Did the reflection in the mirror blink? She turned back, silence. She looked back again, the reflection was gone. "I'm not gone," a whisper said. She lost consciousness, the last words echoing in his ears: "I'm here."
About the Creator
Yasemin Yiğit Kuru
an engineer who loves reading and writing
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More stories from Yasemin Yiğit Kuru and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Dark Dream
Step by step, I walked through the narrow streets of the desolate neighborhood. Most of the buildings around me were in ruins, some even on the verge of collapse. A few street lamps were barely lit, casting a pale yellow light around. Finally, I stopped in front of a building that was said to have historical significance and looked like an inn. This was the place where I was supposed to meet the man I had spoken to on the phone.
By Yasemin Yiğit Kuru2 years ago in Fiction
There's A Hole in My Bucket
It’s a well-known fact that Liza Dufresne was always the brains in the family. She was the one who always came up with the brilliant schemes the Dufresne kids carried out when they were younger. Like when they tricked Mrs. Claybourn into paying for a trip to Disney World. Liza convinced her that their parents had been kidnapped and were being held for ransom for the total price of three tickets. In reality, they were away on a weekend getaway for their anniversary. When they returned, Liza told the Claybourns that they did not like to talk about the ordeal. Their parents never found out how they got the money. Mrs. Claybourn never found out that the Dufresne parents were never really in any danger.
By David E. Perry3 days ago in Fiction
The Whispering Mist of Blackwood Bay
The fog didn’t roll into Blackwood Bay; it inhaled it. It started at the jagged teeth of the lighthouse rocks, a thick, curdled white that smelled of wet iron and old secrets. By noon, the town was gone. Not destroyed, just erased from view. Elias stood on his porch, the wood groaning under his weight. He had lived through sixty winters here, but this was different. The mist was humming. It was a low, vibratory sound that felt like it was coming from inside his own teeth. He remembered what the old-timers used to say: “When the fog speaks, don’t answer.”
By GEORGIOS KOULOURIS6 days ago in Fiction
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