Fantasy
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 Smith7 days ago in Fiction
Solitary Proofs
The morning light fell across the hallway in pale rectangles, catching the frames one by one. Each held a single face: Grandmother at twenty-three, serious beneath the brim of a summer hat; Father as a boy, squinting into the sun on the pier; Mother on her wedding day, veil lifted just enough to show the careful smile she practiced for weeks. Every photograph was solitary. No arm around a shoulder, no hand clasped in another’s, no shared laughter frozen mid-breath.
By Diane Foster7 days ago in Fiction
As Wise As an Owl
As Wise As an Owl Deep in the quiet green woods, where a clear stream moved gently over smooth stones, there lived a great white owl with wide golden eyes. She watched the forest from a tall branch, seeing far more than most creatures ever noticed. The animals of the woodland spoke often and loudly, yet the owl remained mostly silent, listening and observing the world around her.
By George’s Girl 2026 8 days ago in Fiction
Whispers Beneath the Ash Tree
The first time Elara heard the whispers, she was twelve, crouched beneath the gnarled branches of the old ash tree that crowned the hill behind her grandmother’s house. The air smelled of wet earth and burned wood, a memory of last night’s fire still clinging to the soil. The voices were not loud—never loud—but soft murmurs that trembled through the leaves like wind through strings.
By Ihsanullah8 days ago in Fiction
The Room Still Smells Like You: Letting Go After Heartbreak
It had been three months since he left, three months since the door clicked shut behind him for the last time. And yet, the apartment still smelled like him—cologne, faintly floral, a trace of coffee and early morning sunlight. She breathed it in, each inhalation a knife pressed gently against her chest.
By Ihsanullah9 days ago in Fiction
Víðarr Óðinnson
Maybe I shouldn’t have come; most here don’t even know my name. To many, I am invisible, but to the one who has summoned me, I appear in all my fearsome splendor. Alas, woe to anyone I am summoned against, for they shall feel the sharpness of my blade before they see me.
By Mother Combs9 days ago in Fiction
