"None of this is real."

That’s what the old man said as he played a haunting melody on his flute. The waves crashed, the stars shimmered, but he insisted—nothing was real.

I wrote a short story exploring the idea that reality might just be a dream. If you enjoy thought-provoking fiction, I’d love to share it with you.

Let me know if you’d like to read it!

I hate going to the store.

My mom takes me by the hand, and leads me through the double doors. I’m starving. All of the food around me is teasing me like a grocery store prude.

I know the drill. Stay by mom, pick out our weekly dinners, and return to the checkout station. Guards stand at each aisle watching the women file in so meticulously, they’re like birds flocking for the winter.

Mom always lets me get sliced strawberries. There in a little plastic can marinated with sugar. Produce always costs more, so it’s a real treat.

Mom picks up cans of beans, corn, and rice. These are the cheapest items we can buy, and leaves us with enough time to get home before the alarm sounds.

After we’ve collected all our weekly groceries, we head to the checkout lines.

Men stand in all blue uniforms, covered from head to toe. They wear a belt with blue evil eyes cross stitched in. I always meet their eye.

Mom walks to the line with the shortest wait time. I watch as all the women ahead of her sort out their groceries from non-perishables to produce. It is imperative what line you pick- this could cause a grocery trip to take significantly longer. I watch as the woman at the front of the line turns around to face us.

She’s skinny, impoverished really. Why would she try and buy so much produce? No way the guards would let her go.

The guard comes up behind her, sliding his hands underneath her shirt. Rubbing her breasts, he pushes himself into her backside. Looking frustrated and displeased, he steps away.

“Put your produce back” the guard says

“But, you’ve already touched me? It’s mine now” the woman meekly manages to whisper”

“Want me to charge you more?” The guard whispers back, fingering her lips.

“Please, no. This is fine” and she leaves without her apples.

“Eliza, step forward sweetie”

I have to pay close attention now. I’m 12, which means in one more year it will be time for me to grocery shop.

Mom steps up to the guard and places down all our groceries. She faces me.

The guards love my mom, as her breasts are quite large. I never understood it, but sometimes they slide her another thing of produce on the way out. She thanks them profusely and will even kiss them sometimes.

She says she hates it. But it’s what we must do to live.

The guard pulls my mom’s shirt up, exposing her bra. My mom begins to protest.

“Hey, I'm only buying the strawberries it doesn’t cost this much”

”Shut up” the guard says, undoing her bra and groping her breast. This goes on well past the 2 minutes it’s supposed to until he finally allows us to leave.

“I woke up this morning more disturbed and terrified than any nightmare I’ve had before. I was shaking, covered in sweat, and my heart was racing so fast that I could feel it pulsate throughout my body. I felt like I ran a marathon being chased by some unknown horror. And worst of all, I can’t even remember a single detail of my dream.

My head is killing me now, it hurts to look at anything. I feel so lightheaded and dazed. My stomach feels like it’s a mix of being in stitches, and the worst possible hunger pangs I can imagine. And my skin, it’s starting to feel itchy. I don’t know what’s happening to me, despite sleeping in, I’m exhausted. But I don’t want to go back to bed. I don’t want to see that nightmare again.”

The young frightened boy told his mother sitting at the foot of his bed.

“I think I’m going to rest my eyes for a moment, just to help my headache a bit. I just need to get some food, that’s all. It's just one quick nap.” He drifted off to sleep, but for long.

A few moments later, Jim Harrison woke up screaming at the top of his lungs. His headache was worse, he had felt it everywhere now. His eyes, ears, nose, and even the young man’s teeth were in immense pain. The hunger pangs grew far worse than he could have expected, it felt like something ripped out his stomach and he hasn’t been able to eat in two weeks. He could hardly feel anything else in my body as it slowly grew numb. All the poor boy could manage to do was scream and cry. He finally realized he wasn’t in his room anymore, but he was in a sterile hospital room devoid of color, energy, and life.

“What’s wrong hun?!? Doctor!! What’s happening to my son?” Jim looks around, his heart is beating like a jet engine, and he turns around to see an IV injected into his frail arm, and a horrified mother who looks like she’s been sobbing for days on end.  Not to mention a terrified doctor. The doctor looked directly into the frightened boy's eyes, and covered his mouth trying to hide his disgust and terror at what he’s looking at. He looked over to his side, signaling something to someone outside the room. By the time he turned back to Jim, the boy was staring directly into the eyes of fear.

“Ma’am, step away from the boy, nurse!! Get in here now!” A nurse rushed in, putting her arms over the frightened mother, “come now, it’s gonna be ok, we need to leave him be for now.” His mother snapped back “my son has been asleep for 15 days! He finally wakes up and now you’re telling me to go? What the hell is wrong with you?!” 

His eyes start to fade in and out, as he looks around more confused than the poor soul has ever been in his entire life. His mom continues to shout as he tries to stay awake. He looks at his milk white skin, it’s gotten paler somehow, it almost looks like moonlight. “Jim!! Jim honey!! Stay with me!!” He looks back at his mom, she’s distressed and uncontrollable sobbing. “Please help him, he’s my only family I have left…” Jim tries to reach up to her, but doesn't have the strength to even lift a finger.

Faintly he hears the doctor in a cold voice. “Nurse, 7812”. The nurse nods and takes out a needle and injects it into his moms neck. His mom starts to calm down, she slowly begins to fall into the arms of the nurse. She looks at her son and smiles one more time before closing her eyes. 

Before he could react, the child began to violently cough, more violently than he has ever before. With every breath more rough and scratchy than the last. One last last cough sent something out of his mouth, and it landed on the nurse across from the room. She began to scream in agony as the scent of burning flesh fumed the air. 

The sound of her screaming almost blocked out the audible sizzling and melting of her upper lip, nose, and left cheek. Not long after a black sludge began to drip from his opened mouth, somehow it had no effect on his own skin. As it dripped down to his chest, it tore right through the fabric and down his bed to the floor. And from his floor to the next and the next until he could no longer hear the distinct sound of that sizzle melting through stone, metal, and only God knows what else came into its path.

“Get her out of here, bring me in more nurses, we need to restrain this subject! Don’t forget the vile! This subject needs more testing!” Three more nurses ran in, and they strapped him down with thick leather straps. One wore a special set of gloves held out a metallic looking cylinder. He brought it to his face and he coughed one last time before vomiting. This time a thick stream of coagulated black liquid rushed out of the boy's mouth, overflowing the cylinder. The excess dropping through the floor again.

With every breath Jim took, he felt it spill out over his lips. His hearing started to fade, almost as if water was clogging them. And as his vision darkened, he had the sensation of crying but it was thicker, and it started to burn.

“Sedate him, but keep him alive. We need to test him more. Get a transfer to Harmak prepared.” His eyes began to feel heavy, his vision starting to burn and his hearing nearly diminished.

The last thing Jim Harrison ever heard was the worst phrase anyone would want to hear in a hospital. “Thank you for making it, Father Enrico, he’s right over here, are you ready to recite his last rights”. 

The American is a noir thriller told in flash fiction chapters.

A NSFW audio thriller about n American expatriate in France finds himself caught between competing criminals, U.S. intelligence services, and a Corsican who just wants to find his girl.

In this episode, the placement of a corpse is discussed as the killer is shadowed.

Apple | Spotify | Red Circle | Author's Page

In the shadowed realm where Lady Death reigned, her touch was swift and unerring. Yet, her eternal routine was disrupted the night she encountered Sylas. Their fates intertwined in a garden bathed in moonlight, where Sylas’s art captivated her. His paintings pulsed with vitality, challenging the very essence of death. Drawn to him, Lady Death unveiled her true form. Sylas, undeterred, gazed beyond her veil. Their dialogues flowed like the timeless currents of the river Styx. As time wove its tapestry, Lady Death grew tethered to Sylas. She defied destiny’s harsh decree, extending his mortal span. However, the cosmic balance could not be altered. Sylas’s life force began to wane. Lady Death mourned, her sorrow echoing through the void. With a sorrowful resolve, she approached him. Sylas greeted her with a serene smile. “Beloved, our moments together were a blessing.” With a tender kiss, Lady Death released his spirit.

“She didn’t take it.”

“She figured out what it was?”

“No. She said she wasn’t tired, didn’t need anything to help her sleep. I think she’s just worried about the baby.”

“Well… she was right to be worried in this case. It wasn’t just chamomile. You said nothing that might tip her off? Nothing about me preparing it?”

“Grandmother, I know she’s a problem, but do you really think this is necessary?”

“Of course. She could ruin you with this child, and I won’t have some slimy underhanded slum girl destroying my grandson.”

“But… killing her?”

“Killing her? No. I’m not trying to kill her. Just get rid of the child. And… well, I’ll just say she’ll have a headache she won’t soon forget.”

“Does she really deserve that though?”

“Of course she does! Tell me. What do you feel for her?”

“Anger. Resentment. Fear. Distrust.”

“Strong emotions. And what provoked them?”

“You know as well as I…”

“Say it boy.”

“She drugged me. She took me. She… she’s carrying our child, God, grandmother, you can’t really think -“

“She cares less for the child than I do. She’s told you herself. She wants the child just so she can steal part of your inheritance, ever since she learned that your mother’s father is in poor health.”

“But still.”

“No buts about it. This will end much better for everyone if it ends now. Now, here is my latest plan, and if you aren’t as weak-willed as you were with the tea, it will surely work…”

The high, cold tundra of Utah was a perfect place for the Saints to fight the sorcerer, Wu.  It was away from their settlements, so would draw the man-shaped thing away from the innocent.

And this was good. The monsters Wu could conjure were terrifying, but the Saints had their faith in God to fortify them. With the icy wind blowing in from the east, the Revelator held his Bible high and prayed loudly, letting the men hear the Word of God. Each prayed and shivered, knowing that what they faced was a in league with Satan and thus no longer a man. Spilling its blood would be no sin.

They would need every ounce of faith the Revelator could bestow. Nothing unsettles a man quite like a house-sized scorpion.

www.matthewcmclean.com

Maggie sat by the window, the rain tapping softly against the glass as she stared out, numb. It had been three years since Mark had passed, though it felt like the world had stopped the moment he slipped away. She remembered how it started—small, subtle. He had been a good man, always full of laughter, always dreaming. They had a life together, plans, hopes. But then the changes began. It wasn’t sudden; it never is. The late nights at work became excuses, and the warmth between them faded like a memory. At first, she thought he was stressed, overworked. But soon, she found the little bag hidden in his jacket pocket. Her heart sank as she realized what it was, and her breath caught in her chest. Her love, her Mark, was slipping away, replaced by something darker, something that called to him with a whisper she could never compete with. She begged him to stop. She cried. She tried to make him see, but the man she loved was already lost in the haze of the drug, and she was powerless. The withdrawals were brutal, the promises empty, and the cycle would begin again. Each time, he'd say he was done, that he was sorry, that he loved her. But it was always just one more time. And then, one day, the call came. The voice on the other end was flat, devoid of emotion. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Fields. We found your husband...he’s taken his life”. The words didn’t make sense at first. They couldn’t. She thought she had more time. But as she stood there in the empty room, staring at the bed they once shared, she knew. It was over. Her heart felt hollow as she walked to the kitchen, her hand brushing against the last picture they had taken together. It was a summer day, years ago, before the drugs took him away. Before she lost him, piece by piece. Maggie sat down at the table, her eyes tired, her hands shaking as she held the photo close to her chest. She didn’t know if she had lost him to the addiction or to the man he had become under its weight. All she knew was that the life she had imagined, the one she had built with him, had crumbled to dust. And now, even the memories of him were slowly fading, just like he had. She never stopped loving him. But somewhere along the way, she stopped recognizing him.

They say when you die you get taken to heaven or hell, right? I found myself in both of these places, I think. One of light and one of darkness. They don't have a name, neither any people there for you to see.

I died on a cold day, the snow had piled up, I couldn't warm myself up, I wonder if my parents ever found my body. I left them a note saying I loved them and I was sorry for not being able to make it home, I hope they find me and understand.

I woke up in a white room, no people around, no sounds, nothing. I wandered in every direction, no end in sight, night and day don't exist in this place i figured. You never get tired here, you never go cold or hungry but I'm lonely. With no concept of time I waited and waited until something happened. And it did. I heard a booming voice from over my head "Despair not, for you are sinless" God? Who was talking to me? An ascended being? I had to answer back, it was my only chance. "Who are you?" I asked timidly, knowing deep inside I shouldn't have talked, I committed a mistake. I'm not qualified to talk to this being, I was sinful.

A hole opened below me, and I dropped for all eternity. I experienced death and rebirth over and over again, I experienced torture, hell isn't a room, it's a fall. Just when my mind had almost left me I stopped falling, and everything for a moment was peaceful once more. A random thought popped in my head, a pity I'll never see the sun again.. I always loved to gaze at it while alive, a symbol of life, an insurance that there is always another day to right your wrongs.

Now I'm in a dark room, it's pitch black all I can hear is that booming voice coming from above, this time in a menacing tone "Sinless no more" it repeats occasionally it switches "Sinless and Sunless"

Now I can't see the sun, nor can I remember my life. Who was I?

Congealed wine stuck to the floor, along with scraps of old food and the broken dinnerware that had been flung off the table. The candles had burned down before the broken windows had let in enough wind to blow them out.

On one end of the table was the eyeless woman, hand still grasping a butcher knife. On the other, was the heartless man, the hole in his chest made by something other than the revolver not far from him.

Whatever had happened here, Lt. Bowski was glad he’d missed it.

www.matthewcmclean.com

A nervous yet well-heeled crowd gathered at the pool’s edge wondering what my mother would do.

“He’s fine,” she mumbled taking another sip of her martini.

But I wasn’t. Far from it.

I struggled to keep my head above water. My arms flailed, my legs cramped, my lungs burned as chlorinated water stung my eyes.

I was drowning right in front of her. Her only son.

Finally, my mother casually kicked a life jacket into the pool. God forbid she get her Prada jumpsuit wet and jump in, but I was grateful for anything.

“See,” my mother sneered. “He’s fine.”

This is a tale of cosmic absurdity—a noodle-laden revelation that transcends mortal understanding.

I am a great sorcerer, and one day I found myself battling God—not capital-G God, but something much like that: a cosmic entity with almost limitless power. But not with all the intentions of goodness and love. No, this god comes with something far stranger than goodness and love—it comes with Al dente pasta.

During our battle, I grew to the size of an apartment complex in an attempt to crush this god underfoot. But they only laughed and laughed, saying, "You mustn’t have any brains. You can’t squish me. I’m everywhere—I’m a god!"

"Your head must be full of noodles," the god mocked. And as they spoke these words, I felt something changing. I grasped my head, and my hand came away covered in what I first thought was blood—but it smelled strongly of garlic.

Large clumps of angel hair pasta began falling from my head. My vision slowly distorted as my noodle of a brain began slipping through my skull. But in those moments, before my Al dente demise, I had a realization.

The physicists were on the right track. It’s not strings but noodles that keep the universe together. Incredibly tiny noodles exist within atoms, stretching to unthinkably large noodles connecting galaxies. It’s all noodles. It always has been.

My battle against the Al Dente Deity wasn’t just a clash of power but a gateway to the ultimate truth of existence: the Noodle-verse.

As my angel hair brain fell to the ground, the strands wriggled like living things, fusing with the cosmic entity’s laughter. The universe didn’t just contain noodles; it was noodles. Every atom, every thought, every moment of time was strung together by this divine pasta.

And as my vision slowly faded, I wasn’t defeated but enlightened. With my last conscious thought, I plucked one final noodle from my skull, held it aloft, and slurped it defiantly, becoming one with the cosmic strands.

The god smiled—not in mockery this time but in approval. “Now you understand,” it said, as the universe folded around me, a spiral of spaghetti leading to eternity. I wasn’t just a sorcerer anymore; I was the first prophet of the Pasta Principle.

And somewhere, beyond mortal comprehension, the cosmic entity whispered, “Welcome to the Al Dente Ascension.”

Once upon a time there was a man who posted a story. He had left several comments before, but his post was closed for comments. The man didn't know what to do and decided to write about it.

He stood on the porch, a silhouette against the indigo sky that leaked through the bare trees. The black outline of his shape would blur each time the cigarette was brought to his mouth, casting his face in an orange glow. The cigarette would be brought down and held over the snowbank, letting invisible ashes fall to the white floor below. His shoulders lifted and dropped. His hand lifted. Embers glowed. His hand dropped. A cloud of smoke poured out of his mouth. His thoughts, a million miles away. I wished I could go with his thoughts, see whatever he saw, remember what he remembered, envision whatever it is he wanted. It would be nice to forget about myself.

The cold was spreading throughout the night, radiating outwards like the smoke fleeing his lips. A woodpecker flitted by, rushing to its roost somewhere in the deep woods. I wondered how it would survive if it forgot its way. Would it die out in the cold, lost and alone? The bird is unable to maintain its body temperature unaided in such freezing conditions. It lacks the thick coat of the wolf or of the bear. It is so light that its body wouldn’t even leave a hollow in the crisp snow when it laid down to die. Some animal would come by and pick up the body, crushing the sternum and slender wings between its teeth, and the snow wouldn’t recall a trace of what had laid upon it for an entire night. When the sun came again, bird songs would rise afresh out of their nests and crevices and there would exist one animal who wouldn’t even remember what had stained its muzzle red.

Its happened again.

Oh god...

Oh fuck...

I don't know exactly why I have had this dream but I can describe it to the best of my ability while I have the time left to recreate those events. I was talking to her. I have no idea what happened to me near the beginning of it, but one thing is for certain, she was berating me for something. All the emotion in my body only allowed me to experience what a newborn baby had to feel like. Hopeless in a new world with a bunch of new lights and dark shadowy figures surrounding you. Except there was only one figure and she engulfed the lights. I was giving out hope that somehow this would all come to an end and that she would turn into a loving figure in my life, but no, it did not. It stayed like that and I felt myself diving further into the dream, like a deep sea diver gasping for last moments of air.

Knowing that you would be trapped down in the dark forever.

Lost...

Oh god...

It is said that the Tusk, which hangs over an elaborate, open air mantle of black rock in the middle of Kerowin, has killed ten monarchs. Ten royals dead before casket colored stones, ten dynasties ended as their lifeblood fled into the snows.

They say Kerowin cannot be ruled. Its people are unruly, the type to kill with tusks, who slay monarchs and leave them in the snow with no other ceremony than dark birds descending and holding council over their corpses. A people who bellow into the night and conspire with vanished ancients, their majestic bones lost beneath ice and making the glaciers groan.

Ten monarchs slain by an ivory spear from some dead beast. The bite that cannot be escaped if one bears a crown.

I stand before them now, all Nine and One of the Kerowin Kin, the fire all light and no heat in a cold that robs us of feeling, of sight. The only mark of royalty I bear, is a letter from the Sovereign of Victon Vict, a title as faraway as it is warm in this place of ice. My letter says, with all the divine mandate vested in the Sovereign, empowered by his dancing bureaucrats and fat eunuchs two simple, almighty words.

Before I speak them, engulfed by the whiteout, I glimpse the killing tusk. I sense the Kerowin Kin, swaying. They know my Sovereign has no say over the lawless ice, but they listen for amusement or pity anyway.

Two words.

The Tusk glints.

Keep it.

Have you heard The Attic Man, The Attic Man, I say?

For if you've never heard The Attic Man, then I'd turn and walk away.

But if you dare to listen to the tale that I say,

Then it might just keep you up at night, Until the break of day.

Have you heard The Attic Man, The Attic Man, I say?

He comes at night, The Attic Man. He can't be put away.

He watches while you sleep at night, and that is where he'll stay.

Don't go looking for The Attic Man, or Death will find your way.

Have you heard The Attic Man, The Attic Man, I say?

Listen to his footsteps, that is how he preys.

Once you hear his footsteps cease, then you move away.

Have you heard The Attic Man? Then I'm afraid, it's time to play.

Have you heard The Attic Man, The Attic Man, I say?

Do not linger in the dark, have the lights guide your way.

Just be careful, my dear friend, this will not keep him at bay.

Have you heard The Attic Man, The Attic Man, I say?

Have you seen The Attic Man, The Attic Man, I say?

Don't dare peek, turn your back and make a silent prayer.

So, you've seen The Attic Man, The Attic Man I say?

Keep the light and don't dare stray, it almost cometh day.

The Attic Man has seen you

He's on his merry way

Let's hope he's not too hungry

Upon his feasting day.

"YOU CAN'T HIDE FROM ME! I'VE SEEN ONE TOO MANY WORLDS! THE PAIN! THE SORROWS! THE EMPTY PROMISES WE ALL KEPT FROM EACH OTHER TO MAKE YOU THINK YOUR REALITY WAS SAFE! I KNOW IT ALL!" The sounds of betrayal and heartbreak played in his voice like a somber song. What can I say? What can I do? I feel my own pain knowing damn well there's nothing to be done. "I WAS NEVER TRYING TO HIDE!" I yelled feeling myself break as the storm raged on. "I WAS ONLY TRYING TO PROTECT YOU!" "PROTECT ME?! FROM WHAT?! YOUR LIES, YOUR INSECURITIES, YOUR LACK OF SELF CONIFDENCE?! PROTECT ME FROM WHAT?!" The sounds of the raging storms seemed to louden with each word he said and made me feel like my voice was too quiet even if I yelled as loud. "I ONLY WANTED TO PROTECT YOUR HEART FROM THE TRUTH! FROM MY OWN FAILURES! I LOVED YOU AND THAT WAS THAT BUT YOU KEPT RUNNING MY WAY! YOU'RE A FOOL, EVEN IF YOU'VE SEEN WORLDS! We lived in this world...but you kept trying towards the end" I say in disheveled tone. I felt a fist strike my face as I fall to the ground. As I try to catch myself back to what has happened, I felt a kick to my lower rib causing me to convulse. "You are a fucking piece of shit" I hear him say. It was like I could feel his anger, his frustration and his pain. New emotions kept adding to the old and now it radiated more intense. As I tried to catch my breath I say in a wheezing voice, "I only..." Before I could continue my sentence I felt another kick right in my gut. "I ONLY WHAT?! HUH?! I ONLY WHAT!!!" Another kick hit me again, though this time I felt as if I might pass out. "No, you don't get to get out that easily. We are still one in the same and before you finally accept your defeat I want you to answer the thing you couldn't answer. Why the fuck do you hide and let us take the blame?" Tears flooded my eyes trying to say what I couldn't even admit to myself. "I was...too scared... I was...weak...I only wanted...peace..." I say inbetween shortened breaths. "Is that it? Is THAT WHY WE SUFFERED! BECAUSE YOU WERE TOO FUCKING WEAK!" I felt his hands grab my skull and slam it to the ground. My head spun making my world go black. At times it felt like it was happening off in the distance. At others it was excruciating. Like a blistering headache that would never stop. His voice went muffled at some point...or was it never there? As my world turned to nothing my last thoughts were I'm sorry.

I stand on a ledge and I feel the wind kiss my face. Theres nothing I can do. Thats all I can tell myself. The sounds of the waves and the cackling of the fires. I've seen too many worlds and never given enough tools to make a change. The smell of the ocean and the rise of the smoke fill my lungs to make a complex smell. How was it? A voice speaks to me. How was your failure and ever growing resolve? How do I answer this voice? Silence lays claim to my being as I just stand and accept everything in my world. Just one jump. Or just stay here. Frozen in time. Frozen in now. Who will know of this story but me. Yet as I stay here with feelings of emptyness and a heavyness that fills my heart I know this is my end. How can one find meaning in a complexity that surrounds all?

Hey guys,

I’m new to Reddit and have joined to share some of flash stories I have written in my spare time..

Any criticism or praise on any of my stories are very much appreciated as I have always aspired to be an author.

I would also like to say I also have seem to (with past works at least) lean towards the more negative, and generally unsettling parts of life in my stories. However I will ensure I do put trigger warnings before any respective posts.

I have been told by many friends before (especially regarding the story in which I plan to post first) that I have good writing and well developed characters however I don’t know if they’re saying that because they’re my friends or if it’s because they really do think that.

Thank you! And I can’t wait to meet people from this community!

Birds trill well wishes to one another, leaves rustle in swaying trees. It is a peaceful prelude to the battle that will soon begin.

The atmosphere shifts as warriors gather at the battleground. Each one is filled with anticipation, charging the air with energy. They appear in twos and threes—some arrive alone.

The difference in class is apparent: those with means are outfitted with the best protection; some wear second-hand pieces, weathered by countless others in this age-old dance. A few wear nothing but the simple clothes they own, prepared to risk flesh and bone.

But it is not about the gear or the equipment; it is not about wealth. This ancient tradition transcends all classes, all ages, all boundaries. Singing to the passionate spirit, it equalizes the masses to build a cohesive unit and forge alliances that will survive evermore.

As the sphere is dropped and sticks slap in combat, the war begins, and a young voice screams the battle cry: “Game on!”

He was cold on arrival... I tried everything, chest compressions, mouth to mouth but nothing, not a single thing in this world could bring him back.

At times like these I wonder, what does modern science matter, what good will any of these advancements bring us. Aren't they all just prolonging the inevitable? I've met tons of people, most on the cusp of death, and I've failed time and time again to save them, as a human being I failed them, their loved ones, everything was riding on me and I let them down.

Every night I return home and I drift, I drift off into the darkness of my haunting dreams. Do I really deserve to live on after being unable to save those people? Isn't it my job to save them? And at the worst possible time, they come, apparitions, ghosts of my conscience, the face of every patient right as they were about to draw their last breath. And they speak to me, they tell me about hell, about the torture or they tell me about heaven and the pleasure, but they tell me I'll never get to heaven and I believe them.

I wake in a cold sweat, and I catch myself thinking I should quit this job. But no, I've already killed too many, I can't just go into hiding like I've done no wrong. And it's time to go to work again, see pain, love, pity all on a person's face as they murmur to me that it's alright and that they have lived long and well. Lies. No one wants to die. Even with heaven waiting on the other side.

And now it all weighs heavy on my neck, the guilt it presses on my pride so much it's suffocating. I've always been a proud person, it takes a lot to make me admit wrongdoings but now I can't deny it, I should've kept those people alive, I should've tried harder. But no, what I did never was enough, in the end I always fell short.

These thoughts torment me, I don't remember how long since I've been outside of my house, I have called in sick to work, my boss doesn't think much of it. And I'm thinking of everything, in the end no solution comes to mind, except one. As the noose tightens my thoughts still race, what does it take to save a life?

A person died today. A friend died today. I find their body, cold and lifeless and next to them an old, dusted camcorder. I turn it on, it beeps and comes to life, I feel my hand vibrate. I navigate menus, my hand still trembling but not from the camcorder this time. And I find, I find pictures, pictures of you laughing, crying, of your first birthday, of our first meeting, of your first relationship. I see, I see all of your life inside this old camcorder, and I power it off and now a tear rolls down my eye, I place the camcorder in your cold hands. And I carry on, and I ask myself why, why? Cause you would have wanted me to, right? Someone died today. A friend died today.

It's been a year friend, I visit your grave. The camcorder is there, I know it cannot speak yet I hear everything, all your emotions I hear through an old camcorder. I sit next to your grave, I take a picture of us and finally I tell you, I will always be your friend. My friend lives on, and we are together now, I'm happy, I know it won't last but now sitting next to your grave I am happy. I hope you are happy too friend.

It's been ten years friend, I have gotten old. Your grave has flowers growing around it. The camcorder is now too old, its battery now weak. I'll see you soon friend, it's a long way from here but I'll make it.

And now I'm far from you friend, I lay in a hospital bed. I can't come to you, I can't see those pretty flowers growing around your grave and neither can I see the camcorder. But it's alright, I don't fear anything, we'll be together again. Maybe some pretty flowers will grow on my grave too, and we'll see them from above together this time.

The young soldier stood alone, the white flag heavy in his bloody hands. He had been entrusted to send a message to the advancing enemy as their depleted regiment could go no further.

Surrender was their only possible option.

But tragically he was too late. The massacre had already begun, one that would ultimately claim his own life.

Over a century later a ceremonial flag sits atop the same ridge. Even on the calmest of days, it still flutters in the nonexistent breeze as if moved by unseen hands.

An eternal tribute from the restless ghost of a fallen soldier.

Oh Satan, Here I Am Again

Oh Satan, here I stand once more, With you, life thrills me to the core. The drugs, the sex, the music’s fire, You give me all that I desire.

With God, it’s dull, just rules and pain, Why would I ever want His chain? You demand nothing, no guilt, no fight, Just freedom, pure and full of delight.

So tell me, why do people choose Him, When you give me everything I could wish within? With you, life is raw, a blazing flame, You give me joy with no rules, no shame. Only one thing i can't get, what is it you want deep from within?

I am walking back the same route to my house as I always do, down an alleyway. It is monotonous, and I am bored. My consciousness is nodding off, and my legs walk on their own. My head is empty, and my senses are dialling down. Until the wind catches a scent. It must have come from another time; perhaps it has been hiding away for all these years, because as it brushes past me, my senses erupt. I catch the scent that was resting on the edge of the breeze, and I smell the odour for the first time.

It has a kick like a mule and instantly envelopes my body, and like dynamite in my memory, it suddenly isn't just a smell, it’s an experience - I relive this smell, and I’m back there, in the prime of my youth, on a warm summer’s day, and I can feel it, both on my skin and deep in my heart. I am a child again, and colour seeps into my vision, and the world is true and honest, and I am merry and at peace. It’s not too warm, but I don’t feel cold. The sun is shining so bright, but it’s not in my eyes. The grass is so tall, but it’s not itchy - in fact, it’s comforting. Everyone around me is laughing and playing, and I can hear them call my name. Everything is just right, and I have absolutely nothing to worry about. I am care-free.

Just as quickly as it came, all at once my senses are cut short, and I am back in the alleyway. The air is now bland and dry, and the odour has been blown away in an instant, and the breeze that carried it has gone away to hide behind the cusp of time. I try to sniff around to try and catch the odour again, but I know deep down that it’s gone. Not only has the odour eluded me, but so has my memory, as the surreal experience I just had is now nothing but a hazy, foggy, and patchy souvenir of the golden days of my childhood. However, I am not filled with frustration. Rather, I am hopeful. Perhaps it is these brief instances that keep us here.

Thank you for reading. I've written more stories on my website, but I'm also trying to create a website for everyone to share their own fiction on. Here's a link: https://www.thestoryscape.co.uk/

As the thunder rumbled in the distance, a voice from the shadows whispered my name, urging me to follow, even though I knew I wasn’t supposed to.

"Did Siddharth flip ?"

"He did. Your name did the trick" Sneha said, smiling. "My brother's none the wiser. And-" She laughed, "Hear this - it's at Siddharth's villa !"

"It's on, then.....", More for myself, really. "I'll get my crew -"

"Say.... " she leaned closer. Her eyes searched mine. Of our many meetings, it felt different. Me, maybe.

"I shan't miss this alley. Let's claim our life together. For us." This was it. Perhaps this was the last time. I reached for the kiss.

A moment of bliss, a pact. It passed.

The villa loomed. Enemy lurked inside. The spacious hall was filled. Dinner had been laid. A suited man called out. "Welcome, welcome. How rare to see you in flesh !" " I come in peace, Vijay. It needs to end." He laughed. "Finally ! Sit, enjoy my hospitality !"

Talks proceeded through rich food that none could relish. I looked to Siddharth and my men. They nodded.

Smoke defiled the hall.

Pain blinded me, my arm in tatters. It were my men who lay writhing.

Another volley - remnants fell. Laughs resounded harshly.

"Come on !" I stared, barely upright. Sneha entered, joining her brother. Siddharth executed a flailing figure. "You truly thought she would betray me for you ? Ha !" Vijay shouted. She laughed callously.

I returned the laugh as my legs gave way. I ripped my shirt, revealing my hidden camera - streaming live to CBI.

This wasn't as it was supposed to be, yet they should be satisfied.

My love had been misplaced. She had preempted my betrayal. My atonement was death.

Didn't matter.

My family would be safe under CBI's wing.

It was as I deserved.

Infinite Possibilities (punctuated and edited by Microsoft copilot)

I remember sometimes, or at least I think I do. It's hazy now, fragmented. sometimes, I'm not Here but trapped in a rift of possibility. brief flashes of infinity asserting the true nature of my reality. It all began as most tragedies do—with love. That singular, overwhelming love that transforms you until there's no return to your former self. Then they die, your world crumbles, and you're faced with a choice: do you move on, or do you surrender to grief? I chose grief and vowed to bring them back. I devoured libraries' worth of manuscripts, scoured the internet, and then I found it—the Philosopher's Stone, the great work.

How clever they were to hide the stone's true purpose, to make others think of them as greedy, petty things. But they were not. For the stone is not a stone, and its life everlasting is killing me. The stone embodies possibility itself. I believed I could find a reality where they were still alive. Alas, the stone works from what is, not what could have been. When I used the stone to find my love again, it split me into a web of my own possible futures, each one more futile than the last. Now, I am a fragment within infinite possibilities, but in all of them, it's too late. In timeless moments, my mind expands beyond reality, intertwining with the vast expanse of possibilities. I become more, only to thin out again, scouring the endless realities to bring them back. It was the only thread of me left to hold onto.

if there are infinite possibilities, then there must be a version of them out there. But I learned that infinities come in different sizes—big and small. The moment I realized the true nature of the stone; I became part of that infinite web. I scoured the world, completed the great work, and stared infinity in the face, only to find it lacking. It promised endless possibilities, but every path led me further from my love. Desperation took hold of me. Like a child throwing a tantrum, I vowed to break the cycle. Over countless possibilities and perceived eons, I manipulated the extradimensional paths, forcing reality to intersect. Now, the possibilities converge, What is infinite must be destroyed.

I've made sure of what's going to happen when the stone passes into the confluence. Possibilities had intersected once before, and both were destroyed in a cataclysm that lit the sky of every possibility. If any of me survive the confluence, the cycle will continue. The time is now the confluence arrives, The air hums with a living, electric anticipation. As the stone's of every possibility approach the nexus of intersecting paths, I feel the weight of infinite possibilities pressing in. this time, the convergence will end in destruction. breaking the cycle, I will create something new—an existence beyond grief and love, where the boundaries between what is and what could have been blur, and where I can finally find peace. I brace myself for the impact, for the unknown that lies beyond the confluence. And in that fleeting moment, I hold onto a glimmer of hope, a fragile thread that maybe, just maybe, I can find them again on the other side of oblivion.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if suddenly, without saying anything or changing my expression, I would rise from the table, the whole family gathered around it and jump through the window, just like that, through glass and all. I hear my name and my train of thought breaks easily as it starts. Mother is passing me a plate of veggies. It's sunday and we're at grandpa and grandma's for the big family lunch. Grandma probably woke up sometimes around four in the morning to make everything happen. We are all sitting at the same places, Sunday after Sunday after Sunday. No changes allowed. Grandma is sitting at the end of the table, close to the kitchen, like a guard on duty, next to her, on both sides, mother, my two younger cousins and my aunt.. I should have sat next to grandma, but after my parents divorced a few years ago, I inherited my father's place, next to grandpa and uncle, in the men’s corner. Then my aunt sat in the middle. As I said, mine was an exceptional case, no changes allowed.

The grownups are talking about screw up in local politics and gossip between the volunteers in their group. Neither me or my cousins are interested. There are roughly four years between us and we practically grew up together. Sometimes we are more brother and sisters than cousins. We are eating in silence, listening to pieces of conversations, but we know soon is gonna be our turn, the roast, we’re just there, sitting ducks waiting to be served as main course.

Here it is, we're starting to get carved. Per usual, Maria, my youngest cousin, is the first to go. As smart and quick witted, she is praised for her success on the swimming team, and the delightful good grades in middle school. From my seat I can see her sister silently scoffing over a bite of food. She doesn't have to wait long, she's up next. My aunt can be very competitive and try to push my cousins a lot. Lisa, the oldest of the two, is much more of a softie, a kind soul. She is doing just fine in high school, mostly A's. Yet there she is, lectured about why she got a B in her last test, rapidly followed with her just average times on her last swimming practice.

She answers monosyllabic words over her plate, the last of the green beans moving around, pocked with a fork. I feel for her. She is smart and good, yet there is so much unne pressure on her shoulders. I know she is a person that will probably need more validation than pushing. I’m sure that later, after the dessert she will go cry somewhere.

A brief moment of silence. It's my turn. I reconsider the window option. Here we go, questions about school, about some subject I'm not good at or some marks that are dwindling, they complain that I don't care and that I don't talk, about my feelings and emotions, that I hide behind an inexpressive face, and la di da di da. I don't have any answer for them. Somehow it angers that more. There is no win here sometimes. I just keep eating slowly.

Grandma from the kitchen asks if someone can help her clear the table before dessert. Here is my way out. Till next Sunday. Like a sitting duck.

If you were wandering the streets of New Triumph, you might see - but wait, you’re human. Of course you wouldn’t be wandering around New Triumph. There’s no humans there anymore.

You might head to Albuquerque Square, where massive billboards once played ads for everything from soft drinks to Tab-Pads to diamond rings. Some bits of wiring still hang from the shells of skyscrapers where those billboards hung, but the entire square has turned from cement into a garden of grass and tangled shrubs growing amid cracked slabs of concrete. Vines cover the once-proud statues of heroes that New Triumph’s people had immortalized in stone, and it’s impossible to see who they were under the dense foliage.

You could wander down Fifth Avenue, if you wanted, which was once a place to buy the latest gadgets, get gene modification therapy, or spend your life’s savings on a designer titanium necklace. You would be impressed by the jungle of native and foreign trees that grow in the flower-beds of the median, and even more impressed by how many have invaded the asphalt. These trees wear that fine jewelry on some of their branches now, unaware that the styles are woefully out of date.

You may want to go to the library, just down the street from those high-end malls, to see what you could figure out about New Triumph’s mysterious past. But you’d find only erased magno-tapes. If only they’d stuck with books, you might know what had happened here. Plants don’t grow so deep in the library’s archives, but mushrooms and bats thrive down here. I guess even if there had been books, they’d have been eaten by hungry decomposers who saw the paper as just another bit of dead tree.

Maybe you would reach the old Stadium - maybe you would even know its name. There might be a swoosh of automatic doors, opening to admit entrance - but not to any human, of course. Many deer pass in and out where once they would have needed tickets if they were human, and stare through the space where the vast glass dome had kept the outside out and the inside in.

What happened here, you’d wonder - but why would you wonder when you can see it with your own eyes? Nature came back, and it’s living among the ruins however it chooses. New Triumph seems to love its new tenants, maybe even more than the old ones.