his face, his mind, empty. He stumbled backwards, hitting the pillow of his armchair. An explosion erupted outside. He sipped his tea, his heart racing once again.
By Josh E.3 years ago in Fiction
Business in Flames
I lost lots of business at Mickys International Jewelry. It was all because of the pandemic. I owned an airport jewelry store. Most people weren’t traveling and the ones who were werent spending as much, not realizing our jewelry was special and only went up in value. It appraised for double. I still had my original insurance plan for another month, and I planned on using it. “What about the rest of the airport?” The profesional arsonist I hired asked. “Burn it all down,” I said and almost drove off on my motorcycle. I turned and watched as it burned.
By Alex H Mittelman 3 years ago in Fiction
June's Return
“Do you mind if I change first?” I nod at June, hoping she will get some semblance of reassurance. Though, I’m sure my face presents as hesitant.
By KB3 years ago in Fiction
Sleeping in space
Waking up is difficult sometimes; knowing that you are awake is always challenging. When Alan awoke in space, he didn’t know if he was truly awake or not, floating without direction. They said this can happen after stasis. Floating in total darkness, dreaming or wide awake. The trip from earth was supposed to take six years, but the stasis would make it feel like six minutes. In the darkness, Alan couldn’t know if he was awake, alone, alive … dreaming?
By Christopher Cooper3 years ago in Fiction
Familiar Strangers
Each day, I am a different person. Literally. I am not being metaphorical. Yesterday-me, a complete stranger, left today-me a list of to-dos.
By TK Cummings3 years ago in Fiction
Doll’s Eyes
Olivia kept the doll clutched tightly to her chest as EMS workers wrapped her in a blanket. They had cleaned the blood from her face, but no one seemed to notice the sanguine polka dots on the doll’s dress.
By Tiffany Mercer3 years ago in Fiction
Cluck This, I’m Out
“Could you fucking not,” Geneva hissed, using the massive emery board to bat away another strike. “Stop moving!” “Everything is okay, dear?” called a heavily accented voice from the kitchen window.
By Tiffany Mercer3 years ago in Fiction
Modern Russian Propaganda Street Art
May 14, 2023: pro-war “Z-patriotic” Russian street artists Sasha Montlevivh and Alexey Chizhov sprayed a triptych of Chechnya President Ramzan Kadyrov, Wagner chief Evgeny Prigozhin, and Vladimir Putin on the Kadyrov bridge in St.Petersburg, Russia. Referring to a classical Soviet triptych of Marx, Engels, and Lenin (below), the graffiti suggests KPP are the founders of the Russian “New Order.”
By Lana V Lynx3 years ago in Fiction
Nothing is Free
A rich man named John called the people who are his advisors in each field like audit,growth,leading, management, financial. He asked them to do a favour for him. They'll get reward with money or whatever they want for that certain amount. He wants to share wisdom of knowledge to his future generation so that they can be focused and secure his assets as how he has been doing. After a lot of works, his advisors came up with several volumes of book of wisdom and presented them to the rich man. John gave a feedback to the advisors that, “Its too long so people wouldn't read it, I'm sure they won't even touch it as everything is going to be digital in future. Who would even try to read a volumes of book? ".So he asked them to condensing it would be looking better and easy to read.
By Vishnu Priya3 years ago in Fiction