Short Story

Pastel Nightmare
The Johnsons were the quintessential suburban family. Laura, her husband Mark, and their two kids, Ellie and Ben, loved going all out for the holidays. Easter was no exception. Pastel-colored eggs, garlands, and bunny decorations adorned their home every year, but this time, Laura wanted to make it extra special.
By V-Ink Storiesabout 16 hours ago in Fiction
The Burrow
The Thompsons had planned their Easter weekend months in advance. A family camping trip seemed like the perfect escape from the monotony of suburbia, a chance to bond over s’mores and nature hikes. The secluded Maplewood Campground, nestled deep in the woods, promised tranquility and picturesque views. They had no idea what awaited them beneath the ground.
By V-Ink Storiesabout 16 hours ago in Fiction
The Cult
There is a group of people who no longer know what civilization was like. They had chosen to venture out into the woods, to follow that voice that called to them, asking for an army to build. They gave in, each of them possessing an unknown darkness that hid within them. They were afraid to touch this part of themselves, but the voice claimed that they would be welcomed with open arms, into a fold where they would no longer feel alone.
By Emy Quinnabout 18 hours ago in Fiction
The Man Who Waited Every Evening
Every evening at exactly six o’clock, the old man sat on the same wooden bench outside the hospital. Rain or sunshine. Winter or summer.
By Khanabout 18 hours ago in Fiction
The Ghost on the Map: My 2,000-Mile Journey to a Paris That Isn’t There
If you type "Paris" into Google Maps, the algorithm will dutifully drop a pin on the City of Light. It will show you the winding Seine, the star-shaped sprawl of the Place de l’Étoile, and enough crêperies to feed a small army.
By George Evanabout 19 hours ago in Fiction
Someone Else’s Memories
Case #4721-B Status: CLOSED Date: October 31, 2047 Officer: Detective Sarah Vance, Homicide Division Victor Mendez died at 11:47 PM on October 29th from a single gunshot. His body was discovered in his study, slumped over his desk. Gun belonged to his wife, Margaret Mendez. She confessed immediately.
By Tim Carmichaelabout 20 hours ago in Fiction
The Chair by the Window That No One Sits On Anymore
The chair is still there, facing the window, exactly where it has always been. Dust gathers on it now, quietly, patiently, like it knows no one is coming back to claim it. Some absences do not leave empty rooms. They leave furniture behind.
By Salman Writesabout 21 hours ago in Fiction
How I Turned My Life Around After Hitting Rock Bottom
I never imagined I would find myself in a dark abyss, a place so deep that even the smallest glimmer of hope seemed utterly unreachable. Yet, life has a relentless way of humbling us, and I reached the lowest point of my existence. The journey to recovery was gruelling, painful, and slow, but looking back now, I realize that every setback was a stepping stone toward the life I live today.
By Omid khana day ago in Fiction
My Dead Father Sent Me a Voice Message at 2:13 AM — And It Exposed the Darkest Secret of Digital Immortality
The last message arrived at 2:13 AM. Not a notification. Not a call. A voice note. From my father. My hands froze. My father had been dead for three years.
By Omid khana day ago in Fiction
Love Ends, Memories Don’t
Love didn’t end loudly for us. There was no final argument, no shouting, no dramatic goodbye that could be replayed in my mind. It ended quietly, almost gently, like two people slowly letting go without knowing how to say it out loud. Like a candle burning out in an empty room, leaving darkness behind without making a sound. I still remember the first time we talked. It wasn’t special or planned. Just a normal moment, the kind that usually fades into nothing. But somehow, it stayed. Your words felt familiar, like I had heard them before in a dream. Your laughter settled somewhere deep inside me, warm and comforting, as if it had always belonged there. We didn’t fall in love suddenly. There was no instant spark, no dramatic realization. We drifted into love slowly, quietly, without noticing the moment it began. One conversation turned into many. Late replies turned into sleepless nights. And before I knew it, your name became my favorite sound. We shared the smallest things, and they meant everything. Late-night talks when the world felt peaceful. Inside jokes no one else would ever understand. Comfortable silences that spoke louder than words. You knew my fears without me explaining them. I learned your moods from the smallest changes in your voice. For a while, love felt effortless. It felt safe. It felt permanent. We talked about the future like it was guaranteed. Like love alone was enough to protect us from everything that could go wrong. But love isn’t always destroyed by betrayal or hatred. Sometimes, it fades. Sometimes, it’s defeated by time, distance, and silence. By conversations we postpone. By feelings we ignore. By problems we promise to fix later, until later never comes. We began to change, slowly and quietly. Smiles required effort. Replies took longer than they used to. Conversations felt heavy instead of exciting. “Good night” became a habit, not a feeling. And I noticed it, but I chose to ignore it. I told myself it was temporary. You told yourself the same lie. We both believed love would survive on memories alone, without care, without effort, without presence. It didn’t. The day everything ended was painfully ordinary. No dramatic scene. No cruel words. Just honesty wrapped in exhaustion. “We’re not the same anymore,” you said softly. And I didn’t argue, because deep down, I already knew. We had become two people holding onto memories instead of each other. Love ended that day. But it didn’t leave alone. The memories stayed. They stayed in the songs I still can’t skip. In places I avoid but remember perfectly. In moments when something funny happens and my first instinct is to tell you. Then reality hits, and I remember you’re no longer part of my life. I moved on, or at least that’s what I tell people. I learned how to smile again. I learned how to laugh without looking at my phone. I learned how to live without you being part of my daily routine. But moving on doesn’t mean forgetting. Because memories don’t move on. They wait. Quietly. Patiently. They show up when I least expect them. In the middle of the night. In the middle of happiness. In the middle of meeting someone new. Sometimes I wonder if you remember me the same way. If my name ever appears in your thoughts without warning. If you ever miss the version of yourself you were when we were together. If you ever think about how close we came to forever. I don’t want us back. Not anymore. Some stories are beautiful because they end. If they continued, they would lose the meaning that made them special. Love, sometimes, is meant to be remembered, not repeated. Still, I am grateful. Grateful for the love that taught me how deeply I could feel. Grateful for the heartbreak that taught me how strong I could become. Grateful for the memories that remind me I once loved honestly, without fear. Love ends. People change. Lives move in different directions. Dreams shift. Promises fade. But memories don’t. They stay quietly inside us. Not to hurt us. Not to hold us back. But to remind us that what we felt was real. That once, someone mattered enough to leave a permanent mark on our hearts. And sometimes, that reminder is enough.
By Jack Noda day ago in Fiction
The Quilt Maker
The Quilt Maker The woman shifted and shuffled the different cubes of fabric. All of them held different colors, patterns, and shapes. Each one was a different emotion of things. She didn’t know what to put together, but she never really knows. This was part of her process.
By David S. JohnsonWilliamsa day ago in Fiction
The internet.
If you post something on the internet, it never goes away. It’s true and it's not. When you post something on the Internet, it gets written to the hard drive of a server.
By Guy lynna day ago in Fiction