Mystery
When the Streetlights Come On
Nobody had to tell us to be home before the streetlights came on. We just were. Not because we were good. Not because we listened. Kids don’t work like that. We rode our bikes too far. Let the basketball roll into the street. Climbed fences we weren’t supposed to touch. Skinned our knees. Lied about where we’d been. Came home sweaty, filthy, and half wild.
By Tifani Power about 6 hours ago in Fiction
The Architecture of the Void
In the city of Oakhaven, the most important things are the ones we agree not to see. Julian was a master of the peripheral glance. It was a skill honed over forty years, a fine-tuning of the soul that allowed him to navigate the world without ever truly looking at it.
By Edward Smithabout 7 hours ago in Fiction
The Lesson
I had just deplaned in Austin after a torturous flight from Sacramento. The weather had been bad when we lifted off and didn’t seem to get much better throughout the flight, with an unexpected delay in Vegas that lasted more than three hours. I was already wound up tight for this trip, a work gig that was going to involve either me or someone else losing their job, so the tension of the delays didn’t help me much. Turbulence makes me nervous, and I could definitely feel my shoulders and my gut paying the price. Needless to say, when the plane finally landed, I was more than ready to disembark.
By David Muñozabout 7 hours ago in Fiction
THE CORNER HOUSE
The mail carrier never walked up the path. She'd pause at the edge of the sidewalk, toes aligned with the crack where concrete met grass, and slip the envelopes through the slot with a practiced flick of her wrist. Sometimes they caught. Sometimes they fluttered to the welcome mat, which had faded from red to something closer to rust. She never went to retrieve them.
By Edward Smithabout 14 hours ago in Fiction
The Weight of a Feather
The sun hadn't yet cleared the jagged teeth of the basalt cliffs when Elias began his morning ritual. He stood before the mirror, checking the leather harness that crisscrossed his chest. It was worn supple by decades of salt and sweat. He adjusted the buckles, ensuring the iron-grey stone fastened to his small of his back was centered. It was the size of a prize-winning pumpkin and weighed exactly eighty-four pounds.
By Edward Smithabout 14 hours ago in Fiction
The Window
The glow was the first thing everyone checked in the morning—not the sun, which was unreliable and messy, but the steady, cool blue of the glass. Every home was a gallery of these illuminated rectangles, windows that offered a view far more curated and pleasing, than normal human optics could receive from the unfiltered world that hid behind everyone's' walls.
By Meko James about 14 hours ago in Fiction
