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Showing posts with the label Short Story

The Trap

The evening air was cool and the night quiet as John got into his BMW convertible on his way to pick up his girlfriend Anna on a date, he was running late. The top was already down, a final, unnecessary effort to appear carefree. He had promised Anna they’d be at her favorite Italian place by 8:30, and his phone’s digital clock glared 8:41. He cursed under his breath. It had been his fault—he’d lost track of time playing video games. He peeled out of his driveway, his tires gripping the asphalt with an urgent squeal. As he sped down the residential street, his mind was a blur of excuses he could offer. An important work call. Unforeseen traffic. Anything but the truth. He reached the main road, a wide, empty stretch that curved around the outskirts of town before leading into the city center. He pushed the accelerator, the powerful engine roaring to life. Just as he was about to hit the straightaway, a flash of movement caught his eye. A small dog, a terrier mix, darted into the street...
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The Trap

The evening air was cool and the night quiet as John got into his BMW convertible on his way to pick up his girlfriend Anna on a date, he was running late. The top was already down, a final, unnecessary effort to appear carefree. He had promised Anna they’d be at her favorite Italian place by 8:30, and his phone’s digital clock glared 8:41. He cursed under his breath. It had been his fault—he’d lost track of time playing video games. He peeled out of his driveway, his tires gripping the asphalt with an urgent squeal. As he sped down the residential street, his mind was a blur of excuses he could offer. An important work call. Unforeseen traffic. Anything but the truth. He reached the main road, a wide, empty stretch that curved around the outskirts of town before leading into the city center. He pushed the accelerator, the powerful engine roaring to life. Just as he was about to hit the straightaway, a flash of movement caught his eye. A small dog, a terrier mix, darted into the street...
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Clara- A Short Story

The afternoon sun cast long, lazy shadows across the quiet suburban street as Clara pulled her car into her uncle’s driveway. She was early, which was unusual, but her cousin had called to cancel their lunch date, and with a free afternoon stretching before her, Clara decided to surprise her uncle with a visit. He was a retired librarian who lived a life of quiet routine, and she knew a spontaneous visit would delight him. Clara grabbed her purse from the passenger seat and walked towards the front door. The house was quiet, too quiet. Her uncle's garden, usually so full of vibrant colors and the buzzing of bees, seemed still, the flowers drooping slightly in the afternoon heat. As she approached the door, she noticed it was slightly ajar. Odd, she thought. He was meticulous about security. Pushing the door open, she called out, "Uncle Arthur? It's me, Clara!" Her voice echoed in the silent house. A sense of unease prickled her skin. The air felt heavy, and a strange ...
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Lee the plumber-A Short Story

Lee’s hands were a testament to his trade: calloused from wrenches, stained with the ghost of rust, and capable of a surprising, gentle dexterity. His small plumbing business in the quiet town of Havenwood had always been honest and steady. People called him for leaky faucets, clogged drains, and frozen pipes in the winter. He'd fix the problem, offer a kind word, and leave, often finding a freshly baked pie on his truck's seat as thanks. He was a dependable, if unremarkable, figure in the town's rhythm. But Havenwood was a town of old pipes, and one brutally cold February, the entire network began to fail. First, it was the elementary school, its ancient boilers groaning to a halt. Then, the nursing home's water lines burst, a catastrophic deluge that displaced the residents. The town council, cash-strapped and in over their heads, was paralyzed. They knew it would take a large, expensive contracting company to fix the extensive damage, a company Havenwood couldn’t aff...
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Jordan Rivers-A Short Story

14-year-old Jordan Rivers walked down the street of Autumn Lane, not knowing that this would be her last. The afternoon light, the color of weak tea, filtered through a canopy of turning leaves. The air was crisp and carried the scent of woodsmoke and decay, a signature of the season. She had walked this same route to and from school for years, a path so familiar it had become an unthinking motion, a second heartbeat. Today, the ordinary felt special. She saw a squirrel bury an acorn with frantic, single-minded focus. The red leaves of the maple in the Miller's yard seemed to burn with an inner fire. Jordan’s own breath plumed in front of her face, a small, fleeting cloud of warmth. She was thinking about a boy in her math class, the way he laughed when his pencil broke. She felt the fluttery, electric feeling of a future that seemed to stretch out forever, a landscape of endless possibilities. That’s the cruelest part of fate: its silence. It never sends a letter, never whispers a...
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"What Could Go Wrong?"-A Short Story

  "What could go wrong?" Dr. Elias Thorne muttered, a mischievous grin playing on his lips as he flicked the final switch. The holographic matrix hummed to life, projecting a detailed, three-dimensional blueprint of the human brain into the center of his sterile laboratory. Around him, a dozen blinking red lights pulsed with a rhythm that felt far too much like a frantic heartbeat. This was it: his chance to map the mind, to trace the very contours of consciousness itself. His assistant, a perpetually nervous young man named Leo, chewed on his lower lip. "The ethics committee had some, uh, concerns, Doctor." "Ethic committees don't innovate, Leo," Thorne scoffed, running a hand through his thinning gray hair. "They regulate what has already been done. We are pioneers."  Leo's concerns were valid. Thorne’s machine, the Cerebro-Aetheric Mapping System, or CAMS, wasn't just observing. It was designed to actively interact with neural path...
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Anger-A Short Story

  Dust swirled in the beam of light from the high school's overhead projector, a silent galaxy of particles suspended in the dead air. Lucas stared at it, not at Mr. Harrison's meticulously boring PowerPoint on the Louisiana Purchase. The anger was a slow burn, a low-frequency hum vibrating just beneath his skin, and the dust motes were dancing in its heat. The bell rang, a shrill, jarring clamor that made Lucas wince. His classmates exploded into noise and motion, books slamming shut, chairs scraping back. Mr. Harrison called out, "Lucas, stay for a minute." He didn't need to ask why. The pop quiz was still on his desk, its surface a smear of red ink. A fat, angry D- minus. Lucas had stared at the questions, his brain a fog of useless facts, and the anger had started its slow creep.
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Professor Double-A short story

  Professor Alistair Finch was a man of impeccable precision. In his Monday, Wednesday, and Friday life, he was a respected classics professor at a prestigious university in the city. He lived in a sleek, modern brownstone with his wife, Eleanor, a quiet, discerning woman who curated an art gallery, and their teenage daughter, Clara, a talented violinist. Their life was an elegant waltz of academic dinners, symphony nights, and weekend trips to the English countryside. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and weekends, Alistair became something else entirely. He was a cheerful, laid-back high school history teacher named Al Finch in a seaside town an hour away. Here, he shared a comfortable, cluttered bungalow with his wife, Maria, a warm and boisterous baker, and their young son, Leo, a budding soccer star. Their life was a lively, messy folk dance of Little League games, beach bonfires, and Maria’s famously delicious Sunday feasts. For nearly two decades, Alistair navigated this double life w...
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Looking Out the Window-A short story

  The air was still and heavy, the kind of summer night where a distant car alarm sounds like a personal affront. Jayden, unable to sleep, had drifted to the window, resting his forehead against the cool glass. The streetlights cast a sickly yellow glow on the empty street below, illuminating the familiar rows of parked cars and manicured lawns. Everything was ordinary, peaceful, and utterly boring. He was just about to turn away when a flicker of movement caught his eye. A figure emerged from the shadows of the old oak tree across the road. It wasn't a neighbor coming home late, but something else—something that moved with an unnatural, jerky gait. At first, Jayden thought it was a drunk person, but as the figure entered the pool of light, his breath hitched. It was a man, but his limbs were bent at impossible angles, as if every joint were a hinge swinging the wrong way. The man's head was cocked to one side, his face hidden by a curtain of matted, dark hair. The figure shamb...
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