#literary short stories

[tofubutter27]

Sweet nectar a taste from the devil’s kiss

Fragrant scents its presence fills the air

The red hands crawl deep into my skin

My soul burns wild like hellfire

In glorious ecstasy

A moment of eternity

[angadgautama]

Never try to fool those with whom you have often shared a drink.

[purplecowbell]

If only one of my posts gets read by amateur authors let it be this:

SUBMIT YOUR WORK TO THE TOP PUBLICATIONS FIRST AND WORK YOUR WAY DOWN!

What do I mean by top? Standards of quality, audience, pay rate, legal contract; it can be anything. What matters is that you set the metric you prefer and aim for the top.

I say this because most new authors think that when submitting short stories, or flash fiction, or poetry, you need past credentials to publish with the highly-ranked publications. That's probably true but the logic is backwards. By the time you're good enough to publish in the highest ranking magazines, you've probably already published in a lot of others. Don't settle, you have nothing to lose.

Let's look at two scenarios. One in which you believe in your writing and one in which you don't.

The confident writer starts submitting to all the top publications. They submit, wait for a rejection, and submit again to a different one. They slowly work down the line until finally they hit the very top of the range of publications that are willing to accept their work. They now know what market they have a chance in and what markets to read from to improve.

The insecure writer starts submitting to all the unknown/unpaid/unvetted publications. They need to build credentials before they can submit to the preferred publications, right? If they don't get scammed out of rights they slowly move up the line of publications. They stop when they get accepted by the very bottom range of publications that will pay them the least amount, or give the least exposure, and think themselves lucky. And now they find themselves gaining much less confidence, and much less understanding of the markets, than if they started from the top. They'll have markets they believe they have to learn from when really they've surpassed them.

Even in the worst case publishing scenario: only one market accepts your publication at the very bottom, the only thing that is lost by being confident is your time. With any other publications willing to accept your work, you're guaranteed to get the better deal by being confident. Starting from the bottom is only self sabotage.

You may get more rejections (or even fewer than you think), but if you keep your head up and keep pushing, it'll be better for your writing and your confidence in the long run.

Besides, you'll probably be scammed less if you start with the ones that everyone trusts.

[cryinginmelodrama]

I can’t even say your name without feeling the weight of it, like something heavy and sharp pressing into my chest. Every time it leaves my mouth, a little crack appears, somewhere deep inside, splitting me open bit by bit. And when I hear someone else say it, it’s like being stabbed all over again, the way my throat tightens, choking on something bitter and swollen. Your voice—no longer a presence, not even a memory but more like the shadow of a memory, hovering at the edges of things, part of the furniture, part of the walls, but nowhere solid. It haunts me. It’s the kind of sound that stays lodged in your bones, rattling there like a sickness. I loved you. I stumbled through that love blind, too drunk on it to notice the violence hiding in the cracks. That’s what we were, weren’t we? Knives, sharp and glinting, dipped in sugar. You tasted it all, didn’t you? Sick and violent love. But not the kind of violence that comes with fists or screaming. No, it was quieter than that, softer, almost gentle. A blade dipped in honey, slicing me apart while I was too dizzy with love to feel it. Did it kill you too? Did it tear you apart the way it did me, piece by piece, until there was nothing left?. Your name, it’s like a hurricane, spinning inside me, trapped behind my ribs, ripping me apart from the inside. I brace myself, as I always do, each time it escapes into the world.Tell me—why do I feel like I’m drowning every time I hear someone else say it? Why it feels like watching the hurricane swirl, powerless, trapped in this helpless loop of a life where you never leave. But then, you’re never really here.

[gennsoup]

It was still early spring, but the steaming hot air that enveloped me was more reminiscent of summer, and memories of childhood vacations suddenly rose up in the back of my mind. It was always the same when I detected the scents of summer. It would be the same for anyone, their sense of smell responding to the summer scent that linked back to the memories of vacations, bringing up vivid, nostalgic scenes.

Sayaka Murata, Eating the City

[novel-nook-blog]

Let's share our projects together!

What are you currently working on? Is it a novel? Short story? Novella?

What genre is it? Tell me about your characters, where did you get the idea for your book? Let's share our projects here together ✨.

My project A.N. came to me thanks to homework for my uni in the winter term. We were supposed to write a short story and that's when I came up with the idea for the Angels of Night. I wasn't planning on continuing the story. I tried so many new methods, like writing from third person perspective (until then I wrote only in first person), multiple POVs, writing about angels, and more. It was just something to school that was never supposed to continue. I was working on a whole different project at that time that I wanted to finish. There just wasn't a place for something new.

But my friends kind of wanted to know more. I had the whole story in my head, I knew what happened before and what would happen after. So I started telling them, because they were curious and I guess that's when I realised I wanted to finish it. I want to write the beginning and the end.

I have a whole post about this story prepared, so you'll have to wait a little bit to read more. But let me know what you're currently working on, I'd love to hear about all your stories💗.

[shootingscar]

moodboard 3

"I just stood there admiring the beautiful union of the ocean and the sky far ahead. But then I felt something poking on my back, as if someone pointed a sword at me. I turned my head to see it was indeed a sword. I wouldn't mind though, because it was him who was holding the sword."

- dreams to reality

[poetessurielle999]

"Please let me kiss your sweet lips, please don't let my tears kiss your grave."

A SHORT [UNPLANNED] STORY BY A. "URIELLE"

There was a man who didn’t like strawberries, though he had never eaten one.

He never wanted to.

Not long ago, someone complained about how the strawberry he ate last night tasted sour, so sour it was almost impossible to call it a strawberry.

He told that person how foolish he was.

That was the last time he heard from his companion.

Whenever he saw strawberries, he remembered nothing of their flavor, but everything felt bitter. That’s why he didn’t want to eat them. They had already left a bitter taste in his mouth without ever touching his tastebuds.

One day, he saw a familiar face with black wings, flying as if the wind tasted sweet and savory. He flew like a dove freed from a cage, like he could reach the moon.

But despite that, the companion flew toward him—not to the skies, not to the heavens, but to him.

Seeing the familiar man made his heart break.

He found himself running toward him, emotions he thought had long faded rushing back. It felt as if he was meant to feel only for this companion, as if only this companion could make him feel anything at all.

He felt everything.

He felt anger. He felt sadness. He felt like the world would collapse if his companion wasn’t near. He felt guilt. He felt disgusted with himself. This was his companion, who was meant to soar high, and yet here he was, selfishly wanting to cage him in an embrace.

And when he saw his face, he wondered what strawberries really tasted like.

The winds whispered something into his tears, like a tickle of happiness, and suddenly his cheeks were enveloped in warm hands. Too warm. He loved it too much.

He loved him so much.

And so, he stopped running. He leaned in, let his lips feel what the sun would feel like on his skin. He let it flow through his body, let himself finally know what strawberries tasted like.

And it was sweet.

He looked into the clear black eyes of his companion, surprised, but even his cheeks reminded him of strawberries. Now, he loved seeing those strawberries more than ever.

"It tastes sweet," he said. "The strawberries."

"You never tasted one."

"Can I taste them again then?"

And perhaps he did. Maybe he wanted more. Strawberries. He loved them.

He loved him.

"Longing and loving too much, too less, too late.

A. "Urielle"

[academic-vampire]

I’m writing an essay about Poe’s short story, “The Black Cat”—mainly the fact that it is told from a prison cell as a sort of confession. And as I was writing my essay, I realized how obsolete the reader is to the story.

That instantly reminded me of Camus’ book, The Fall, as the reader is not crucial to the narrator. The narrator does not require a reader.

In both stories, the narrator simply attempts to justify themselves to themselves, not to the reader. In a way, both stories are an attempt at self-exculpation, and I find it fascinating.

[princesskealie]

taking my mom to the doctor again tomorrow~ please send any good vibes/prayers/thoughts her way that all goes smoothly! 🙏🙏

[fraglance]

[tofubutter27]

The blood petals that fall off my skin,

I wreathe them into a crown upon my head.

The blue rivers that dance in my eyes,

I forge them into jewels upon my heart.

[kissedbyghosts]

Black Wings

I transformed myself into a murder of ebon birds, their tenebrous wings battering the air as we ascended in a burst of dark feathers.

Up we leaped past heaps of bones to soar over rivers of blood whose garnet depths coursed in jagged veins to a distant sea. We followed their branching paths to this sanguine expanse where we saw, amid the haunted waves, great skeletal beasts sloshing and wailing in the wine-colored swells. Raven-swift, we darted across the raw expanse until basalt cliffs jutted into view.

Beneath this chorus of giant knives, the Vermilion Sea was churned to an agonized pinkish foam, the coast’s tidal orifices flecked like rabid mouths.

Further inland we flew, crossing carnal fields of gnawing flowers whose narcotizing fragrance pulled at our desires and begged us to dream.

There, the tired wind’s laborious breath carried us slowly over the fleshy blooms to a forest of pale trees. Their ruby leaves glistened in the wan light like drops of crimson misery as the smooth flesh of their twisted limbs winked with eyes that bore witness to our passing. Beyond them, we crossed wastes that wept with milky marshes. Pumping our wings in a storm of black pinions we rose higher above their troubling miasma and rode updrafts that bore us toward the crooked shadow of distant mountains. These cut through the haze like a great carnivore’s teeth and gave the impression of being swallowed. Onward we flapped, coming at last to circle about a titanic edifice of impossible antiquity. It gleamed gun-metal-black in the cool, distant light of an indiscernible sun. Dark and ominous the tower loomed, its massive length driven like a spear through the world. We entered the structure in a whispering rush through an organically shaped window. Within was a spiraling labyrinth of iniquitous geometries. Insane corridors of pulsating flesh whose membranous doorways opened onto rooms red and glistening as fresh wounds.

The great tower’s lofty vertex was shrouded in the tattered gauze of lamentable clouds, yet at its peak, which rose just above them, was an open court surrounded by monolithic pillars. Near its center was an august and ominous seat of angular stone.

Upon it sat a niveous vision, her dusky eyes glittering in the anemic light, her full, wet lips the color of blood.

She reclined luxuriously there upon her monolithic throne, bare as a sword save for torrents of jet hair that issued from her exquisite head to coil about her pallid face like dark serpents.

A shadow of my shape surged out of the vortex of black birds who swirled madly, a cacophonous maelstrom whose mass then coalesced before her. Having robed myself in human form, I stepped forward and knelt humbly before her.

“Rise”, she said. I did as she commanded and rose to my feet. “Speak,” she said, “tell me your heart.” Trembling with fear and lust, I spoke, “I have crossed worlds of pain and desire to seek you. I have known you in the night as my lover and my mother. I have known your body in the hollowness of my form and tasted your mouth in the spaces between lives. I would know you if I knew no other. You are the chrysalis of doom, the womb of eternity. I will only to will your will, my Queen.” She smiled and beckoned me forward, “Come here and kiss me”. A storm of joy and terror assailed my heart. Nervously, I stepped forward, suddenly viscerally aware of her presence and the beauty and power that she commanded. Just as light falls into black holes, I went to her. Our lips approached, and, meeting, formed a singularity. Then, she gave me the gift of her True Name, but I found I could not utter it. I wanted to sing it, so glorious it was, but I immediately choked as I tried to speak it aloud. Gasping violently, I grasped my throat and fretted with my tongue, but I was struck mute and cursed to die.

Despairing, I fell at her feet and struggled dismayed. Then, suddenly, the universe seemed to tumble in on itself, as if suddenly unmade, until there was nothing. Not anything. Just absolute, unnamable, unfathomable formlessness.

I was no more. No thought was self, no such concept was there, nor need of it in that perfect aphotic eternity.

And then, suddenly, violently, I was torn from her womb and born into a flowering, effulgent chaos.

In horror and awe, I worshipped her, and she loved me, and by us worlds became.

From us sprang gods, civilizations, and countless empires rose and fell, until at last, all that remained was the glittering abyss and its endless cold silence. I saw myself reflected in her eyes then and knew us to be the same: a luminous self-reflecting void, a dreaming abyss of eternally self-annihilating beauty and terror. As I opened my eyes, space and time expanded, and the darkness laughed as I was filled again with light. © JM Tiffany 2024

[lecoindecachou]

The werewolves in the Mercyverse are like <3 lycanthropy is a metaphor for having periods but we're misogynists <333 we call revealing our existence to the world our Coming Out but we're homophobes <333

[cryinginmelodrama]

i try to write but nothing comes out except your name. i try to smile but my eyes burn thinking about the last time you made me laugh. i look at the moon all night but she doesn't answer my questioing glares. i look for you in every person that i meet, in every shadow that caresses me, in every voice that reaches my ears. But you aren't here. the person who made me smile who made me laugh who made me dream things i had never dreamt before. He is gone. i reach for him inside you but i come back up empty handed. You've killed the person who belonged to me, who was mine before anyone else's. you said you've changed and i wanted to shake you back to your senses. how could you take him from me how could you steal my love from me. he wasn't yours to take back. he was mine first.

[gennsoup]

"To love is easy; to be loved, as if one were real, on the order of others: fearsome mystery! Unbearable responsibility!"

John Barth, Menelaiad