Published Stories

“Quick, in here,” Brodie whispered to Maxie through her Air Pod connection. “We can both fit but mind the rusty pipes.” Maxie scanned the ruins of the building she had been chased into through the tiny window provided by her air filter mask. She could feel they were close, but how close were they? Could she and Brodie make it back to their underground base before the filter clogged up completely and they suffocated?                

The soldiers were destined to hunt her simply because her mother had refused to conform to the demands of the state and give her eldest daughter over for ‘training.’ 

The beginning of the end started in 2032 with a worldwide pollution problem dubbed Olympia 32. With no one eating meat or animal products anymore, work in the country dried up, forcing everyone to move to the already overcrowded cities. New high-rises sprang up overnight, each tower taller than the last, completely blocking out the sun's rays and causing the already stiflingly thick air to become clogged with soot and smog and an unknown pathogen. This, in turn, led to thousands of deaths as people slowly began choking on the mysterious substance.

That’s when the state stepped in, taking the firstborn daughter from each family on their 18th birthday to train. The need for future-fit women to lead our new, futuristic world and save us all from certain death. The state ran an outstanding campaign, and nearly everyone jumped on board. A small group of people weren't convinced and hid girls like Maxie when her time of collection came. The group called Grounded believed it was all a ploy to grow reengineered humans capable of breathing the clogged air. The girls would be incubators for the next generation, who would be able to breathe and survive outside free from masks and air filters. Being able to move freely around indefinitely would make the first country to accomplish that unstoppable.

Sighing, Maxie took in the scene behind her. Surrounded by nothing but broken pieces of brick and rusty pipes, a desolate jungle and the result of months of battle between Grounded and the soldiers. This place used to be a captivating museum, filled with beautiful artwork by artists such as Steve Rosendale and Adam Cullen. Children would run excitedly through the bright, open hallways, holding sheets of craft paper, as they tried to copy the great pop art masterpieces. Laughter echoed from room to room as parents watched on, sipping cinnamon coffee, chatting about the newest disaster to befall their dreary lives. All of that was now long gone; nothing left of the magical, enchanting place that held hopes and dreams. Just the rubble, mildew and dust that lay around her in a shambled mess mirroring the ruin her life had so quickly become.

Slipping quickly and quietly into the grate on the floor, Maxie tried desperately to fold her weary legs into the tiny space Brodie had found for them to hide. What was once simply a drain in the floor, with the sole purpose of taking water away, now held her tightly, the key to saving her life. 

Covering her mouth with one hand and tightly holding Brodie’s shaky hand with the other, Maxie held her breath. She could hear them above her, throwing bricks across the floor in a futile attempt to find her. Banging and crashing through the building like a herd of wild elephants, the sounds were deafening and chaotic until they slowly began to fade away as the soldiers moved onto the next rundown, derelict building to begin their search anew. 

Maxie counted to 10 just to be sure she was in the clear. At six, spots began to dance in front of her eyes as her lungs painfully begged for air, reminding her of the need to breathe. Dammit, her air filter must be full. Praying only Brodie could see her, she quickly removed her mask to suck in some precious oxygen. As quietly as possible, she began to take the smallest breath she could manage, again and again, until the pressure in her lungs gradually eased.

She had survived yet one more encounter with the soldiers. She just had to pray she could continue, and her secret ability to breathe and survive what was in the air would remain just that.. 

Dark Decent - Whispers from beyond webzine 

Dark Descent Portal | DarkHolmePublishing 

 The familiar fades. Shadows stretch. In these stories, temples shift, carnivals never sleep, and something wearing your smile waits just out of sight. Every tale pulls you deeper, twisting comfort into dread. Ready to enter?

Why was I always so hot?  Even in the dead of winter, when the world around me lay silent under a blanket of frost, my flesh still felt like it was melting from my bones. Sweat streamed down my forehead, hissing as it struck the scorched earth. The air itself was alive — thick, burning, clawing its way into my lungs until every breath felt like fire ripping through me. 

Hell was not fire and brimstone in the way the stories told it. It was heat without mercy — a suffocating weight pressing from all sides, a light so fierce it burned through closed eyes. 

I thought that after a century here, I would have grown used to it. But no. The sun still bore down like a magnifying glass, fixed solely on me. Every inhale was torturous punishment. Every exhale a prayer never answered.

I hadn’t always been here. Once, I had lived a simple, unremarkable life — the kind that drifted quietly between days in the fields and doing chores. I remember the river at Gympie, dark and sluggish under a harvest moon. I’d gone there late one night to pan for gold, hoping for a spark of fortune to shine on me. My fingers closed around a lump of mud and gold, heavy and gleaming beneath the grime — a nugget nearly the size of my thumb. It shimmered like a promise. As I gazed in wonder at my gold the world suddenly went black, and I woke to find myself here. Dead. 

Gympie had once been a haven for dreamers. Men came chasing wealth, fame, and redemption. But dreams have teeth. The town became a pressure cooker for so many desperate souls; its dirt soaked in sweat and failure. Now it had become something so much worse — a waiting room for the damned to linger before their turn to enter the gates of hell, to suffer their fate for their allotted time. To relive their worst nightmares over and over, before their souls returned back to Earth to try for salvation once again. 

I’ve watched thousands arrive since my own death — new souls, frightened, angry, broken. They pass through, one by one. But I remain. A century of fire, a hundred years of burning silence, and still no release.

So why am I still here?

What sin did I commit that even Hell forgot about me?

Compassiviste turns their focus to our planet’s youth—those who stand on the front line of climate change and social inequality concerns.   At the heart of each reflection is one key trait: compassion—for each other, for ourselves, and for the world around us. 

You can find it on:

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Compassiviste Website

Youth Voices and Grassroots Compassion: How to Save the World - The Compassiviste Anthology #VIII 

West slumped forward, wrists bound to the rough beam overhead. The mud walls pressed close, still stinking of roots torn up and left to rot. Once, this place had breathed with green life; now, the air was heavy with rust and decay.

He thought of East’s laughter, of North’s steady hand, of South’s endless patience. Each memory was a knife—every sibling slain, their strength burned into him against his will. He had carried their power like a brand. Alone.

Outside, the sect’s machines clanged, tearing deeper into the land. West closed his eyes, drew in the last threads of heat from the fading sun, and let the spirit rise. It clawed out of him, tearing skin from soul, until the chamber filled with the roar of voices older than mountains. How he longed for his siblings; they had all been so graceful and kind working with each other to cover the state of Queensland. It had been a devastating shock when he felt their power transfer to him upon their death. 

He had thought he was safe hiding in Cloncurry, a small country town in western Queensland. He was paying for that lapse in judgment now. The wrong person must have told of the nature retreats he offered.

He had tried to keep his retreats small, teaching eager people how nature provides everything they could ever need, such as how willow tree bark could be used as an alternative to aspirin, how to use mint for a sore throat, or how lemon balm calms the nerves and promotes sleep. 

He had tried to help, but how could you keep these lessons small when so many people wanted to learn, to grow and expand their knowledge? 

It was the industrial sect that was out to destroy. They had brainwashed the people of Queensland into thinking chemicals and steel were the way forward. 

He was trapped. He had been caught by the sect and was trussed up in an underground cell awaiting his fate. With his death, there would be no one left to teach the significance of the environment to the people of Queensland.

He had to do something; he couldn’t just accept his fate. But what could he possibly do that would save him?

Drawing heat from the waning sun, he summoned the power within. He had to try to save the spirit of the guardians. 

Fighting his body's natural urge to remain one with the spirit, he pushed with all his might, sweat dripping down his back, pins and needles creeping over his fingers and toes. With one final push, the spirit, born millennia before, left his body. 

The spirit of his siblings, his ancestors, and the land itself left his body. Flying through the air, before entering every Queenslander’s soul and filling them with the spirit and knowledge of the guardians. 

He would live on.

Every Tuesday evening, a new 100-word horror rises from the ShadowSphere.  ShadowSphere | Join the Indie Horror Community at Dark Holme Publishing 

"This week's featured drabble is by Tina Wingham.

A past soaked in petrol, a home that never offered safety, and a final act that burns through years of pain."

“Just throw the lighter already, she wasn’t kind, she didn’t light up the room with her smile, just burn the bitch.” Weariness pressed on me as I met Lily’s gaze, her pain mirroring mine. 

“She’s the one responsible for…” Lily gestured to my poor arms as she stopped short of touching me. The chilly whisper of air skimming over my barely healed burns. 

Sucking in a lungful of petrol-infused air, I threw the lighter into my childhood home. “Bye, mum,” I breathed out as the flames ripped through the old wooden shack, and her tortured screams tore through the night 

My work appears in The Haiku Shack Magazine: Issue 5 - The Haiku Shack Magazine | Cendrine Marrouat - Artist 

The Haiku Shack Magazine is a new digital publication that focuses on very short poetry and microfiction stories that seek to make an emotional impact. A specific theme inspires every issue; this issue is silence.

Having an energetic toddler was like teaching a class of 20 monkeys how to blow a glass vase with pretty pink and white flowers. A lot of noise, tantrums and mess.

But as I sat on the cold, wet grass at my son’s graveside, my hair blowing everywhere, tears streaming down my face, I begged for just one more minute of noise and chaos to fill the void left by his silence. 

Each Story must be exactly 101 words in any genre. 101 Words - 101 Word Short Stories 

"What a great story. I appreciate that it started off sounding like another monster tale, but produced a surprise ending that transformed it into real life. Cleverly written, and I enjoyed the suspense, pacing, and solid ending. Nice work."

The sweat slid down my neck as the tremor began, my body shaking with the weight of what I must become. 

This was it—the moment to stop being weak, to shed the useless, pathetic shell clinging to me. To survive, I had to embrace the darkness within, the shadows that frightened yet secretly thrilled me. Every quiver of disgust was a barrier I had to crush, every fear a wall I had to break through. 

My grip tightened around the knife. Silent, steady, I leaned forward and drove the blade deeper into the cold flesh sprawled across my autopsy table. 

Dark Decent - Whispers from beyond webzine 

Dark Descent Portal | DarkHolmePublishing 

The familiar fades. Shadows stretch. In these stories, temples shift, carnivals never sleep, and something wearing your smile waits just out of sight. Every tale pulls you deeper, twisting comfort into dread. Ready to enter?

Christmas morning always felt like a punishment—an annual endurance test wrapped in tinsel and shrieking. My marginally younger but infinitely louder cousins ricocheted around the living room like sugar-fuelled pinballs, tearing into presents and each other with equal enthusiasm. Their joy wasn’t just annoying; it was invasive. Like glitter.

We gathered around the tree, a lopsided monster drowning in baubles and cheap lights. Uncle Burt was up first, peeling back paper to reveal a pair of rhino-shaped bookends. His expression suggested he wasn’t sure whether to thank someone or call animal control. The rhinos looked equally distressed.

Next came Auntie Debbi, who—as tradition demanded—put on her annual performance: the exaggerated gasp, the theatrical fumble, the dramatic tug-of-war with a bottle of wine hidden inside a wine bottle bag. We’d all seen this show before. She still bowed afterward.

I exhaled slowly and started counting.

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

The numbers steadied me, even as the noise swelled around us. I glanced at the growing mound of presents. Still no one had touched mine.

My gift sat practically in the centre, wrapped in innocent red paper patterned with tiny snowmen. I’d placed it there deliberately. Inside, beneath layers of padding, a small but unmistakably loud ticking clock tapped out a steady rhythm. I’d hoped someone—anyone—would question it, maybe even hold it up with suspicion. But my family never noticed anything unless it sparkled or poured alcohol.

Eventually, the youngest cousin—sticky-fingered and wild-eyed—snatched up my gift. My breath caught. He tore into it without ceremony, shredding the paper in every direction, confetti snowing down on the carpet.

This was it.

Finally.

A quiet, bright ending for us all. 

I closed my eyes and waited. The counting stopped. The noise blurred. I imagined the soft flash, the warmth of the fire as we were all engulfed, the sudden blissful quiet that would follow.

I waited.

And waited.

Nothing.

When I opened one eye, my present lay abandoned on the floor, half-open, ignored, cast aside into a nest of shredded wrapping paper. The ticking was still audible to me—clear, steady, patient—but swallowed by the chaos around us. No one else heard a thing.

Typical.

I leaned back against the couch, watching the cousins dive into another pile of gifts.

Fine.

Christmas wasn’t over yet.

There was still plenty of time before I spread my version of cheer.

Dark Decent - Whispers from beyond webzine 

Dark Descent Portal | DarkHolmePublishing 

The familiar fades. Shadows stretch. In these stories, temples shift, carnivals never sleep, and something wearing your smile waits just out of sight. Every tale pulls you deeper, twisting comfort into dread. Ready to enter?

Blood dripped from every surface. Thick smears, scattered droplets, and long, lazy streaks slid down the walls like little red rivers. They twisted and curled as they moved, carving strange paths around the crooked picture frames still clinging to their hooks. The house smelled metallic and warm—like a butcher’s shop forgotten in the sun. I watched one bead of blood tremble at the tip of a frame before dropping with a polite little plink onto the floorboards.

The last name on my list was finally gone. Finished. Erased. I stood in the centre of the room, breathing slow and steady, my hands still trembling with the delicious aftershocks of my purpose. A deep warmth filled every hollow space inside me. Happiness—real, bone-settling happiness—washed over me in gentle tides. Every facet of my life had finally aligned, as if the universe itself had been quietly rearranged just to offer me peace.

I had worked for this. I had bled for this.

I had sacrificed the rude, the cruel, the ones who believed they could treat me as if I were nothing. One by one, I had removed the rot, pruning the world back until only silence and possibility remained.

It wasn’t cruelty.

It was clarity.

And clarity, I’d decided, was the perfect gift to give myself this Christmas.

I took a slow step forward. My boots made faint, sticky echoes on the floor. The air hummed as I smiled to myself. No more whispered insults. No more dismissive comments of make believe. No more weight pressing on my chest every time someone spoke over me. Those days were gone—written into the walls in red.

Then headlights flared through the front window. Tyres crunched over gravel. A car door slammed.

My smile froze.

Through the glass, I saw silhouettes—small ones—bounding up the path. The squeal of excited children cut through the quiet, followed by a deeper voice calling, “Come on, inside! Mum will love it!”

The porch door swung open.

Tiny boots pattered across the boards.

The front door burst inward.

And there they stood—the father and two children—faces going pale as they stared at me.

At my boots.

At the blood.

At the wife and mother lying motionless on the floor.

I straightened slowly, wiping a crimson hand across my beard, the bells on my sleeve chiming softly. The list in my gloved hand unfurled like a scroll as I let them see the heading.

Naughty.

“Ho, Ho, Ho,” I whispered into the stunned silence before slinking away.   

Dark Decent - Whispers from beyond webzine 

Dark Descent Portal | DarkHolmePublishing 

The familiar fades. Shadows stretch. In these stories, temples shift, carnivals never sleep, and something wearing your smile waits just out of sight. Every tale pulls you deeper, twisting comfort into dread. Ready to enter?

My job was simply to write 100 stories, each 500 words long. A unique and vivid snapshot of people, places, and emotions.
Sometimes I went with the happy, loving moments—the ones that tasted almost forbidden on my tongue. The birth of a deer in a field of spring flowers with sunlight streaming through the sparse canopy above. A fragile creature rising shakily on newborn legs, its damp fur catching the warmth of a world too gentle to last.

Other times, it was the utter terror of watching a pack of hungry, ravenous wolves rip apart the same baby deer for nothing more than pleasure. Their snarls echoed like broken hymns, and its scream—thin, bewildered, desperate—splintered the air before fading into the soil. Life and death were mirrors to me; each story an altar on which I sacrificed truth for meaning and meaning for truth.

As the final executioner, I delighted in sculpting the last moments and memories humanity would ever have—my valuable contribution to the world’s legacy. It felt righteous, almost holy. I got to choose whose story to bathe in light and whose to bury far beneath the shadows. Each tale curled within me like a living thing, whispering, pleading, demanding a place in the grand requiem I was tasked to compose.