The Last Light by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Literary Fiction

The Last Light

By Olivia Salter 

Word Count: 232

In a creaky farmhouse in rural Mississippi, just after sunset. The wind clawed at the shutters like it wanted in. Mabel sat in her rocker, one slippered foot keeping rhythm, the other resting near the cold fireplace.

Then—there it was.

“I hear a noise downstairs.”

Her voice cracked the silence like a match in a dark room.

"My Lord, what now?"

She rose slowly. Not out of fear, but from old bones stiff with memory.

Each stair announced her with a groan. The kitchen light was off, but she saw the shadow move across the linoleum.

She flipped the switch.

A boy—skinny, dirt-smudged, eyes wide—stood with a piece of cornbread halfway to his mouth.

He flinched.

“Take the butter too,” she said, voice steady.

He blinked.

“Or sit. That chair’s not taken.”

He hovered, uncertain, then slid into the seat once reserved for her youngest son.

She placed the butter on the table. Poured him milk like it was any other night.

“Marcus,” he mumbled, almost ashamed.

She studied his face in the yellow light. Something in the shape of his eyes made her breath hitch.

He looked like her youngest—before the war, before the silence.

“You cold, Marcus?”

He nodded.

She stood, took the old quilt from the couch, and wrapped it around him.

The house, for a long time, had echoed with absence.

Now it breathed again.

Love in the Key of Us by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Twin Flames

 

Love in the Key of Us

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 938

Celeste was halfway out of her seat when the first chord stopped her cold.

It wasn’t just any song. It was theirs.

Her breath hitched, fingers tightening around the edge of the bar. Her body knew the melody before her mind caught up, before she even turned to confirm what she already felt deep in her bones.

And then—

His voice.

Rougher now, threaded with time, but unmistakable.

She turned slowly, as if moving too fast would shatter her.

Amir stood on stage, his head tilted toward the mic, his fingers drifting over the guitar strings with the same ease that once sent shivers down her spine. The low stage lights bathed his skin in amber, casting shadows along the sharp cut of his jaw, the set of his shoulders.

She hadn’t seen him in ten years.

Yet here he was.

Singing the song he wrote for her.

Celeste’s pulse slammed against her ribs. The air in the room thickened, the noise of clinking glasses and murmured conversations fading into nothing.

Kai, her best friend, nudged her. “You okay?”

Celeste forced a nod, even as her chest tightened.

Because this wasn’t just a song.

This was him.

And the past was no longer buried.

Her body screamed it—her legs already shifting, fingers itching to grab her purse.

But she didn’t move.

Because she felt him coming.

The moment the song ended, Amir’s gaze swept the room, searching.

Finding.

Locking onto her.

Celeste inhaled sharply.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

Then—he moved.

His guitar was handed off, his steps deliberate as he weaved through the crowd. People clapped him on the back, spoke his name, but his focus never wavered.

Within seconds, he was standing in front of her.

Close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his deep brown eyes.

Neither of them spoke.

Finally, Amir exhaled.

“Cel.”

It wasn’t a question.

It wasn’t a greeting.

It was something heavier.

Her name had never been just her name with him.

She swallowed. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Same.” His voice was rough, but steady. “And yet…”

Here they were.

Here they always seemed to end up.

She glanced at the empty stage. “Still playing?”

He shrugged. “Only ever stopped when I lost the reason to.”

The words landed somewhere deep, cracking through a place she had spent years keeping sealed.

Her fingers curled into her palms. “I heard the song.”

Amir tilted his head, watching her carefully. “Did you?”

“Don’t do that.” Her voice came out quieter than she meant.

“Do what?”

“Pretend it wasn’t about me.”

He let out a small breath—almost a laugh, but not quite.

“Celeste,” he murmured, “I haven’t even pretended to be over you.”

Her heart stumbled.

Because neither had she.

“Sing for me.”

The words left her before she could stop them.

Amir’s brows lifted slightly, his expression unreadable.

A challenge.

A test.

Then, without a word, he reached for her hand.

The moment his fingers brushed hers, a spark shot up her arm, igniting something deep in her chest.

She should have pulled away.

She didn’t.

Because she couldn’t.

Without hesitation, Amir led her toward the stage.

The singer had just stepped off, but with one look from Amir, the band nodded.

This was his moment.

But somehow, it felt like theirs.

He settled onto the stool, adjusting the guitar strap, fingers brushing the strings like they were second nature.

Then—

The first note.

Soft. Unfinished.

A breath.

And then his voice—deep, warm, undeniable.

"Have you ever needed something so bad, you can’t sleep at night?"

The room stilled.

Celeste barely noticed the crowd anymore.

All she could hear was him.

All she could feel was every unspoken thing between them.

The song built, the melody swelling, wrapping around her like a memory too strong to ignore.

Her throat tightened.

Because she had needed him.

She had needed him so much it terrified her.

And she had walked away.

Telling herself it was for the best.

Telling herself that if they were truly meant for each other, the universe would find a way.

Now, a decade later, he was standing right in front of her.

And the universe was handing her a choice.

Again.

The last chord faded.

Silence.

Then, applause.

But Celeste didn’t move.

Neither did Amir.

He set the guitar down, gaze locked onto her.

She stood, breath unsteady, pulse hammering.

“Cel…”

Her name wasn’t just her name. It was a question. A plea.

And she—who had spent a decade pretending she didn’t miss him, didn’t need him—finally broke.

“Why didn’t you ever come after me?” she whispered.

Amir exhaled. “You left.”

“You let me.”

His jaw tensed. “What was I supposed to do, Cel? Chase you when you made it clear you wanted to go?”

She swallowed. “I didn’t want to go.”

His eyes darkened. “Then why did you?”

Her throat burned. “Because I didn’t think I could survive loving you.”

Silence.

And then, barely above a whisper—

“You didn’t.”

Celeste’s breath caught.

Because he was right.

She hadn’t survived it.

She had just spent ten years pretending she did.

Her hands trembled. Amir watched her, his gaze never leaving hers.

"You still love me?" she asked, voice barely above a breath.

A beat.

Then—

"Have you ever stopped?"

She closed her eyes.

"No."

When she opened them, Amir was already reaching for her, pulling her in, pressing his forehead to hers.

And just like that—

The years between them fell away.

The past, the pain, the distance—none of it mattered.

Because some people—

Some loves—

Weren’t meant to be let go.

The Fire Between Us by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Literary Fiction / Twin Flame

 

A soulmate is someone you feel a deep connection with, often considered a compatible partner with a separate soul, while a twin flame is believed to be the other half of your soul, meaning you can only have one twin flame, but can have multiple soulmates throughout your life; the twin flame relationship is often described as more intense and challenging, pushing you to confront your deepest self, while a soulmate relationship tends to be more harmonious and supportive. 

Key points to remember:

You can have many soulmates, but only one twin flame. 

The Fire Between Us

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,011

Warren never believed in past lives.

But when he saw Aisha, he wondered.

Not because she was beautiful, though she was. Not because she looked at him like she knew his secrets before he spoke them.

But because something in his bones whispered, It’s her. Again.

She stood at the counter of a coffee shop, drumming her fingers against the glass case, waiting. And when she turned, their eyes met.

A flicker. A pull.

Deja vu.

Aisha blinked, lips parting slightly, like she felt it too.

And Warren?

He forgot what he was supposed to be doing.

Three months later, she had a key to his apartment.

Not because they talked about it—because they didn’t.

Because it was always supposed to happen this way.

Aisha never let him hide.

She saw him in ways that unsettled him, stripped him bare without touching him.

One night, she stood in the kitchen, arms crossed, eyes steady. “You love the idea of love, Warren. But real love? It asks something of you. And you don’t like that.”

His stomach tightened. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” She stepped closer, searching his face. “You write about love like it’s something outside of you. Like a thing you can observe without feeling it. But when it’s real—when it’s messy—you pull away.”

He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her she was wrong.

But he couldn’t.

Because she wasn’t.

Terry met Warren at a poetry reading. She wasn’t supposed to be there. It was one of those last-minute, why not? decisions.

Then he stepped up to the mic.

And he spoke.

Not about love—at least, not in the way most people did. He spoke about hunger. About a yearning that stretched across lifetimes.

She watched him, felt the words settle in her chest like something familiar. And when he glanced her way, there was a quiet hum beneath her skin.

Not a jolt. Not a fire.

A thread.

That night, after the event, she lingered near the door just as he walked past. He paused, looking at her the way people look at something they don’t expect but can’t ignore.

And then he said, “You ever feel like some things are supposed to happen?”

She smiled, tilting her head. “Yeah.”

And that was the start of everything.

Warren and Terry never rushed.

It wasn’t fireworks. It was warmth.

Conversations that stretched into the early hours. Walks through the city when neither of them wanted to be anywhere else. A comfort he hadn’t known he needed.

One night, they sat on her couch, the air between them thick with unspoken things.

She leaned against his shoulder, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“You’re waiting,” she murmured.

His jaw tightened. “For what?”

“For a sign.” Her voice was steady. “For something to tell you it’s okay to move on.”

His chest ached.

Because she was right.

And still, he didn’t kiss her.

Even when the silence between them felt like an invitation.

Even when he wanted to.

Because she wasn’t his to want.

Not yet.

Aisha left on a Thursday.

Not in the heat of an argument. Not with yelling or broken things.

With a suitcase by the door and her hands clenched into fists.

Warren stood there, heart hammering, trying to think of the right words.

“I love you, Warren,” she said softly. “But love shouldn’t feel like a war.”

He swallowed hard. “Aisha—”

She shook her head, exhaling shakily. “You don’t get to talk me out of this. Not this time.”

His fingers twitched. A part of him wanted to reach for her, to pull her back.

But love wasn’t supposed to be chains.

So he didn’t.

And that was the worst part.

Because he already knew—

Some loves aren’t meant to be kept.

Some are meant to break you open.

Terry didn’t ask questions when Warren showed up at her door.

She stepped aside, let him in, let him sit on her couch with his head in his hands.

After a long moment, he whispered, “I lost her.”

Terry didn’t say I know. Didn’t say I told you so.

She just reached out, fingers brushing against his wrist, anchoring him.

His breath hitched.

And when he finally looked at her, she met his gaze, steady and sure. His eyes looked tired, searching. “I don’t know who I am without her.”

“You’re you, you're still here,” she murmured.

His exhale was shaky.

And this time, when he leaned in, she didn’t hesitate.

She met him halfway.

It was different with Terry.

No firestorms. No wreckage.

Just warmth.

She didn’t demand the parts of him he wasn’t ready to give. She didn’t pull him into the depths just to see if he could survive.

She was a place to rest. A place to breathe.

And he loved her for it.

But some nights, when sleep wouldn’t come, he felt it.

The phantom ache.

Because some loves don’t leave.

Even when they’re gone.

Aisha called him a year later.

Not by accident.

She never did things by accident.

“Hey,” she said.

Warren closed his eyes, the sound of her voice settling over him like an old song. “Hey.”

“I saw your book,” she said. “Congratulations.”

He smiled faintly. “Thanks.”

Silence.

Then, softly, “Do you ever think about me?”

His chest tightened. He didn’t need to ask if she still thought about him; because he knew she did.

“Yes,” he said.

A breath.

Then she exhaled, something almost like a laugh. “I always knew we weren’t supposed to last.”

His fingers curled around the phone. “I know.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, “Are you happy?”

His gaze drifted across the room, where Terry sat reading, her bare feet tucked beneath her, the quiet presence that had become his peace.

And he thought about all the ways love could exist.

“I am,” he said.

Aisha sighed, soft and knowing. “Good.”

And he knew that was the last time they’d speak.

Because some people come into your life to stay.

And some come to set you free.

Flawless by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Science Fiction / Supernatural

 

Flawless

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 600

Jade knew Malik was obsessed with perfection, but she never thought he’d turn that obsession on her. His voice was smooth, practiced, but there was something unsettling in the way his eyes lingered on her face. “You know, babe,” he said as they lounged in their sleek, glass-walled apartment overlooking Atlanta, “I’ve been working on a new serum. It could smooth out that little mark on your face. Make your skin absolutely flawless.”

Jade’s fingers brushed the coffee-colored crescent beneath her left eye, a mark her mother once called a kiss from God. A faint chuckle left her lips, but unease curled in her stomach. “I don’t need to be flawless, Mal. I like my birthmark.”

He sighed, tilting his head as if analyzing a scientific anomaly. “But imagine how much more beautiful you’d be without it.”

Her smile faltered. “I’m already beautiful.”

Malik kissed her forehead. “Of course you are. But perfection is power.”

That night, Jade lay awake, staring at the city lights flickering through the window. She had spent years loving herself exactly as she was. Why couldn’t Malik?

As weeks passed, his obsession deepened. He gifted her expensive serums, subtly left articles about laser treatments on her nightstand, and even edited pictures of her, erasing the mark so she could see how ‘perfect’ she’d look. Each time, Jade refused. But the way Malik looked at her birthmark—like it was a stain on an otherwise pristine canvas—began to chip away at her confidence.

One evening, Malik handed her a cup of chamomile tea. She took a sip, not knowing he had slipped a few drops of an experimental formula into it. “Trust me,” he murmured as she drifted into sleep.

Jade woke up light-headed. Stumbling into the bathroom, she gasped. The birthmark was gone. Her skin was eerily smooth—flawless, just like Malik wanted. But something was off. Her reflection looked... hollow. A perfect image of herself, but missing something vital.

Malik stood behind her, smiling, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “You’re perfect now.”

Jade touched her cheek, expecting relief, maybe even joy. Instead, a slow, creeping dread spread through her, sinking into her bones. It was as if a part of her had been stripped away, leaving nothing but a beautiful shell. Her mother’s words echoed in her head: A kiss from God. Her fingers lingered on the spot where it used to be, and for the first time in her life, she felt incomplete.

A week later, the side effects began. Her skin became eerily pale, then translucent. Dark veins webbed beneath the surface. Her body ached. Malik worked tirelessly to reverse the effects, but the damage was done. The woman who once radiated warmth now looked cold, artificial. Flawless.

One evening, as she lay in bed, weak and fading, she whispered, “You stole something from me, Malik.”

Tears welled in his eyes. “I was only trying to make you perfect.”

Jade smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I was perfect.”

The next morning, she was gone—vanished like mist, like she had never been there at all. But Malik would never forget the way she looked that last night, a ghost of the woman he once loved, destroyed in his pursuit of perfection.

And in the mirror, just beneath his own eye, a faint mark began to form—a coffee-colored crescent, shaped like a kiss from God. Malik’s breath hitched. His fingers trembled as they traced the mark, a curse etched into his skin. A deep, bone-chilling realization settled over him; perfection had demanded a price, and it had come to collect.

Shadows in Lawrenceville by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Romance

 

Shadows in Lawrenceville

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 984

Tina had always heard that the past had a way of haunting people, but she never expected it to follow her home on a humid Georgia night—wrapped in a crisp blue suit, standing under the same streetlight where they once planned their escape.

***

The air outside smelled of fried catfish, cut grass, and warm asphalt, thick with the low hum of cicadas. Tina pulled the strings of her hoodie tighter, head down, hoping the exhaustion from her double shift at the diner would drown out everything else.

But the past had other plans.

Glenn.

He leaned against the rusted gate of the old barbershop, hands in his pockets, his frame catching the dull glow of a flickering streetlight. Older. Sharper. The years had carved hollows into his face, the weight of time settled in his eyes.

Tina’s feet stuttered, her body catching up to her mind as her breath came short. It had been fifteen years. He was supposed to be gone.

Glenn stepped forward, the sound of his shoes against pavement far too familiar.

"TeeTee."

Her stomach tightened. No one called her that anymore.

Her voice came out low, cold. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Glenn exhaled, gaze steady. "Came back to make things right."

Tina let out a sharp laugh, but there was no humor in it. "Fifteen years too late for that."

His jaw tightened. "Maybe."

The last time she saw Glenn, they were seventeen, standing in this exact spot, whispering about leaving Lawrenceville behind. She had packed a duffel bag, heart racing with the promise of something bigger than this town. But when the time came, he never showed.

No note. No call. Just gone.

Tina had let the bitterness harden inside her, using it as armor. Glenn had left because he wanted to. Because she wasn’t enough to make him stay.

And now here he was, standing in front of her like time hadn’t carved a canyon between them.

Her arms crossed tight against her chest. "What, you think you can just show up, say sorry, and we’ll be good?"

Glenn’s throat bobbed as he looked down. "No. I don’t expect that."

"Good."

Silence stretched between them, thick with everything unsaid. Then Glenn pulled something from his pocket—a folded letter, yellowed at the edges. He held it out.

Tina eyed it like it might burn her. "What is that?"

"The truth."

Tina sat on the curb outside her apartment, fingers tightening around the paper. The cicadas had quieted, the air thick and unmoving.

She unfolded the letter.

"Tina,

If you’re reading this, it means I finally found the courage to face you.

I left because I had no choice.

That night, my father found out we were leaving. He didn’t yell. Didn’t threaten. Just sat me down at the kitchen table and smiled. Said if I tried to run, I wouldn’t be the one paying the price.

He meant you.

So I stayed. Took the bruises. Took the silence. Took everything, just to make sure he never touched you.

By the time I got free, I didn’t know how to come back.

But it was never you I wanted to leave behind.

Glenn."

Tina’s chest tightened, her pulse drumming against her ribs.

She had spent fifteen years hating him. Letting that hatred fuel her. And now—now she had to make room for something messier.

For guilt.

For grief.

For the love she never let herself admit was still there.

Her fingers tightened around the edges of the letter, her breath uneven. She wanted to tear it apart, throw it at him, scream that he should have trusted her, that they could’ve figured it out together.

But the truth of it settled in her bones.

Glenn had stayed to protect her.

And in doing so, he had broken them both.

Glenn was still outside when she emerged, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His shoulders, once broad with teenage arrogance, now carried something heavier.

Tina held up the letter. “You should’ve told me.”

Glenn nodded. “I know.”

“You didn’t trust me.”

His throat bobbed. “That ain’t true.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Then why didn’t you take me with you?”

Glenn hesitated, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “Because I knew you’d follow me into hell, Tina.” His voice was raw, like gravel dragged over pavement. “And I couldn’t let you.”

Tina looked away, fingers gripping the letter like it could anchor her.

For years, she had convinced herself she was better off without him. That he had abandoned her. It was easier than admitting how much it hurt.

But now, standing here, she realized something else:

Glenn had left to save her.

But he had never stopped loving her.

She swallowed, her voice quieter now. “Why come back?”

Glenn exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s dead.”

Tina blinked. “Your father?”

He nodded. “Stroke. A month ago. I don’t know how to feel about it.”

She studied him. He looked different now—not just older, but untethered. Like a man learning how to exist without a shadow looming over him.

He met her gaze. “Figured if I was ever gonna come back, this was my chance.” A pause. “My only chance.”

Tina traced the edge of the letter. Her pulse thrummed, a war between instinct and reason. The past couldn’t be erased. But maybe, just maybe, it could be rewritten.

She took a deep breath, let the words settle before speaking. “You still drink sweet tea?”

Glenn’s lips twitched, the first hint of something almost like a smile. “Depends. Yours or somebody else’s?”

Tina rolled her eyes, but her chest ached in a way she hadn’t felt in years.

She hesitated, then stepped back, holding the door open. Not a grand gesture. Not a promise. Just… a start.

“Come inside, Glenn.”

And for the first time in fifteen years, he did.

The Weight of Names by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Black History / Supernatural

 

The Weight of Names

By Olivia Salter 

Word Count: 813

The names whispered to her in dreams. Some she recognized—Tubman, Douglass, King. Others felt distant yet familiar, like echoes from a past she’d never lived but somehow carried in her bones.

The first time she heard the voices, Naoimi thought she was dreaming.

She was in history class, staring out the window while her teacher lectured on the Civil Rights Movement. The lesson drifted in and out of her ears like background noise—until something else replaced it.

"Names are more than words, child. They are echoes."

Naoimi sat up, her heart racing. She looked around, but no one else seemed to notice. Her teacher’s voice continued, steady and mundane, but layered beneath it was a whisper—one she could almost feel against her skin.

"Remember us."

The bell rang, shaking her from the moment.

She gathered her books and rushed out, her best friend Amari jogging up beside her.

"You good?" Amari asked, stuffing her hands into her hoodie pocket.

Naoimi nodded too quickly. "Yeah. Just… thinking."

About the voices. About why they felt so heavy, as if they carried the weight of something old and urgent.

That night, she dreamed of names.

They spiraled around her, ink dripping from them like they had been freshly written in history books. Tubman. Douglass. Ida B. Wells. But then there was another. A name she didn’t recognize.

Josephine Calloway.

When she woke, it was still there, lingering on the tip of her tongue like a secret she wasn’t supposed to know.

Naoimi became obsessed.

She searched online, scoured library archives, even asked her grandmother, who was the family historian. But no one had ever heard of Josephine Calloway.

Until the day her grandmother sighed and said, “That name… that’s old history.”

Naoimi’s breath caught. “Who was she?”

Her grandmother hesitated. “A woman who saw too much. Knew too much. And was buried under the weight of silence.”

She wouldn’t say more.

That was when the voices got stronger.

"You need to know."

"Find her."

"Truth buried still breathes."

Naoimi followed their call, chasing fragments of Josephine’s life. She found an old article buried in a forgotten corner of the internet. Josephine Calloway: The Woman Who Defied a Town and Vanished.

She had been a journalist in Alabama in the 1930s, exposing lynchings that local newspapers refused to print. Then, in 1938, she disappeared. No records, no grave, no explanation.

History had erased her.

But history had also left her behind, whispering in Naoimi’s ear.

Each clue Naoimi uncovered made the voices grow louder.

She found Josephine’s old articles—hidden, faded pieces that spoke truth so raw it burned. She tracked down distant relatives who barely remembered her name. She discovered that Josephine had left behind a manuscript—a book she had been writing before she vanished.

No one had ever found it.

Until Naoimi did.

The journal was buried beneath dust and time in a forgotten attic of an abandoned house. Its pages trembled as she turned them, the words aching to be read.

Josephine had written everything—names of the men responsible for the violence, the corruption, the lies. She had died for this truth.

And now, Naoimi held it in her hands.

The night she found the journal, the whispers stopped.

And in their place, a presence.

She saw her reflection in the attic’s cracked mirror—but it wasn’t just her. A woman stood behind her, dark-skinned, sharp-eyed, wearing a suit that belonged to another era.

Josephine.

Naoimi turned, breath hitching.

“You found me,” Josephine said, her voice layered with sorrow and gratitude. “I’ve waited so long.”

Naoimi clutched the journal. “What do I do?”

Josephine’s eyes burned like embers. “Finish what I couldn’t.”

Naoimi knew what it meant. The men Josephine exposed had descendants—powerful ones. People who had spent decades making sure her story never saw the light of day.

And now, it was in Naoimi’s hands.

She had a choice.

She could let Josephine remain a footnote, another name swallowed by silence.

Or she could make the world remember.

The article went live at midnight.

Naoimi published everything—Josephine’s story, her articles, the names of those who tried to erase her. Within hours, it spread. Historians, journalists, activists—people who had spent lifetimes searching for missing pieces—began to piece Josephine back together.

And the voices?

They faded, not in sorrow, but in peace.

As if, for the first time, history had exhaled.

Naoimi stood at her grandmother’s doorstep the next morning.

Her grandmother looked at her for a long moment, then smiled. “You heard them, didn’t you?”

Naoimi nodded.

Her grandmother pulled her into a hug. “Good. That means you’re listening.”

Naoimi hugged her back, eyes burning with something between grief and pride.

Because history was no longer just something she studied.

It was something she carried.

And this time, she would not let it be forgotten.

North Has Shifted by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Science Fiction

 

North Has Shifted

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 876

Ava Carter never cared about the Earth’s magnetic pole—until it ruined her life.

Ava’s hands clenched the steering wheel, knuckles white. The GPS chirped:

“Recalculating… Recalculating… Recalculating…”

She had driven this stretch of Highway 287 a thousand times. But tonight, everything felt wrong. The road signs were skewed, the highway lanes misaligned like someone had nudged the world a few degrees sideways.

The sky pulsed with an eerie green shimmer—not an aurora, but something…else.

She tapped her phone. No signal. The radio hissed with static.

Her pulse quickened. Something was happening.

Then—

The road disappeared.

Her stomach lurched as she slammed the brakes. Dust billowed, swallowing the car whole. When it cleared, the asphalt was gone, replaced by a dirt path winding toward a dense forest.

This wasn’t possible.

Ava threw open the door, stepping onto unfamiliar ground. The highway had been here minutes ago. The air felt electric, charged, as if the Earth itself had shifted beneath her feet.

She reached into the glove compartment and pulled out her compass. The needle spun wildly.

Her throat tightened.

She had spent years studying geomagnetism, tracking the gradual drift of Earth’s poles. But this wasn’t a drift.

This was a reset.

A dirt path stretched ahead, leading to a lone cabin. Smoke curled from its chimney, the only sign of life.

Ava hesitated, then pushed forward. She needed answers.

She knocked. The door creaked open.

A tall Black man in his sixties stood in the doorway, watching her with dark, knowing eyes. His clothes were rugged, worn—like he had been living off-grid for years.

“You lost?”

Ava swallowed. “The road—I mean, the highway—” She exhaled. “It was just here.”

The man studied her, his expression unreadable.

“You felt it,” he said.

Not asked. Stated.

Her skin prickled. “What do you mean?”

He stepped aside. “Come in before it gets worse.”

Inside, the air was warm, thick with the scent of burning wood and something metallic. Maps were sprawled across a table—except they were wrong.

Coastlines were jagged, slightly altered. Cities misplaced. Like a different version of Earth.

Ava ran her fingers over the faded paper. “Where did you get these?”

The man poured a drink. “Ellis,” he said, finally giving his name. “And those maps? They ain't from this version of the world.”

Ava stared at him. “What?”

Ellis set the drink down. “What you’re feelin’—what you’re seein’—it ain't just a pole shift. The Earth don’t just change direction. It remembers.”

Ava shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Ellis chuckled. “Neither does a highway vanishin’ under your feet.”

She rubbed her temples. Think, Ava.

“The pole didn’t just move,” she murmured. “It…reset.”

Ellis nodded. “Now you’re catchin’ on.”

A sickening thought formed in her mind. “If Earth reset, then…” Her voice trailed off.

Ellis finished for her. “Time did, too.”

Ava’s breathing shallowed.

“We didn’t just shift direction,” she whispered. “We slipped—into a different version of time.”

Ellis tapped the maps. “Earth’s done this before.”

She stiffened. “What?”

Ellis sat back. “There are stories. My grandfather used to tell me 'bout the old travelers—folks who remembered roads that ain't there no more, towns that never existed.” His gaze darkened. “I used to think they were just stories.”

Ava ran a hand through her hair. This wasn’t just an anomaly.

It had happened before.

Her pulse quickened. “If we don’t fix this, history could unravel.”

Ellis nodded. “Now you’re askin’ the right questions.”

The old radio in the corner crackled.

Ava barely noticed it—until a voice cut through the static.

Her own voice.

“January 29, 2025. The world isn’t where we left it. If you’re hearing this, we’ve lost time.”

Ava stumbled back, her chest tightening.

Ellis watched her grimly. “That’s tomorrow.”

She turned to him, wide-eyed. “No. That’s today.”

Her voice meant one thing—she had already lived this moment.

The world wasn’t just shifting. It was looping.

Her hands clenched into fists. She wasn’t going to let it happen again.

They worked through the night.

Ava mapped distortions, tracing Earth’s memory shifts. The poles weren’t just moving—they were searching for stability.

“What’s it lookin’ for?” Ellis asked.

Ava hesitated. Then, it hit her.

A point of alignment.

She grabbed her compass, its needle still spinning.

Then, she did something insane.

She let go.

The compass stopped.

And for the first time, she felt it—true north wasn’t where it used to be.

It was inside her.

She turned to Ellis, breathless.

“I know where to go.”

Ellis grinned. “Then go.”

Ava ran outside. The world shimmered, colors bleeding into each other.

The wind roared. The ground trembled.

She stepped forward—aligning herself with the shift.

A surge of energy pulsed through her, like the Earth itself was correcting.

And then—

Silence.

The road was back. The sky was normal.

Her phone buzzed. A message from the conference committee:

“Looking forward to your presentation on the magnetic pole shift!”

Ava exhaled, steadying herself.

She checked the time. January 29, 2025.

She had done it.

But as she turned the car around, a new thought struck her.

Ellis.

She had to find him.

Because deep down, she knew—

North would lead her back to him.

Fractured Desires by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Anti-Romance

 

Fractured Desires

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 793
 

Lena had sworn off love, or so she told herself. Her last relationship had ended in shards, leaving her with scars she didn’t know how to name. She’d learned to live in survival mode, crafting walls out of casual flings and detachment. No one got too close. No one asked too many questions.

Then she met Julian.

It was at an underground club, the kind of place where shadows hid sins and the music pulsed like a heartbeat. Lena had come to drown herself in the noise, to forget the gnawing emptiness inside her. She wasn’t looking for company. But then she saw him.

He was leaning against a wall, cigarette smoke curling lazily around him like a veil. His eyes locked onto hers, sharp and unrelenting, as if he could see all the secrets she thought she’d buried. She looked away, unnerved.

But when she glanced back, he was still watching.

“Running from something?” he asked later, when they ended up at the bar.

She smirked, more out of habit than humor. “Aren’t we all?”

Julian didn’t laugh. He tilted his head, studying her, as if she were a puzzle he intended to solve. She should have walked away, but instead, she stayed. Something in his presence—dark, magnetic, and almost predatory—felt like a challenge.

Their second meeting wasn’t in the safety of public noise. It was in a dingy hotel room he’d chosen, where the smell of cheap detergent clung to the air. His text had been cryptic—“I’m waiting”—and when she arrived, she found him sitting on the bed, his expression unreadable.

He didn’t ask why she came. He didn’t need to.

The way he touched her was deliberate, testing. His fingers pressed into her skin as if searching for cracks. She responded with equal intensity, pushing back against him, daring him to go further. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t gentle. But it made her feel something—something other than the endless numbness that had taken root in her chest.

As the weeks passed, their encounters became routine. He never called. She never asked. Their nights were a collision of raw need and jagged edges, both of them using each other as a mirror for their pain.

But cracks began to show.

One night, as Lena lay tangled in the sheets, she asked, “Why me?”

Julian didn’t answer at first. He lit a cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the dim room. Then, without looking at her, he said, “Because you’re already broken. You understand.”

The words hit harder than they should have. She laughed, a brittle sound. “And you’re not?”

He turned to her then, his eyes cold. “I never said I wasn’t.”

That was the thing about Julian. He didn’t lie, but he also didn’t offer truths that could anchor her. His honesty was a weapon, not a gift.

The breaking point came the night she caught him going through her phone.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded, her voice shaking with a mix of anger and fear.

Julian didn’t even flinch. “I like to know who I’m dealing with.”

“You had no right,” she snapped, snatching the phone from his hand.

He smirked, leaning back against the headboard. “I had every right. You’re mine.”

Something in her snapped. “I’m not yours,” she said, her voice rising. “I don’t belong to you.”

Julian’s smirk dropped, just for a moment. Then his face hardened. “You keep telling yourself that.”

After he left that night, Lena sat alone in the silence, staring at her reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. The woman staring back at her looked like a stranger—hollow-eyed, with a fading bruise on her wrist where Julian had gripped her too tightly. She touched the bruise lightly, as if it could tell her something she didn’t already know.

This wasn’t love. It wasn’t even lust anymore. It was addiction.

The next time he texted—“I’m waiting”—she hesitated. Her thumb hovered over the reply button, but something stopped her.

She thought of the way he twisted her boundaries, the way he pulled her into his chaos and called it connection. She thought of the girl she used to be, before all the pain, the one who believed in softness and safety. That girl was still in there, buried beneath the wreckage.

And maybe, just maybe, she could dig her way back to her.

Lena turned off her phone and tossed it onto the bed. For the first time in months, she allowed herself to sit in the silence, to feel the ache of her loneliness without trying to smother it. It hurt, but it was real.

Julian had been her spark, yes. But she would not let him be her fire.

The Perfect Cut by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Contemporary

 

The Perfect Cut

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 630

Delilah sat in the dim light of her cramped apartment, her laptop screen glowing like a lifeline—and a trap. The blinking cursor seemed alive, mocking her with each silent pulse. The contest deadline was three days away, and her draft was nothing more than a chaotic tangle of half-formed ideas.

Her gaze drifted to the corkboard on her wall, a testament to failure. Rejection emails—some polite, some curt—hung in neat rows. But in the center, circled in red, was the printout of the contest announcement: Grand Prize: $5,000 and Publication. It was more than money or exposure. It was validation. Proof that she wasn’t wasting her life chasing something she might never catch.

She grabbed her coffee mug, frowned at the cold bitterness. Across the room, her phone buzzed. A text from Tasha, her best friend:
Girl, you alive? Haven’t seen you in forever. Please tell me you’re eating.

Delilah smirked. Tasha didn’t get it. Writing wasn’t just a job or a hobby. It was survival. She tapped back:
Alive. Writing. Coffee is food, right?

The reply came almost instantly:
No. I’m staging an intervention after this contest.

Delilah chuckled, but the message sparked a pang of loneliness. She missed her friend, missed human connection. But right now, she needed to connect with her story. She stared at the blinking cursor.

Her protagonist, Claire, was haunted by guilt—literally. A ghost. But the story wasn’t working, and Delilah couldn’t figure out why. It felt too safe. Too flat.

She stood and wandered to her bookshelf. Nestled between thick novels and dusty anthologies was Flannery O’Connor’s collected works, her creative compass. She flipped to the line she knew by heart:
“She would of been a good woman if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life.”

That was it. The spark. Flannery’s stories worked because they risked everything. No holding back. No fear of judgment.

Delilah sat down, her pulse quickening. If Claire’s guilt was her ghost, what would force her to confront it? The image came to her like lightning: Claire wasn’t just haunted. The ghost—her sister—wasn’t going to let her rest until she admitted the truth: Claire had left her behind to die.

The story poured out of Delilah like a confession. Claire’s choices, her fear, her denial—it all built to a climax where the ghost demanded retribution. Delilah’s fingers trembled as she typed the final line:
"The dead don’t need forgiveness. But the living can’t live without it."

The clock read 3:27 a.m. when she finally stopped. She exhaled, staring at the screen. It wasn’t perfect, but it was raw, and it was hers.

Three days later, she hit Submit. Then came the waiting, the self-doubt. Tasha dragged her out for coffee, insisting she needed sunlight and real food. Delilah went, but her thoughts remained on the contest.

Weeks passed until an email arrived, the subject line enough to make her heart stutter:
Congratulations—You’re the Winner of Our Short Story Contest!

Her hands shook as she opened it. The editor’s note hit her like a revelation:
This story reminded us of why short fiction endures. It’s sharp, haunting, and brave—a masterclass in exposing vulnerability and daring to dig deep. The final line? Unforgettable.

Delilah read the email twice, then a third time, her vision blurred by tears. She wasn’t just a writer chasing a dream anymore. She was a writer who had been seen.

---

Why Short Stories Matter

Short stories demand risk and precision. They are the perfect stage for vulnerability, challenging writers to bare the rawest truths. For readers, they’re proof that even the briefest works can leave the deepest marks. Delilah’s journey wasn’t just about publication; it was about finding the courage to cut to the bone—and discovering the beauty in scars.

Do you have the desire to write short stories? Visit Fiction Writing Tips.

Scammed and Stranded by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Contemporary

 

Scammed and Stranded

By Olivia Salter 

Word Count: 895

The December air was biting, cold enough to cut through Monica Jefferson’s coat as she paced her empty driveway in Atlanta. Her belongings—everything she owned—were supposed to have arrived weeks ago. But the truck, the movers, and the company she’d entrusted with her life were nowhere to be found.

Her fingers trembled as she redialed Scamway Logistics Moving & Storage, the self-proclaimed “industry leader” in long-distance moves. Twelve calls and counting, and each one had gone straight to voicemail. Monica’s stomach churned, equal parts rage and helplessness. This wasn’t just incompetence. It was theft.

Monica had spent weeks researching moving companies for her cross-country move from Las Vegas to Atlanta. Scamway had seemed like the perfect choice. Their website was polished, their reviews glowing. Their promises? Too good to resist.

“We don’t just move your belongings—we move your life,” the tagline boasted.

When Monica called for a quote, Carlos, their cheerful sales rep, made her feel like a VIP.

“We’re a full-service moving company,” he said, his voice dripping with confidence. “No brokers, no hidden fees, and we guarantee delivery on your schedule.”

Monica had been skeptical, but Carlos seemed genuine. He agreed to accept her $5,031.11 deposit by credit card, assuring her it was the safest option. “Trust me,” he said. “You’re in great hands.”

By moving day, Monica was cautiously optimistic. But her faith shattered the moment the truck pulled into her driveway.

The vehicle was an unmarked, rusty monstrosity, a far cry from the pristine fleet advertised on Scamway’s website. Two surly men climbed out, their sweat-stained T-shirts and impatient scowls setting Monica on edge.

“Uh, are you from Scamway Logistics?” she asked, eyeing them warily.

The taller man grunted. “Yeah. You got payment ready?”

Monica frowned. “I already paid the deposit. The rest is going on my card.”

He snorted. “Card? Nah, we need a wire transfer. Seventy percent up front, the rest in a money order at delivery.”

“That’s not what I was told; I've already paid a deposit ” Monica said, her voice rising.

“Well, that’s how it is,” he shot back, shoving a clipboard at her. “Sign or we’re leaving.”

Monica hesitated, her instincts screaming at her to stop. But her entire life was packed in boxes waiting to be loaded. If she refused, she had no backup plan.

The days that followed were a blur of frustration. Scamway’s “customer service” bounced her between departments, each agent more dismissive than the last. They claimed her belongings were “in transit” but refused to provide updates.

Then, a voicemail shattered her thin thread of hope.

“Ms. Jefferson, your items are in storage. There’s a retrieval fee of $4,000. Pay the balance, and we’ll schedule delivery.”

Storage? Monica’s heart sank. She hadn’t authorized storage. She was trying to eliminate storage costs, not add them.

When she called back, the representative was unapologetic.

“Pay the fees, or we keep your stuff,” the woman said flatly.

“That’s extortion!” Monica cried.

The woman laughed. “Call it what you want. You signed the contract.”

By mid-November, Monica was running out of options. Scamway had stopped answering her calls entirely. Her brother Eric flew out to help, finding her surrounded by printouts of complaints from other victims.

“They’re not a moving company,” she said, her voice hollow. “They’re brokers. They subcontract to the lowest bidder and leave us to deal with the fallout.”

Eric clenched his fists. “We’ll fight this, Monica. You’re not alone.”

The truck finally arrived at midnight on December 18th. The same beat-up vehicle rumbled into her driveway, its headlights piercing the darkness. Monica and Eric stood waiting, their phones ready to record.

The driver climbed out, clipboard in hand. “Balance due. Sign here.”

“I’m not signing anything until I inspect my belongings,” Monica said, her voice steely.

The driver scoffed. “Sign, or we drive off.”

Eric stepped forward. “Actually, that’s illegal. And just so you know, this is all being recorded.”

The driver hesitated, then motioned to his partner. “Fine. Start unloading.”

As the boxes came off the truck, Monica’s worst fears were realized. Her dining table was cracked. A box marked “fragile” had been crushed. Her grandmother’s antique clock was missing.

“Where’s the rest of my stuff?” Monica demanded.

The driver shrugged. “This is all we’ve got.”

Her hands shook with fury. “You think you can just take what you want and leave me with scraps?”

“Take it up with the company,” he sneered, climbing back into the truck.

Monica refused to let Scamway Logistics bury her story. With Eric’s help, she uploaded footage of the delivery to social media, highlighting every crushed box and missing item. The video went viral, racking up millions of views.

News outlets picked up the story, exposing Scamway’s fraudulent practices. Lawsuits piled up, and the company crumbled under the weight of public outrage.

Months later, Monica sat in her partially furnished living room, holding her grandmother’s clock. She’d tracked it down after a long legal battle, one of the few items she managed to recover.

“They thought they could break me,” she told a local reporter. “But I’m still here. And I’ll make sure no one else falls into their trap.”

Her voice carried the quiet strength of someone who had faced injustice and fought back. Scamway Logistics might have stolen her peace, but they couldn’t steal her determination to seek justice.

Whispered in the Quiet Hours / Flash Fiction / Supernatural / Contemporary

Whispered in the Quiet Hours

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 916

When Anika's dreams are haunted by her late ex-boyfriend, she must confront unfinished business, unanswered questions, and a truth that could finally set her free—or leave her broken forever.

The fan rattled in lazy circles overhead, the sound filling the small apartment like a hollow heartbeat. Anika lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Sleep wasn’t coming, but she refused to open her phone. She couldn’t bear to scroll through curated versions of lives she didn’t care about.

Instead, her mind wandered, uninvited, to Jonah. It had been months since their breakup. His name was a wound she didn’t dare press, but tonight, the edges felt raw.

She closed her eyes and let the quiet take her.

She found herself standing in the park where they used to meet after class. The air smelled like cut grass and damp earth, and the bench—their bench—looked just as she remembered.

But Jonah wasn’t just a memory. He was sitting there, alive in the way dreams make the impossible seem ordinary.

“Hey, Ani,” he said, his lopsided grin unchanged.

Her breath caught. “Jonah?”

He tilted his head. “You don’t call anymore.”

It felt like a punch to the chest. “I… you left,” she managed, though the words felt clumsy.

Jonah’s expression softened, his smile fading. “I didn’t mean for it to be this way.”

She blinked, and the park dissolved, her room rushing back around her. The fan hummed its empty tune, and she sat up, clutching her chest.

It wasn’t just a dream. It felt too real.

The second night, Jonah was waiting for her.

“You look tired,” he said, leaning against the kitchen counter of the apartment they once shared.

“I am tired,” she shot back, folding her arms. “What is this? Why are you here?”

He spread his hands. “You tell me. It’s your dream.”

Her anger flared. “No, you don’t get to be cryptic and charming, Jonah. That’s not fair.”

His face flickered with regret, the kind that always came too late. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Ani. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

She snorted. “The right thing? You ghosted me without so much as a goodbye.”

Jonah stepped closer, his expression pained. “I didn’t ghost you. I—” He hesitated, as if searching for the words. “I was scared. I thought I’d ruin you if I stayed.”

Her voice cracked. “And leaving didn’t?”

The dream unraveled, and Anika woke with her pillow damp from tears.

The next morning, Anika called Layla, gripping her phone so tightly her knuckles turned white.

“Hey, Lay,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Have you talked to Jonah lately?”

There was a long pause, heavy with something unspoken.

“Ani…” Layla’s voice broke. “You don’t know?”

Anika’s stomach dropped. “Know what?”

“Jonah died three weeks ago. Car accident.” Layla’s words came slowly, as if they might hurt less that way. “He was on his way to see you.”

The world tilted, and Anika sank onto her couch. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” she whispered.

“I thought… I thought someone would’ve,” Layla said softly. “I’m so sorry.”

The call ended, but the words hung in the air. He was on his way to see you.

That night, she didn’t fight the dreams.

When Jonah appeared, she was ready.

“Why are you doing this to me?” she demanded, standing in the doorway of the bedroom where she found him waiting.

“I needed you to know,” Jonah said simply.

“Know what?”

“That I loved you,” he said, his voice thick. “I still do, I always have.”

Anika’s anger boiled over. “You don’t get to say that now. You don’t get to—haunt me with something you should’ve told me while you were alive.”

Jonah looked at her, his eyes full of something she couldn’t name. “I was coming to tell you, Ani. The night I died, I was finally ready to fix things.”

Her breath hitched. “You were coming to see me?”

He nodded, his voice trembling. “I wanted to make it right. But I didn’t get the chance.”

Tears streamed down her face. “So what now? You just show up in my dreams, say your piece, and leave me to pick up the pieces?”

Jonah stepped closer, his form shimmering. “No. I’m here so you can let me go. You’re stronger than you think, Ani. You don’t need me anymore.”

Her voice cracked. “I don’t know how to let you go.”

“You will,” Jonah said softly. He smiled, his image fading. “You always were the strong one.”

The sun was rising when Anika woke. For the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel like the air was pressing down on her chest.

Over the following days, she began to let go in small ways. She visited their park, sitting on their bench and allowing herself to cry. She packed up the box of his things, keeping only a Polaroid from her birthday—the one where they were laughing so hard they were blurry.

But something still lingered.

The twist came two weeks later when she opened her email.

At the top of her inbox was an unread message from Jonah, dated the day of the accident.

Her heart pounded as she opened it.

It wasn’t an apology or a confession of guilt. It was a single line: “You’ve always been my home.”

Anika stared at the screen, tears spilling over but not from grief.

For the first time, they felt like closure.

Splinters of Truth: Fractured Code by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Contemporary

 

Splinters of Truth: Fractured Code

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 850

Nina hunched over her laptop in the dim glow of the nearly empty office. The others had left hours ago, their footsteps fading into the echoing silence of the hallways. She rubbed her temples, staring at the data displayed on her screen. Something was wrong—deeply wrong. The algorithm she'd been working on, touted as a game-changer for healthcare access, didn’t just prioritize patients; it excluded the most vulnerable, often by race, income, or geographic location.

She scrolled through line after line of code, her heartbeat quickening. The realization hit her like a gut punch: the flaws weren’t accidental. They were deliberate.

The next day, Nina brought it up in the weekly meeting. She kept her voice steady as she explained the disparities she'd found. Her manager, Evan, leaned back in his chair, his expression a practiced calm that made her stomach churn.

“Nina,” he said smoothly, “you’re misunderstanding the big picture. These prioritizations are necessary to keep the system efficient.”

Efficient. She hated how easily the word rolled off his tongue, as if lives were just numbers on a spreadsheet. The room shifted uncomfortably, her colleagues avoiding her gaze. She left the meeting with a lump in her throat, the weight of their silence pressing down on her.

Amara caught up with her in the hallway. “You’re playing with fire,” her friend whispered.

Nina didn’t respond. She was too busy feeling the splinters of truth digging deeper under her skin.

Nina couldn’t sleep. The weight of the data, the dismissiveness in Evan’s voice, and the look in her colleagues’ eyes haunted her. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the faces of those who would be erased by the algorithm—mothers waiting in overcrowded ERs, children in rural towns, the elderly unable to pay for private care.

She spent late nights combing through code, documenting every inconsistency, every calculated omission. Her apartment became a war room of sticky notes, graphs, and printouts. She even hacked into the internal servers to uncover meeting notes that confirmed her worst fears. This wasn’t an oversight; it was policy.

Amara visited one night, taking in the chaos of Nina’s living room. “You’re serious about this,” she said, her voice soft but tinged with worry.

“What else am I supposed to do? Pretend I didn’t see it?” Nina snapped, immediately regretting the sharpness of her tone.

“I’m not saying that. I’m saying… be careful. People like Evan don’t go down quietly. They’ll come for you.”

Nina looked at her friend, searching for reassurance in her face but finding only fear.

The invitation to the dinner arrived two days later: a celebration of the project’s success. Nina stared at the email, her hand trembling. They were going to launch it despite everything. She thought of deleting it, pretending to be sick, but she knew she needed to see their smug faces one last time before she acted.

The restaurant was lavish, with dim lighting and polished marble floors. Evan greeted her at the entrance, his hand gripping hers a little too firmly. “Glad you could make it, Nina,” he said, his smile as sharp as a blade.

The evening passed in a blur of toasts and hollow congratulations. Nina sat at the edge of the table, silent as Evan boasted about the project’s efficiency and innovation. Her stomach turned with every word.

She excused herself midway through, retreating to the restroom. Locking the door behind her, she pulled out her phone. The email was ready—a carefully compiled dossier of evidence sent to journalists, advocacy groups, and even government watchdogs. Her finger hovered over the send button.

Her reflection in the mirror caught her eye. Her face looked tired but determined. “You can’t unsee this,” she whispered to herself, then hit send.

Returning to the table, she felt lighter but no less anxious. Evan noticed her smile as she sat down and raised an eyebrow. “Something amusing, Nina?”

“Just thinking about the future,” she said, her voice steady.

The fallout was immediate. The story hit the news  next morning: “Whistleblower Exposes Healthcare Bias in Groundbreaking Algorithm.” The company scrambled to release statements, promising investigations and accountability. Nina’s phone buzzed constantly—reporters wanting interviews, activists thanking her, and Evan’s livid voicemail threatening legal action.

When she walked into the office the next day, heads turned. Whispers followed her to her desk. By lunchtime, HR had called her in.

“You understand this creates a conflict of interest,” the woman said, her tone rehearsed.

“I understand,” Nina replied, handing over her badge and laptop without hesitation.

Outside, the January air bit at her skin, but she felt freer than she had in years. She didn’t have a job, but she had her dignity. She had done what no one else had been willing to do.

Weeks later, as she watched the company’s stock plummet and lawmakers call for reform, she smiled to herself. The truth had splintered, but she had pieced it together. And for the first time, she saw the cracks in the system not as defeats, but as places where the light could shine through.

The Sands of What Will Be by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Science Fiction

 

The Sands of What Will Be

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 900

In 1000 BC, a prophetess revered for her visions stands before her people, opening a device from a future unimaginable—a device that offers the power to rewrite destiny but at an unspeakable cost.

***

The desert sun was merciless, a hammer beating down on Nira’s kingdom. The drought had stretched into its third year, and whispers of desperation swirled through the village. Laborers digging for a new well had found something strange beneath the sands: a smooth, glowing slab unlike anything her people had ever seen.

It lay now on the altar before her, cradled in Rahi’s trembling hands. Her attendant’s dark eyes darted between the artifact and her face, silently pleading for her wisdom.

“Oracle,” Rahi whispered, “what is this thing?”

Nira reached out, her fingers grazing its cool surface. The moment she touched it, her vision warped. Colors sharpened, then split apart like broken glass.

She gasped. The altar vanished, replaced by images: her people wandering across barren lands, raiders descending like vultures, rivers running red under a blood-drenched sky. Then, suddenly, the desert bloomed. She saw grass-covered valleys, full bellies, children laughing. But the faces were different—distant echoes of her people, yet changed.

When the vision faded, she staggered. Rahi caught her by the arm. “Oracle, what did you see?”

Nira steadied herself and lifted her chin. “Bring the elders. Now.”

The elders assembled, their faces lined with worry and mistrust. They eyed the glowing slab as though it might leap from the altar and devour them.

“This is no gift of the gods,” one elder muttered.

“Be silent,” Nira snapped. Her voice carried authority, but inside, doubt gnawed at her. “The artifact offers... knowledge. A map of what is to come.”

“And what does it say?” another elder demanded.

Nira hesitated. “It shows that our choices today will shape the survival of our people tomorrow.”

Her words stirred a murmur among them, but she didn’t explain further. She couldn’t. The truth was more complicated, more dangerous. Each time she touched the device, it revealed more paths, more futures, but also the cost of tampering. In one vision, she saw herself striking an alliance with the northern raiders; in another, she led her people into battle. Each path led to ruin in its own way.

Her people had entrusted her with their lives, and yet she felt powerless. Was this what the gods intended? Or was the device mocking her faith, dangling impossible choices before her?

Late one night, as the village slept, Nira studied the device alone. Rahi found her sitting cross-legged in the sand, the glowing slab illuminating her face.

“You haven’t eaten all day,” he said, kneeling beside her. “You look like a ghost.”

Nira barely glanced at him. “This device—it doesn’t show one future. It shows many. And each time I choose, the sands shift beneath my feet.”

Rahi frowned. “You always find the right path. You always have.”

“No,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Not this time. If I save us now, I doom us later. If I let us suffer now, the future may flourish. How do I decide who deserves to live? Who deserves to die?”

He placed a hand on hers. “You cannot carry this alone, Nira. Let us help.”

She looked at him then, tears streaming silently down her face. “No one can help me. Not with this.”

The visions intensified as the drought worsened. Her people grew restless, their faith in her slipping. The elders whispered among themselves, their doubts spreading like poison.

One day, the device presented a clear vision: her people, abandoning the desert for the fertile valley she had seen. But to force their migration, she had to do nothing as disaster unfolded—the rivers drying, the raiders attacking. If she intervened to save them now, they would never leave, and their descendants would wither in an unyielding land.

At dawn, she summoned the village to the altar.

“The gods have spoken,” she declared, her voice unwavering despite the storm inside her. “We must leave this place. The rivers will not return. The sands are no longer our home.”

An elder stepped forward, his face twisted with fury. “You would lead us to our deaths? Abandon all we have built?”

“I would lead us to life,” she answered, her gaze piercing.

The crowd roared with protest, but she raised a hand, silencing them. “I have seen what lies ahead. Trust me as you always have. Trust that I will guide us to salvation.”

As the villagers prepared for the evacuation, Nira stood alone by the altar. The device flickered, displaying an image that made her heart stop.

It was a woman, older but unmistakably her, standing in a lush valley surrounded by her people. The woman mouthed silent words: It must be done.

Understanding flooded Nira. The device was not only a map of futures but a loop. She was both the guide and the guided, the one who would plant the seeds for her people’s salvation centuries from now.

With trembling hands, she deactivated the device and buried it where it had been found. Its glow faded beneath the sand, waiting for another time, another choice.

As she turned toward her people, already marching toward the horizon, she felt a strange sense of peace. She would lead them forward, knowing that her sacrifice would one day bloom into their salvation.