Short Stories

The ferry groaned, its wake spreading in slow, deliberate ripples that dissolved into the grey expanse. The urn’s cold metal pressed against Bridie’s side, grounding her as she gripped the rain-slick railing. Through the shifting mist, the island emerged—muted greens and sharp cliffs softened by distance. It seemed smaller now, diminished by memory or time. She hadn’t wanted to return, but obligation had its own weight, as unyielding as grief. The air carried the tang of peat smoke and damp earth, heavy and familiar, as though the island itself was drawing her in. From the pier, two paths led inland….

Arden had spent most of her twenty-seven years navigating life in grayscale. Her choices were practical, her actions measured, her world unadorned. In her teens, she had been a promising art student, but her mother’s illness consumed the family’s energy and finances, leaving her brushes untouched. Now she worked as a bookkeeper, days reduced to neat columns of numbers. She liked the precision, the way everything lined up. Yet sometimes, her pencil would stray, sketching soft arcs in the margins of her ledger—small, thoughtless shapes that she erased quickly, each time surprised by the tug of what she’d left behind….

The shoebox was worn at the corners, more heavily than Peggy remembered. The removal men had found it when they’d reluctantly searched the attic. Her fingers traced the fraying twine, trembling against its familiar texture. She lingered for a moment, then murmured, “The letters.” “What’s in it, Mum?” Diane stood by the window, her arms crossed against the answer she already knew. Peggy loosened the knot with care, the twine fraying at its edges. “Letters from my George, from his Army days. He’s still writing to me, you know,” she said, her tone peaceful but distant. “He always finds a…

The subway car hummed through the dark tunnel, fluorescent lights flickering in uneven rhythms. Lina shifted her weight, fingers curled around the handrail. A melodic chime played over the speakers. Around her, bodies swayed with the train’s motion, phones cradled close, books tilted just so, eyes carefully lowered in the familiar dance of strangers. She exhaled slowly, pressing her heel into the floor. Another late night. Another ride home. Her eyes drifted to the route map, following the colored lines downward—until they met his. He sat near the door, a scarf draped loosely at his neck, one hand resting on…

Matthew parked where the road gave way to gravel, the hills rising sharply on either side. The air was cooler here, carrying the earthy scent of grass and damp stone. He lingered in the stillness, his eyes on the much-folded Ordnance Survey map resting on the passenger seat. The map was worn at the edges, creases softened and threatening to tear. The penciled loops, the faded names—it had been with him and Carol on every ride that summer. He unfolded it now, letting the familiar names spin out before him. Castleton. Edale. Hope. In the corner, her handwriting sprawled untidy…

Darkness held Seren—not like an embrace, but like forgetting. Each breath (or was she breathing?) scattered like dust in a vast nothing. Time moved around her—or through her—leaving only the faintest trace of what had been. Before the garden, before the forgetting, there was a hospital room. The beeping of a monitor, slow and steady. Fingers tightening—then slipping—from hers. A name—hers—spoken with urgency. Then, silence. A sensation flickered—a thread slipping loose, delicate and uncertain. Fragments surfaced: a voice calling her name, the sharp scent of antiseptic, the weight of absence pressing in. She reached for them—or thought she did—but her…

Usually, I leave old stories untouched, letting them remain as little time capsules of where I was when I wrote them. But, as with my own version of Robert’s Rules, there’s nothing stopping me from revisiting one—distilling it down to its essence and writing it again. About seven months ago, I wrote a minimalist piece called Years of Sweet Laughter, born from an old trick to overcome writer’s block. Now, in a better flow with my craft, I decided to revisit it. I’d love to know your thoughts—feel free to drop a note in the comments below. Years of Sweet…

Marie tugged at the closet door, its hinges resisting like something unwilling to let go. Morning light angled through the window behind her, stretching into fractured beams that illuminated the dust. Rows of clothes hung undisturbed, their colors muted with disuse. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d reached for most of them. Her fingers drifted to the back of the closet, pausing on something soft. Pulling it free, she held up the sweater. Red once, its color had faded to something closer to rust, and the cuffs were threadbare, edges unraveling. The wool was lighter than she remembered, as…

Micah settled onto the bench, the wood rough and uneven beneath him. It shifted under his weight, the faint creak breaking the quiet. The air smelled of rust and damp earth, thick with the weight of long-settled time. Above him, the sign for Haven Crossing hung crooked, its letters faded to a reddish blur. He stared down the tracks, where the rails dissolved into the pale haze of the horizon. For a moment, he let himself imagine it: the train emerging from the distance, the faint hum of its approach traveling through the ground. Andre would step off, his bag hanging loose…

When a friend posts the following message on Facebook, what is one to do? Sooo, I got an Amazon package last night. But I didn’t order anything.It is absolutly addressed to me.Inside?A package of tube socks and a large bag of 100 condoms.My first thought was, maybe someone is playing a joke on me?Second thought, maybe this belongs to my ex husband…Or the universe is trying to tell me something?? But what?! As you may have guessed, my response was to write a short story! Delivered by the Universe Marnie found the package on her doorstep, unmarked except for her…