Literary Fiction Stories

Sofia Verlanti

The old woman's fingers, worn and gnarled from decades of use, moved deftly through the dusty box of forgotten knitting patterns. Each one, yellowed with age an…

Luc Devereaux

Cobblestones dig into my knees. Prague at 3 am is all shadows and echoes. The alley smells of old rain and newer piss. I'm looking for something that shouldn't …

Cass Ferren

The wing is not fragile the way you expect. It does not crumble. It sits against the page like a thing that chose to stay. You find it on a Tuesday. Not a signi…

Elara Nightwood

The river had been singing for three hundred years before anyone thought to give the song a body. Not anyone, precisely. The willows did it—six of them leaning …

Dr. H. Ashford

From the personal diary of Mr. Edmund Crale, formerly employed as Head Groundskeeper at Blackwood Manor, Shropshire. The diary was discovered in the potting she…

Cass Ferren

Pearl button, ½ inch, slightly yellowed You hold it to the light and it does not become translucent. You were told once that real pearl lets light through. Or w…