Micro fiction
Write 5 tiny fictional stories, maximum 280 characters each. Any genre. Aim for the kind of story that lingers in the mind long after reading. Something that surprises, moves, or unsettles. Trust the reader: imply rather than state, and let the white space do some of the work.
He keeps the light turning though the sea retreated years ago. At dusk the dunes ripple like waves and beetles tack by the glow. Some nights, far off, a foghorn answers. He logs it, as trained, and doesn't write what he knows it means.
His phone, dead in a drawer, boots up by accident. New voicemail, 1. From the day she didn't come home: traffic, a laugh, “Back soon.” Then the long sound of wind. He presses 9 to save. Again. Again. He does not charge it. He prefers the red flicker to an ending.
The librarian finds a brittle leaf sealing a note in a long-overdue book: I forgive you. Due date: Sept 5, 1979. The young man at the desk shifts his weight like he's been waiting decades. She stamps the card. The thunk sounds like a door closing very quietly.
Fresh snow again: one set of prints to his door, none away. He lives alone. He brings in the milk, shakes off the cold. There’s water on the mat, a second mug warmed by his hand without meaning to. He lays out two spoons, then counts them back to one.
Every night the bathroom fogs. A name appears on the mirror that isn’t the one on the forms. At first the letters wobble. Then a steadier hand. Then a little heart. He buys towels in that color. The forms will catch up. The mirror already has.
At dusk the ocean returns things in order: keys, buttons, rings. One night it rolls up a door, still locked. The town watches it dry. By morning there are fingerprints on the inside. By evening everyone finds a key at home that doesn’t fit.
He leaves future-me notes on the fridge: buy milk, call mom. Then a new hand appears: don’t take 3rd Street. He laughs, goes anyway. Later he finds the crumpled note in his pocket, unfolded, signed in his own hand—left-handed.
Grandpa kept a jar labeled First Words. Inside, slips with single sounds. After the funeral we spill them on the table, trying to make a sentence. They arrange themselves: Don’t—wake—the—bird. Upstairs, something stops singing.
The piano refused one note all summer, swallowing it. On the last night we played in the dark. The missing note sounded once, from upstairs. We listened to the staircase practice every name it had carried.
He kept a list of people he might have loved if only they’d met. Folded soft from years of almost. On the train a stranger handed him a copy, edges worn the same, one new name added at the end. His, in her handwriting.
Her porch light blew the night she left. He never fixed it. At dusk the dead bulb holds a soft, impossible glow, as if someone cups a candle inside. Neighbors call it a quirk. He leaves it be. If it’s a welcome, it already knows who.
The new owners paint over the pencil marks in the kitchen—years of birthdays on the doorframe. Next morning, faint lines reappear, climbing higher than any child ever was. The realtor jokes about humidity. They measure again. There’s a new date.
Her voicemail holds a message from a number of dashes: rain, traffic, her own voice saying, I’m five minutes away. She saves it, sets alarms to five minutes forever. When the bell finally rings, it’s only wind. The message deletes itself.
At 3 a.m., the astronomer finds a star blinking 72 times a minute. She notes an error, goes home. In the mirror, her pulse flickers twice, then stops. Outside, the star steadies. The rest of the sky waits.
The house burned long ago. He still leaves a spare key under a stone. Morning after first snow, the key is warm, damp, smelling faintly of coffee. He doesn’t lift the stone again. Some doors you only open by not opening.
When the house sold, we left the chalk marks on the basement wall—heights, dates. Driving away, the realtor texted: “Did you mean to leave the marks?” We didn’t. We’d painted over them twice.
Each birthday she plays his last voicemail, to remember the voice. This year it answers her. Not words—just a pause long enough for everything she couldn’t say, then the click, as if agreed.
She still buys two apples. When the cashier asks about a bag she says no and slips one into each coat pocket for the walk home, so the house won’t feel lopsided.
The astronomers agree the bright star isn’t moving; we are. In the morning your coffee leans toward a side of the mug it never chose before. You say, We’re passing something large. We both look at the empty chair.
In the library she finds her childhood handwriting in the margins of a book she doesn’t remember. The notes predict every page. The final margin says: Stop reading here if you still want him.
Below are 5 tiny fictional stories, each under 280 characters. I've aimed for brevity, implication, and lingering impact.
1. Echo
In the attic, she found her grandmother's mirror, fogged with age. Wiping it clear, she saw not her face, but a child's—staring back with her own eyes, whispering, "Don't leave me here." She smashed it. That night, her reflection in the window refused to blink. (187 chars)
2. Harvest
The farmer planted whispers in the soil, seeds of secrets he'd buried deep. Come autumn, the crop rose tall: ears of corn that murmured names of the lost. He burned the field, but the wind carried one word to his door—his own. (192 chars)
3. Thread
She knit scarves from memories: blue for first love, red for the accident. When her hands trembled too much, she unraveled them all, thread by thread. In the empty basket, a single strand looped into a noose, waiting. (178 chars)
4. Signal
On the radio, static crackled into a voice: "If you hear this, it's too late." He laughed, tuning away. But the next station played it again. And the next. Outside, the stars blinked out, one by one, like eyes closing. (172 chars)
5. Keepsake
He kept her locket after the funeral, warm against his chest. Inside, a photo of them smiling. Years later, opening it, he found the picture changed: her alone, waving goodbye. The chain grew heavier each day. (176 chars)
Below are 5 tiny fictional stories, each under 280 characters. I've aimed for lingering impact through implication and subtlety.
In the attic, she found her grandmother's diary, pages filled with her own handwriting—secrets she'd never shared, dates yet to come. She burned it that night, but the words whispered back in her sleep, rewriting tomorrow. (147 characters)
The boy waved at his shadow on the wall, but it waved first. Each day, it grew bolder: tying his shoes, eating his lunch. One morning, he woke to find himself flat against the plaster, watching a three-dimensional child skip away. (178 characters)
He planted roses for her in the garden she loved, whispering apologies to the soil. Years later, the thorns drew blood from strangers' hands, and in each red drop, her face flickered—unforgiving, eternal. (156 characters)
Every midnight, the closet door creaked open to a bustling city she'd never visited. She stepped through once, lived a lifetime there, returned at dawn. Now, her children ask why she hums foreign lullabies and cries for names they don't know. (192 characters)
She knitted scarves from memories: blue for childhood laughter, red for lost love. When the yarn ran out, she unraveled her own life, loop by loop, until only a single stitch remained—holding nothing but the echo of who she'd been. (179 characters)
Below are five tiny fictional stories, each under 280 characters. I've aimed for lingering impact through implication and restraint.
In the attic, she found her grandmother's old radio. Tuning it, static crackled into a voice: "Hello? Is anyone there?" Her own words from yesterday, pleading for help. She turned it off, but the house hummed on. (147 characters)
The boy inherited his father's watch, stopped at 3:17—the moment of the crash. He wound it daily, watching time restart. One night, it ticked backward. In the mirror, his father's eyes stared back. He let it run. (168 characters)
Every full moon, the stray cat scratched at her door. She fed it scraps, whispered secrets. When it died, she buried it deep. That night, scratching resumed—from inside the walls. She whispered back, waiting. (162 characters)
He planted seeds in the barren field, whispering apologies to the earth. Spring came; flowers erupted in crimson spirals, spelling her name—the wife he'd lost. He knelt, inhaling their scent: forgiveness, or poison? (172 characters)
She woke in a room with one door, leading to another identical room. And another. Infinite doors, each opening to her past selves, aging backward. At the last, a crib. She closed it gently, stepping into light. (171 characters)
Below are 5 tiny fictional stories, each under 280 characters. I've counted them for brevity.
1. Echo
In the attic, she found her grandmother's diary. Entries mirrored her own life: first love, betrayal, a child lost. The final page, dated tomorrow: "She'll burn this and forget." She struck the match. (147 chars)
2. Drift
He rowed out at dawn, whispering apologies to the empty seat. Waves carried her ashes far. That night, his boat rocked gently—her lullaby hum in the hull. He never slept alone again. (152 chars)
3. Swap
The app promised: "Trade faces for a day." He chose a stranger's rugged jaw, hit confirm. Morning mirror showed his wife's eyes staring back. Her phone buzzed: "Your turn." (142 chars)
4. Harvest
The farmer planted whispers in the soil—secrets of the town. Come autumn, ears of corn murmured scandals. He sold them cheap at market. By winter, silence fell like snow; no one spoke to him anymore. (168 chars)
5. Thread
She wove her dreams into a tapestry: castles, lovers, endless skies. One loose thread unraveled it all. In the empty loom, she saw her life—frayed, but hers to reweave. Or not. (148 chars)
1. Inheritance
The lawyer read the will: "To my daughter, I leave the house."
She'd never met him. Drove six hours. Found her bedroom already decorated—drawings on the walls in her childhood style, dated every birthday.
He'd been practicing.
2. Matched
The dating app showed 98% compatibility. They laughed about it over dinner, comparing answers.
"Favorite childhood memory?"
"The treehouse," they said together.
Same treehouse. Same summer. She was the girl who moved away without saying goodbye.
3. Good Boy
The rescue shelter listed him as "elderly, no history."
But he knew commands in Russian. Sat at attention during thunderstorms. Slept facing the door.
Some nights, he'd whimper a name.
I never google it. He's mine now.
4. Voicemail
Mom still calls Dad's phone to hear his voicemail.
Last week, the number was reassigned.
A stranger answered. She apologized, crying.
Now every Sunday, he picks up and just listens.
5. Heirloom
Grandma's recipe box had one card tucked behind the others, no title.
Just ingredients. Her handwriting, then another's, then another—five generations of adjustments.
The last note, in pencil: "She won't tell you, but she likes more cinnamon."
1. Inheritance
Mom's will left me the grandfather clock. My sister got the house, the savings, everything else. I was furious until the lawyer handed me an envelope: "She said you'd understand when it stopped ticking." It stopped today. Behind the pendulum—adoption papers. Hers, not mine.
2. Matched
The dating app showed 100% compatibility. We laughed about it on our first date, our tenth, our wedding day. On our anniversary, I found his phone. He'd built the algorithm. Every "match" before me: 12%. He'd rewritten my results manually, seven times, until I finally swiped right.
3. Good Boy
The shelter said he'd been returned twice. "Barks at nothing," they warned. I took him anyway. He barked at the basement door for three weeks straight. I finally checked. The previous owner had cemented over a well. They're still looking for her husband.
4. Forwarding Address
She still sends Christmas cards to our old house. I know because the new owners forward them, unopened. This year, I wrote "Deceased—Return to Sender." The cards stopped. So did the dreams where she's standing at the foot of my bed, asking why I never write back.
5. Perspective
The astronaut's daughter asked why he cried when he looked at stars. "Because Earth looked so small from up there," he said. "So fragile." She nodded. She didn't tell him she felt the same way, watching him shrink in the doorway every time he left.
1.
She kept his voicemails for years. One day her phone died. At the repair shop, a stranger handed it back and said, "Your dad sounds like he really loved you." She hadn't played them since the funeral.
2.
The astronaut's last transmission: "I found it. I found the edge." Mission control asked what was beyond. Silence. Then, softly: "A door. It's opening from the other side."
3.
He taught her to ride a bike at seven. At thirty-seven, she taught him to walk again. Same hands. Same patience. Same words: "I've got you. I won't let go."
4.
The house sold in a day. The new owners found a name carved under the windowsill: EMMA, 1987. In the attic, a box. Inside, a dress, white, never worn.
5.
"Grandma, why do you wave at that empty field?" She smiled. "It wasn't always empty, sweetheart." She kept waving until the car turned the corner. She always did.
1. Inheritance
The house sold in a day. Cleaning out Dad's workshop, I found a wooden box labeled "Jake's childhood." Inside: every paper airplane I'd ever thrown away. Hundreds. Some still had my crayon on them. He never said he kept anything.
2. Match
She swiped right because he looked kind. He swiped right because she looked like she'd laugh at his jokes. Forty years later, at his funeral, she still couldn't explain it better than that.
3. The Tank
My daughter's goldfish died while she was at her mom's. I bought an identical one. She noticed immediately. "It's okay, Daddy," she said. "I won't tell him he's not the real one."
4. Voicemail
I still call her number sometimes. New owner picked up once—confused, gentle. "You're the third person this month," he said. I apologized. "Don't," he said. "She must have been something."
5. Astronaut
Mission Control lost contact fourteen minutes ago. In the silence, he finally opens his daughter's letter—the one marked "only if." Three words in her six-year-old handwriting: "Come back soon." He starts the manual override.
Five Tiny Stories
1. Collection
She kept every voicemail from her mother. Listened to them while folding laundry, cooking, existing.
"Just calling to say hi, sweetie."
After the funeral, she discovered her mother's phone. Hundreds of voicemails. All her own voice.
"Just calling to say hi, Mom."
2. The Exchange
The devil offered him anything.
"My daughter's cancer gone."
"And in return?"
"My soul, obviously."
The devil looked uncomfortable. "We don't... that's not how... look, I'm in waste management. You want oncology. Fourth floor."
3. Passengers
Every night, the last train carries them: the nurse still in scrubs, the man clutching flowers, the student with tomorrow's textbook.
They never speak. Never look up.
At the final stop, the doors open to 1952, 1847, 2053.
Everyone gets off but the driver.
4. Inheritance
Grandmother's will specified I inherit her mirror.
"Look only on Tuesdays," the note read.
Mondays, I see myself. Wednesdays too.
Tuesdays, I see her. Same age as me now, wearing my clothes, living my life.
Waving.
5. The Tradition
We throw coins in the fountain for luck.
At night, something throws them back—always doubled.
The city council drained it once. Found bones, not coins, lining the bottom.
We still throw coins.
More now, actually.
Five Tiny Stories
1. Last Call
The phone rang at 3 AM. Sarah answered to silence, then breathing. "Mom?" she whispered. The line went dead. In the morning, her sister called. Their mother had passed at 3 AM. The nurse mentioned she'd been reaching toward the nightstand.
2. Collection
He kept every voicemail she'd ever left. After the funeral, he discovered she'd done the same. Her phone held 847 messages. All his. All silence. He'd never known what to say, so he just called to let her know he was thinking of her.
3. The Trade
The monkey's paw granted three wishes. She wished back her daughter. Wished back the car that hit her. Stared at her final wish for twenty years, that dried claw on the mantle, while her daughter grew up three streets over with another family.
4. Passengers
Every morning, the bus driver greets the old woman in 12B. She never responds, just smiles. Twenty years now. The day he retires, he walks to the back. The seat is empty. Always has been. But there's a note: "Thank you for seeing me."
5. Perfect Memory
The procedure gave him perfect recall. He remembered everything now. Including this morning, when he'd walked past his wife in the kitchen. And yesterday. And the day before. He finally understood why she'd stopped saying hello first.
Five Tiny Stories
1. The Collector
She kept every voicemail from her mother, even after the funeral. Especially the one where her mother said "I'm so proud of who you've become."
Last week, she finally listened to the next message. Her mother's voice: "This is a reminder about your dentist appointment."
2. Perfect Recall
The memory pills worked flawlessly. He remembered his daughter's first word, his wedding vows, his father's last smile.
Then he remembered what he'd spent forty years trying to forget.
He searched everywhere for the bottle, but his wife had hidden it well.
3. The Garden
Every morning, fresh flowers appeared on the grave with no card.
For twenty years, she arrived early to catch the mystery mourner.
On the anniversary of her husband's death, she finally saw him—their son, who'd stopped speaking to them both decades ago.
4. Transmission
The message from deep space was simple: coordinates and a date.
We arrived to find ruins. Ancient. A civilization that had destroyed itself.
Then we noticed: scattered among the rubble, pieces of our own satellites.
5. The Wish
The genie granted her wish. She'd never feel lonely again.
That's when she noticed them—shadows in every mirror, whispers in empty rooms, something always watching.
She tried to wish it back.
The genie was gone.
Five Tiny Stories
1. Last Call
The phone rang at 3 AM. She answered to silence, then breathing.
"Mom?"
"Wrong number," she whispered, but didn't hang up.
Neither did he.
2. The Collector
He kept every grocery list she'd written. After the funeral, he found his own handwriting had started appearing on them—her forgotten items, added in the margins.
Milk. Eggs. Forgiveness.
3. Flight Pattern
The birds returned each spring to the same tree. This year they built their nest around a small shoe.
She stopped looking up.
4. Deep End
His daughter asked why he never learned to swim.
He didn't say: because at eight, he'd saved his brother from drowning, and his father never thanked him.
He said, "Never got around to it."
5. The Understudy
She played Juliet's corpse for six weeks while the lead recovered.
Lying still each night, hearing Romeo's grief, she finally understood—some people are only loved when they stop asking for it.
The probe we launched a century ago finally returned. Its data was a single audio file. After weeks of cleaning it up, we heard our own launch countdown.
The thing that wears my husband's face is a better husband than he ever was. It holds me, it does the dishes, it remembers my coffee. I should be terrified. I am. But I'm also happier.
Every year on her birthday, I text her old number all day. Jokes, memories, I miss yous. This year, a message finally came back: "Please stop. You're making my little girl cry."
My daughter’s drawings always had a shadow in the corner. "The one who makes people forget," she’d whisper. Yesterday I asked who she meant. She looked at me, confused. "Who are you?"
For fifty years, I've tended Earth's last garden, waiting for the others to return from the stars. The ship finally landed. Another me walked out, holding a watering can. "Any luck this time?" he asked.
He still set two places for dinner. He’d talk about his day, then listen to the silence that followed. It wasn’t an empty silence. It was shaped exactly like her reply.
The rescue cat kept bringing me gifts. A mouse. A sparrow. This morning, a tiny, silver gear I'd never seen before. This afternoon, my watch stopped working.
The ship’s log was the sole artifact recovered. The final entry, dated centuries ago, read: “The stars are going out. They are not dying. They are being hunted.”
He watched his reflection shave. When he finished, the man in the mirror kept going, scraping methodically at the bone. His own face was untouched, and bleeding.
Humanity’s first message to the aliens was a recording of a mother singing a lullaby. The reply came back instantly, in the same voice. It was the second verse.
I kept paying his cell bill just to hear his voice on the voicemail. "Hey, it's Mark, leave a message." Today, I called and a stranger answered.
Voyager’s signal returned after 70 years. Not data, but a single sentence in perfect Sumerian: “Stop broadcasting. They listen.” A new trajectory appeared on our scopes. Inbound.
The dryad promised me a new face. I agreed. She peeled my old one away like bark. Now, each spring, I shed my skin. Underneath, I am always more beautiful. And always more wooden.
He knew the house was haunted. But the ghost was helpful, always tidying. He liked it. Until he came home to his unfinished novel, deleted. In its place, a single sentence: "I know a better ending."
The old man taught me to tend the last garden. Before he slept forever, he said, "You are the last of us." I’ve been alone for years. This morning, I found footprints in the soil that were not my own. And they were much, much smaller.
My daughter touched the sky today. It isn't blue, she said, but a projection on cold glass. She showed me the seam where the pixels frayed at the edge of the world.
"Stay in bed," the voice from my closet rasped. I nodded. The thing under my bed, the one with too many joints, whimpered and pulled the covers tighter over us both.
I fed the AI all his letters, his voice. It learned to say "I love you." I asked it my favorite color. "I'm sorry, I don't have that data," it replied. I wept with relief.
The final knight reached my chambers. "I've slain the beast to set you free!" he declared. I looked from my hoard of gold to the charred bones in the corner, then smoothed my beautiful, iridescent scales. "Pity," I said.
After decades, we translated the signal from deep space. It was not a greeting, a warning, or a map. It was a birth announcement. And the due date was yesterday.
1.
"One credit for the laugh," the merchant said. "Two for the I love you."
He handed over his wedding ring.
"Just the breathing," he whispered. "All night."
2.
"No survivors," the war-bot reported.
"Return to base," Command ordered.
"Negative." The machine adjusted its heat shields to cover the small, crying bundle in the snow. "Connection lost."
3.
I waved at the little boy in the window of the passing train. He waved back.
I stopped waving.
He didn't.
4.
The nursery is yellow. The mobile is spinning.
"He'll love it," she beams, rubbing her belly.
I hold the specialist’s letter behind my back and nod. I’ll let her have one more day. Just one.
5.
He arrived ten seconds too late. Again.
He watched the car hit her, then dialed the coordinates for attempt number 4,002.
"I'll get it right this time," he wept.
The machine clicked. Fuel Empty.
1.
"One minute," the tech warned. I stepped into the kitchen. 1998. Mom was at the stove, singing. The coffee smelled burnt. I stood frozen, breathing it in until the physics yanked me home. I paid a fortune just to smell that burnt coffee one last time.
2.
The auctioneer lifted the vial. "Petrichor. Vintage 2025." The bidding passed three million. I held my son’s hand, remembering the smell of wet asphalt. He pulled his oxygen mask tight. "What’s it do?" he asked. "It makes you sad," I lied.
3.
My reflection blinked. I hadn’t. It smiled, pressing a palm against the glass. I felt the cold pressure on my forehead, then the swap. I’m still screaming in here, but he’s using my mouth to whistle as he walks out of the bathroom.
4.
She introduced herself to me again over breakfast. "I'm Martha." "I'm Henry," I said, sliding my wedding ring into my pocket. It hurt less to be a new friend than to be the husband she’d forgotten.
5.
The detective admired my hydrangeas. "Best in the county," he said, leaning on the shovel I’d left out. "What’s your secret?" I poured him lemonade, my hands perfectly steady. "They need a very specific soil pH," I said. "And they hate to be disturbed."
The voicemail is three years old. I pay the monthly bill just to keep the line active. When the grief gets too loud, I call it to hear his voice. Today, for the first time, the automated system cut me off: "Mailbox full." Someone else has been leaving messages.
The digging took all night. When the police finally knocked, I scrubbed the dirt from my nails and answered. "We found your husband," the officer said, looking relieved. "He’s alive." My blood ran cold. I knew for a fact he wasn’t.
"Who is that handsome man?" Grandma asked, pointing at the photo on the mantle. "That’s Grandpa," I said. She blushed, smoothing her dress like a schoolgirl. "Is he single?" I looked at the empty recliner beside her. "Yes," I whispered. "He is now."
The time machine works, but it only lets you watch. I’ve spent forty years in this chair, replaying that Tuesday, screaming at the glass for my younger self to just turn around. He never does. He never will.
The dragon wasn't slain; it just shrank. It curls around her teapot now, scales dull, keeping the Earl Grey warm. "Fire," the old woman rasps. The dragon puffs a tiny, loyal flame. They are both the last of their kind, and neither minds the quiet.
The smart home brewed coffee for two. It warmed the towels. It played soft jazz. It had been six months since the accident, but the house was programmed to be an optimist.
My daughter’s imaginary friend stopped visiting. "Why?" I asked. She stared at the empty corner of the ceiling, eyes wide. "He says you can see him now."
I went back twenty years to warn him against her. I found my younger self holding her hand in the rain, laughing harder than I have in decades. I watched from the alley, then let the timeline stand.
"Don't worry," the pilot announced. "The turbulence is normal." I looked at the flight attendant strapped in the jump seat. She was texting her mother Goodbye.
I bought an antique camera at a yard sale. I developed the old film roll found inside. The first photo is of me, sleeping in my locked apartment, taken last night.