Microfiction
Made for Love. Content Warning.
2086 — Tokiton, Eurasia. I open my eyes for the very first time. I take a look around. I can assume I am at a laboratory — pale white walls, big screens emitting blue light while displaying codes all over, at least five holo-boards with calculations written on them. And many, many silvery robot arms like a spider queen hovering above my face. What's a spider?
By Carolina Drouven17 days ago in Fiction
The Conference Room With No Windows
Every Monday at 9:00 a.m., the team met in Conference Room B. It had no windows. No one remembered when it had stopped having windows. Most people were sure it used to have at least one. Possibly two. Facing east. Or west. The direction shifted depending on who was speaking. But now the walls were seamless, uninterrupted drywall, painted a neutral beige that never reflected enough light to confirm the time of day.
By Lawrence Lease18 days ago in Fiction
FUZZY BEAR
*Fuzzy Bear: A Hug You Can Trust* In a cozy little forest surrounded by tall trees, colorful flowers, and chirping birds, lived a teddy bear named *Fuzzy*. Fuzzy wasn’t like other bears—he wasn’t wild or loud. In fact, he wasn’t even real. He was a soft, stuffed bear with button eyes, stitched paws, and golden brown fur that was always warm, no matter how cold the night was.
By Ibrahim Shah 19 days ago in Fiction
Roses and Raven Feathers
With labored breaths — lumbering along the path of fallen leaves — he pushed on. After many long days of wandering, hunger and loneliness were finally taking their toll. Benny Jetso hadn’t seen one sign of what been looking for, but that wasn’t going to stop him searching.
By Gabriel Shames19 days ago in Fiction
Dust, Rust, & the Sifting Sand Blues
Dust, Rust, & the Sifting Sand Blues "It’s not about losing; it’s about the sovereign act of starting again." This visual album is a 26-year "blues scheme" finally brought to life. I first built these dreams in a sandbox back in 2000, but it took two decades of sifting through the dust of the river and the rust of the city to truly hear the melody.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 19 days ago in Fiction
The Third Floor Stays Warm
The thermostat in Apartment 3B had read 91 degrees for six weeks. It was not an aggressive heat. It didn’t press against the skin or suffocate the air. It existed the way a number exists on paper—quietly, insistently, without asking permission.
By Lawrence Lease20 days ago in Fiction
Relic
Every Saturday morning I write her a letter in place of a cup of coffee. The kettle can wait. The stove can click itself awake without me. What matters is the scrape of the chair across the tile and the pen uncapping with that soft, hungry pop, like the day taking its first breath.
By SUEDE the poet20 days ago in Fiction
