Microfiction
The Self Locked Inside. Top Story - December 2025.
Long has she awaited your arrival, roaming the dark halls of night with nothing but the glittering stars for light. Draped in a cloak of steel, her skin a sheen of deepest crimson - she's stared at her reflection for decades upon the shattered mirrors, looking for a sign that she was made for this destiny, this lonely fate.
By Amanda Starks3 months ago in Fiction
One Step Closer
One Step Back, Two Shadows Forward by Theodore Homuth I should say upfront that I’ve never been one to put stock in signs or omens or any of that ethereal nonsense. People who swear by them—they’re the type who scan the world like it’s a cryptic crossword puzzle, connecting dots that were never meant to be linked. A license plate number that matches your birthday. A single white feather drifting down onto a cracked sidewalk in the dead of winter. Dreams that linger like half-remembered conversations, whispering promises of destiny when they’re really just your brain recycling yesterday’s stress. I’ve always been wired differently, grounded in the tangible, the stuff that leaves marks you can’t ignore. Rent receipts crumpled in my pocket, stained with coffee rings from too many late nights. Calluses etched into my palms from gripping a mop handle too tightly. The dull, insistent ache in my lower back after pulling a double shift at some dead-end gig, the kind that makes you wonder if your spine is plotting a quiet rebellion.
By Theodore Homuth3 months ago in Fiction
5 Minute Fiction: Ring
Snow fell from the deep gray sky. Huge flakes alighted on branches and coated the sidewalk. I stood gazing up at the dense clouds and patches where the starlight shined through. The cold bit at my exposed fingertips but didn’t hurt enough to persuade me to go back inside. Beyond the muffled televisions and thrilled shrieks of children, the sighs of cars over the damp pavement, and the distant hum of caroling was the silence I craved.
By Valerie Taylor3 months ago in Fiction
The Cinder’s Weight
The hearth has stopped its singing.white-ribbed and glowing with a soft, pulsing ache. I am watching the last flame— a tiny, blue-tongued ghost licking the underside of a charred knot. It is fragile, a translucent ribbon fraying against the weight of the coming dark. There is a specific silence that lives here For hours, it was a roar of gold and defiance, consuming the dry cedar of our history, the splinters of every word we ever threw into the heat to keep the room alive. But the wood is spent now. The logs have collapsed into a skeletal geography,
By Awa Nyassi3 months ago in Fiction
