Twin Flames: When Mirrors Shatter by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Contemporary / Short Version

 

Twin Flames: When Mirrors Shatter

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 812

Lisa had never believed in destiny, but the first time she saw him, something deep inside her stirred.

It was at her first major exhibit, an event that should have felt triumphant. Instead, Lisa felt like an imposter, her nerves hidden behind a practiced smile. The centerpiece, Reflection in Ruin, took center stage of the gallery—a heart-shaped sculpture made of shattered mirrors, its sharp edges glinting under the spotlights.

She caught sight of him standing in front of it, his storm-gray eyes scanning the fractured surfaces like he could see something no one else could. He didn’t move for several minutes, and she felt her chest tighten as though the sculpture were judging her through him.

“This feels like standing inside myself,” he said suddenly, his voice quiet but steady.

The words hit her like an arrow. She stepped closer, curiosity overcoming her unease. “That’s the idea,” she said. “To reflect what’s hidden.”

He turned, meeting her gaze. “And what if you don’t like what’s reflected?”

Lisa froze. His eyes were intense, unflinching, and something in his expression felt too familiar, like staring into a mirror she hadn’t realized was there.

“Then maybe it’s time to face it,” she replied softly.

Their connection was immediate, magnetic, and utterly disarming. Over the following weeks, they grew close, meeting for coffee or wandering the city’s art districts. His name was Kieran, a writer whose words felt like secrets etched on paper. They clicked in ways Lisa couldn’t explain, but it wasn’t easy.

Kieran had a way of seeing through her defenses, peeling back layers she wasn’t ready to confront. “Why do you always deflect when someone gets too close?” he asked one evening as they walked along the river.

“I don’t deflect,” she said sharply, but his raised eyebrow said otherwise.

“You hide, Lisa,” he said quietly. “Behind your work, behind jokes. But there’s something you’re not facing.”

His words stayed with her, unsettling and undeniable.

But Kieran wasn’t without his own barriers. He would disappear for days without warning, his absence an open wound. When he returned, his excuses felt hollow, his charm thinly veiling a deeper pain.

“I don’t understand you,” she said during one of their arguments. “You push me to open up, but you won’t let me in.”

“I pull away because I’m terrified, Lisa!” he shouted, raising his hands in a praying position, touching his lips, his voice breaking with passion. “You think I’m strong, but I’m not. Every time I look at you, it’s like seeing all the parts of myself I want to ignore.”

His vulnerability stunned her. For so long, she’d believed she was the broken one, but Kieran was just as fractured, his shadows mirroring her own.

Their relationship hit a breaking point after one particularly heated fight. Kieran had vanished for a week, and when he finally called, Lisa didn’t answer. She spent that night in her studio, her hands trembling as she worked on a new piece—a jagged mosaic of broken glass. Each shard felt like a piece of herself, sharp and unyielding, but when she stepped back, she saw something whole.

That night, the dream came again: two flames circling each other, their light throwing jagged shadows across the void. When they collided, sparks flew, but instead of shattering, they burned brighter, illuminating the darkness.

When she woke, she knew what she needed to do.

The next day, she found Kieran at the park where they often met. He was sitting alone, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped under the weight of his own shadows.

“We’re not here to fix each other,” Lisa said as she approached, her voice steady. “We’re here to face ourselves. But I can’t do it alone.”

Kieran looked up, his eyes rimmed with exhaustion but brimming with something else—hope. “Neither can I,” he said.

They didn’t repair things overnight. Healing was messy, filled with moments of doubt and frustration. But they committed to the process, not as saviors of each other, but as partners in transformation.

Lisa’s next exhibit, Unbroken Light, drew critical acclaim. The centerpiece, Harmony Through Fracture, was a towering mosaic of shattered glass and steel, its jagged edges reflecting light into something breathtaking. Kieran, meanwhile, finished his first novel—a haunting story about two souls navigating their way through darkness. He dedicated it to Lisa, calling her his “brightest reflection.”

Years later, as they stood beneath a canopy of stars, Kieran reached for her hand. “Do you ever wonder if we were meant to find each other?”

Lisa smiled, her fingers brushing the shard of mirror she wore as a pendant. “I think we were meant to collide,” she said. “But everything after that? That was our choice.”

And as they stood together, whole in their imperfections, the flames inside them burned steadily, illuminating a path they could only walk together.

Beneath the Blazing Sky by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Science Fiction

  

Beneath the Blazing Sky

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 815

The sun glared down on Earth like an angry eye, its coronal mass ejection barreling toward the planet with unstoppable brutality. The storm was predicted to strike within 48 hours, and the world braced for an unraveling. Cities buzzed with panic. Airports shut down. Newscasters, visibly shaken, warned of the storm’s unprecedented strength: “SEVERE SOLAR STORM TO STRIKE EARTH AT 9:12 PM GMT. EXPECT GLOBAL BLACKOUTS. PREPARE IMMEDIATELY.”

In her Chicago apartment, Dr. Phoenix Hayes scrolled through images of the sun’s violent eruption. Her inbox was flooded with questions from colleagues and media outlets, all seeking answers she didn’t have. She had spent years researching solar storms, warning of their catastrophic potential, but governments hadn’t listened. Now, power grids were expected to fail, satellites would go dark, and humanity’s dependence on technology would collapse like a house of cards.

Phoenix stared at her phone. She wanted to call her father, Harold. He lived alone in rural Mississippi, far removed from modern conveniences—no internet, no cell phone. But it wasn’t just his isolation that made her hesitate. Their last conversation, four years ago, had ended in a shouting match. “You’re so caught up in the stars, you’ve forgotten where you came from,” he’d said. She’d slammed the phone down, burying her hurt in her work.

The phone buzzed with another alert. Phoenix swiped it away and grabbed her car keys. There wasn’t much time.

The highways were chaos. Horns blared. Families crammed belongings into cars as if outrunning the storm itself. Phoenix’s hybrid car hummed quietly as she navigated backroads, bypassing blocked highways and abandoned vehicles.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the auroras began. Swirling bands of green and crimson light danced across the sky, painting the world in an eerie glow. It was beautiful, yes, but also haunting—a vivid reminder of the sun’s unchecked power.

Phoenix reached her father’s house just as the first wave of electromagnetic disruption struck. Her car dashboard flickered and died. The world seemed to shudder with silence, as if holding its breath.

The small wooden house stood dark against the horizon, its only light the faint glow of candles in the window. Phoenix knocked, and after a pause, the door creaked open.

“Phoenix?” Harold stood in the doorway, his face etched with lines of age and surprise.

“Dad,” she choked out, the words catching in her throat. “I had to come.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then stepped aside. “Come on in.”

The house was filled with the comforting smell of woodsmoke and Harold’s infamous chili simmering on the wood stove. A battery-powered transistor radio buzzed faintly on the counter, broadcasting warnings that no one could heed anymore.

They sat in silence for a while, sipping coffee and listening to the fire crackle. Finally, Phoenix spoke. “I’ve spent so much time studying the stars, but I never stopped to think about the people who taught me to look up at them.”

Harold’s hand stilled over his coffee mug. “Your mother used to say you were born to fly. I guess I didn’t know how to let you go without feeling like I’d lose you.”

“I should have called,” Phoenix admitted. “I let my pride get in the way.”

He looked at her, his expression softening. “We both did.”

The storm intensified outside, the auroras casting strange shadows through the windows. The power flickered and went out, leaving them in the warm glow of the firelight.

As the hours stretched on, Harold shared stories from his childhood, tales Phoenix had long forgotten. She told him about her work, her regrets, and her dreams. When the radio finally died, they sang the hymns her mother used to hum while cooking.

The storm lasted through the night, its fury relentless, but inside the small house, time seemed to pause. When the first rays of sunlight broke through, Phoenix and Harold stepped outside. The sky was clear, and the air hummed with an uncanny stillness.

Neighbors wandered over, sharing news and supplies. An elderly woman with a flashlight told them how her husband had rigged their generator to keep their freezer running. A young man offered Harold a jar of homemade preserves.

“We’ll get through this,” Harold said, his voice steady. “We always do.”

Phoenix realized then how resilient her father was. He didn’t need the internet or electricity to survive. He had his community, his faith, and his determination.

“I think I’ll stay a while,” she said, her voice firm. “Help out. Reconnect.”

Harold smiled, a glimmer of pride in his eyes. “We’d like that.”

As the world began its slow recovery, Phoenix found herself drawn to the simplicity of life in her father’s small town. Together, they helped rebuild—not just their lives, but their relationship. The storm had stripped away so much, but it had also revealed what truly mattered beneath the blazing sky.

Held Hostage by Moving Day by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Contemporary

 

Held Hostage by Moving Day

By Olivia Salter 

Word Count: 938

The first box Ava opened wasn’t hers. Inside, she found a crumpled wedding dress, dusty with neglect, and a photo album of strangers’ smiling faces. Behind her, two men leaned against the moving truck, watching her with bored amusement. “You want your stuff? Pay up,” the shorter one said. His grin didn’t reach his eyes.

---

The driveway baked under the summer sun as Ava gripped her phone, the cool plastic slippery against her palm. Her new rental stood behind her, empty and lifeless. She could almost feel the air inside, hollow and mocking, waiting for furniture that hadn’t arrived.

“Ma’am, as I’ve said, the remaining fees are mandatory,” the voice on the line murmured. “If you’d read the fine print—”

“I did read it,” Ava snapped. Her voice trembled with anger. “This wasn’t in the contract. You can’t just add fees after the fact.”

The pause that followed was heavy with disdain. “You can pay now or lose your things. Your choice.”

The line went dead.

Ava stared at her phone, bile rising in her throat.

The truck pulled up minutes later, its faded logo peeling from the side like old paint. Two men jumped out: one tall and skinny, the other shorter and stockier. They moved with the casual arrogance of people who knew they had the upper hand.

“We’re here to deliver,” the taller man announced, tossing a clipboard onto the hood of her car. “But before we unload, you need to clear the balance. Plus fees.”

Ava glanced at the clipboard. The paper was blank.

“What fees?” she asked, her voice tight.

“Long-distance charge, stairs fee, extra insurance, tip. Standard stuff,” the shorter man said, smirking.

“That’s not what we agreed on!”

The shorter man’s smirk widened. “Take it up with the office, lady. Or don’t. We’re not unloading a damn thing until we’re paid.”

Fuming, Ava handed over her credit card, her hand shaking as she typed in the PIN. The card reader beeped, and the taller man gave a mock salute. “Pleasure doing business.”

The movers began unloading with deliberate carelessness. Boxes hit the pavement with loud thuds. A lamp toppled out of one, its shade rolling into the street. Ava scrambled to grab it, her heart pounding.

“Watch it!” she yelled.

The men ignored her. The last box they pulled out was scuffed and dented, the tape barely holding.

“This isn’t ours,” Ethan said, inspecting the label.

The shorter man shrugged. “Warehouse mix-up. You’ll have to call customer service.”

They slammed the truck doors and drove off, leaving Ava standing amidst a jumble of strangers’ possessions.

Later that night, Ava sat cross-legged in the chaos of her living room, surrounded by open boxes. None of them were hers.

One box held a delicate tea set wrapped in yellowed newspaper. Another had stacks of old postcards tied together with fraying ribbon. There were baby clothes, photo albums, and a faded varsity jacket.

“This isn’t a mistake,” she muttered, holding up a wedding dress sealed in a plastic garment bag. “This is intentional.”

Ethan frowned. “You think they’re holding our stuff hostage?”

“Not just ours,” Ava said. She pulled out her laptop and started searching.

A quick dive into online forums revealed dozens of complaints about Scams R Us Movers: exorbitant fees, lost belongings, damaged furniture, and stolen items.

“This isn’t just a scam,” Ava said, her voice steely. “It’s a racket.”

The next morning, Ava uploaded photos of the misplaced items to social media with a plea for help:

“Do you recognize any of these? Victim of Scams R Us Movers? Let’s fight back together.”

Within hours, the post went viral. Comments flooded in:

“That’s my grandma’s tea set!”
“They stole my son’s baseball trophies!”
“They ruined my life.”

Her inbox overflowed with messages, each one angrier than the last. She started organizing names, dates, and evidence, sharing it with journalists and lawyers.

Late one evening, her phone rang. The number was blocked.

“Hello?”

“You’ve been busy,” a smooth, cold voice said.

Ava’s stomach flipped. “Victor Harlow, I presume?”

The voice chuckled. “You don’t know who you’re messing with, sweetheart. People like you… they don’t win. Quit while you’re ahead.”

“Or what?” Ava shot back, her voice steadier than she felt.

“You won’t like the alternative,” Victor said, his voice low and dangerous.

The call ended.

The threat only fueled Ava’s determination. She partnered with other victims to file a lawsuit. Journalists exposed Scams R Us Movers’ fraudulent practices, splashing Victor’s face across headlines.

Ava’s story gained traction, and with mounting pressure, Victor’s empire began to crumble. Investigators uncovered warehouses packed with stolen items, many of them damaged or incomplete.

Weeks later, Ava received a call from one of the victims she’d helped. “I think I have something of yours,” the woman said.

Ava met her in a parking lot. From the trunk of the woman’s car, she pulled a box labeled Ava McAllister. Inside was Ava’s first-edition copy of The Bell Jar, its cover slightly scuffed but intact.

Clutching the book to her chest, Ava felt tears sting her eyes.

Ethan placed a hand on her shoulder. “You got it back.”

“Not everything,” Ava said softly. She thought of the family photos, the heirloom jewelry, and the small pieces of her life that were gone forever.

“But enough,” she added, looking around.

Their new home wasn’t perfect yet. The furniture was mismatched, and the walls were still bare. But it was theirs, and they’d filled it with love and hard-won victories.

Ava ran her fingers over the book’s worn spine. She’d lost pieces of her past, but she’d gained something stronger: a voice that couldn’t be silenced.

Focus: The Perfect Frame by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Contemporary

  

Focus: The Perfect Frame

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,583

Maya stared at her laptop screen, the blinking cursor daring her to type. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, but no words came. She’d rewritten the scene so many times that it had lost all meaning.

Her protagonist was supposed to feel suffocated by the weight of her childhood home, but Maya’s description sounded more like a real estate listing:

"The wallpaper was faded, its floral pattern barely visible. The couch sagged in the middle, and the bookshelves overflowed with dusty photo albums and trinkets."

She sighed, deleting the line. It was empty. Lifeless. A checklist of objects with no heart.

The truth was, Maya couldn’t see the scene herself. Her mind was a jumble of images that refused to form a clear picture. And maybe that’s why her whole story felt stuck: she was lost in the clutter, just like her protagonist.

She slammed the laptop shut and leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. Tonight’s writing class had better help—or she wasn’t sure she’d finish this story at all.

Professor Avery strode into the classroom, a stack of papers in one hand and a coffee in the other. She was dressed in her usual sharp, all-black attire, her presence as commanding as her critique. On the whiteboard behind her, a single word was scrawled in bold, confident strokes: Focus.

"Writing is about choices," Avery began, setting her papers down with a deliberate thud. "When you try to capture everything, your reader sees nothing. It’s like a photograph: you can’t fit the whole world into one frame. You have to decide what matters."

Maya leaned forward, gripping her pen.

Avery held up a printed page. "This is from a student story about a man lost in the woods. Great premise, but here’s the original opening:

"The leaves were green, but some had turned brown. The air smelled of pine, earth, and the faint tang of distant water. Birds chirped overhead, their songs a discordant symphony..."

She paused, scanning the room. "What’s wrong with this?"

"It’s too much," one student offered hesitantly.

"It’s beautiful," another argued, their tone defensive.

Avery nodded. "It is beautiful—but beauty without purpose is noise. Now listen to the rewrite."

She flipped the page and read aloud:

"Richard stumbled through the underbrush, his breath ragged. The sun bled orange against the horizon, spilling light through the black skeletons of the trees. In his hand, the compass trembled."

The room fell silent.

"What do you notice?" Avery prompted.

"The sun’s setting," Maya said quietly. "It’s running out of time."

"The compass trembles," another student added. "It’s like he’s scared—or he doesn’t trust it."

"Exactly," Avery said, her sharp gaze sweeping across the class. "Every detail in the rewrite serves the story. The setting reflects the stakes: the fading light, the black trees, the trembling hand. The forest isn’t just background—it’s a reflection of the character’s fear and desperation."

"But what if you want to describe everything?" a student asked, arms crossed.

"Then you’ll lose your reader," Avery said, her tone unyielding. "Focus isn’t about limiting your imagination—it’s about amplifying the impact of your details. You don’t need more words. You need the right ones."

Maya sat back, her pen hovering over her notebook. Amplify the impact. Choose what matters. She thought of her unfinished scene and wondered if she could make it come alive.

That night, Maya sat at her desk, her laptop open. The cursor blinked against the empty page, but for the first time, she wasn’t afraid of it.

She closed her eyes and imagined her protagonist stepping into that childhood home. Not just the objects in the room, but the emotions—the memories tied to every crack and shadow.

When she opened her eyes, her fingers began to move:

"The piano sat in the corner, its keys chipped and yellowed. Dust blanketed the lid, except for a hand-shaped smear where someone had wiped it clean. She pressed a single key. The sound was sharp, conflicting—like a scream cut short. She thought of her father, his fingers always poised above the keys, his smile tight with disappointment. She stepped back, the silence rushing in like a wave."

Maya leaned back, her chest tightening. She reread the paragraph, her heart racing. For the first time, the scene felt alive. It wasn’t just a room anymore—it was her protagonist’s past, her pain, her prison.

Her phone buzzed with a notification, but she ignored it. She wasn’t finished yet.

Maya sat at her desk well past midnight, her fingers hovering over the keys. The scene was vivid in her mind—her protagonist, Lena, standing frozen in the doorway of her childhood home—but translating it onto the page felt impossible. The images blurred, each detail battling for attention.

She typed another sentence, then deleted it. Over and over. Her breath came shallow, frustration building like a tight coil in her chest.

The sharp ding of a notification startled her. It was a reminder: Class in seven hours. Don’t quit now.

By the time Maya walked into the classroom, her exhaustion was visible. She dropped into her seat, clutching her notebook like a lifeline. Around her, other students chatted or scrolled on their phones, but Maya stayed silent, her mind replaying the scene she couldn’t seem to write.

Avery entered, her black heels clicking sharply against the floor. She strode to the front, a commanding presence that silenced the room.

“Good writing is about tension,” Avery began, scrawling the word in bold strokes across the whiteboard. “Not just conflict between characters, but the tension between what is seen and what is felt. Between what’s said and what’s left unsaid.”

Maya’s pen moved instinctively, jotting down the phrase: what’s left unsaid.

Avery’s gaze swept the room. “Who here feels like they’re struggling to create tension in their work?”

Maya hesitated but raised her hand. She wasn’t the only one. Across the room, a lanky guy in a graphic T-shirt nodded. “I feel like I’m overexplaining everything,” he admitted.

“Same,” Maya added, her voice quieter. “I can’t stop myself from describing too much. It’s like…I don’t trust the reader to get it.”

Avery nodded approvingly. “You’re both trying to do the reader’s job. Remember, your audience isn’t passive—they’re part of the story. Give them room to feel the tension.”

She pulled a paper from her stack. “Here’s an example of a revision from last week’s homework. Original version:

"The storm outside was loud, with thunder shaking the windows and lightning illuminating the room. She sat by the fire, clutching her blanket, staring at the photo in her hands."

Avery paused for effect, then read the rewrite:

"Thunder rattled the windows, and lightning cast jagged shadows on the wall. She gripped the photo tighter, her fingers trembling. The fire crackled, but she didn’t feel its warmth."

“What’s the difference?” she asked.

“It’s sharper,” Maya said. “You can feel the tension in her body. The photo becomes the focus, not just the storm.”

Avery nodded. “Exactly. The details you choose—and the ones you leave out—guide your reader’s emotional experience. If you describe everything, you dilute the tension. When you focus, you amplify it.”

That night, Maya returned to her desk, her professor’s words echoing in her mind. Focus. Amplify. What was Lena feeling in that moment? What details would bring her fear and hesitation to life?

She closed her eyes, letting the scene take shape. Lena stood in the doorway, her breath shallow. The room was familiar yet strange, like stepping into a dream where everything was slightly off.

Maya began to type:

"Lena’s hand hovered over the doorframe as if crossing it would make her twelve again. The piano sat in the corner, smaller than she remembered, its keys chipped and yellowed. One was cracked—she’d slammed it in a tantrum once. Her father’s fury had filled the house that night, louder than the storm outside. The memory rose unbidden, sharp and hot. She stepped back, but the silence pressed in, thick and suffocating."

Her fingers flew over the keys. The room came alive, not as a collection of objects but as a reflection of Lena’s internal world.

The next class, Maya sat near the back, trying to keep her nerves in check. Avery entered, her black coat sweeping behind her like a cape.

“Before we begin,” she said, “I’d like to hear from someone who took last week’s lesson to heart.”

Maya hesitated, but the memory of her late-night breakthrough pushed her forward. She raised her hand.

“Go ahead, Maya,” Avery said, gesturing for her to stand.

Maya read her scene aloud, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. When she finished, the room was silent for a moment.

Then Avery spoke. “That,” she said, “is how you create tension. The piano isn’t just a piano—it’s a wound. The silence isn’t just background—it’s a force. Every detail serves the story.”

A wave of relief washed over Maya as the room erupted in applause. For the first time, she felt like a real writer.

At home that night, Maya stared at her draft, a new clarity settling over her. The lessons Avery had taught weren’t just about writing—they were about life. She began to sort through her own clutter, the way she’d stripped her story down to its essentials. Old grudges, toxic friendships, self-doubt—she let them go, one by one.

For the first time, Maya’s world felt focused.

The Glow of Safety by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Romance

 

The Glow of Safety

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 938

Sophia didn’t notice the man on her favorite park bench until she was close enough to read the title of his book: The Body Keeps the Score.

The title hit like a lightning bolt. She froze, the coffee cup in her hand trembling slightly. Why that book? Of all books?

“Sorry,” the man said, looking up. His voice was soft, calm. His face was open, kind. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” she lied.

He nodded toward the bench. “This is your spot, isn’t it?”

“It’s a public bench,” she said, gripping her coffee tighter.

The man offered a faint smile and shifted slightly, as if to give her space. After a moment’s hesitation, she sat at the far edge, the quiet between them stretching long but not uncomfortable.

Sophia had been coming to the park for weeks, escaping the suffocating quiet of her apartment. She thought of it as a no-man’s-land—a neutral zone where memories of Marcus couldn’t reach.

That day, the man on the bench became part of her ritual. His name was Ethan, and he seemed harmless, though she didn’t trust her instincts anymore. They spoke sparingly at first—small talk about the weather, a shared comment about an overzealous squirrel.

By the third week, he broke their unspoken rules.

“Do you come here to escape, or to find something?” he asked one crisp morning.

Sophia startled, her guard snapping back into place. “That’s an odd question.”

Ethan shrugged. “Maybe. But it feels like you’re searching for something when you sit here.”

She didn’t answer, but the question lingered long after he left.

Their casual exchanges turned into regular walks, coffee dates, and longer conversations. Ethan’s questions were disarming in their simplicity:

“What’s your favorite song?”

“When was the last time you laughed?”

“What’s your happiest memory?”

Sophia realized how hard it was to answer, her life with Marcus an endless stretch of pleasing, managing, and surviving.

When she finally asked Ethan about himself, his answer was unexpected. “I’m a work in progress,” he admitted. “I’ve spent too much time running from things. But I’m trying to stop.”

The words struck a chord in her, though she didn’t press.

One night, as they walked under the park’s flickering streetlights, Ethan asked, “Do you ever feel like you’re bracing for something bad to happen, even when things are fine?”

The question made her breath catch. “All the time,” she admitted quietly.

Two weeks later, Marcus showed up outside her office. He leaned against his car with his signature smirk and a bouquet of red roses.

“Sophia,” he called, his voice dripping with charm.

Her chest tightened, anger bubbling beneath her fear. “What do you want, Marcus?”

“To talk. I miss you.”

The flowers, the smile—it was all so calculated, so familiar. Once, she would’ve melted. Now, it made her skin crawl.

“I’m seeing someone,” she said, her voice steady.

Marcus’s smirk dropped, replaced by a dark edge. “That supposed to scare me off?” He grabbed her wrist, his grip firm but not hard enough to draw attention.

Before she could pull away, Ethan’s voice cut through.

“Is there a problem here?” Ethan’s tone was calm but firm as he approached.

Marcus scoffed, releasing her. “So this is the new guy? Doesn’t look like much.”

Sophia stepped between them, her heart racing but her determination to split them stronger. “Leave, Marcus. Now.”

For the first time, she saw uncertainty in his eyes. With a muttered curse, he walked away, tossing the roses into a trash can.

Ethan didn’t speak, just waited until she turned to him, her face flushed. “Are you okay?” he asked softly.

Sophia nodded, surprising herself with how steady she felt. “Yeah. I am.”

The next morning, Sophia opened her door to find a petite woman standing nervously on her stoop. Her dark eyes were tired, her hands gripping a small notebook.

“Hi,” the woman said, her voice trembling. “I’m Rachel. I think you’re seeing Ethan.”

Sophia’s stomach dropped. “I am. Who are you?”

Rachel shifted her weight. “I’m his ex. I’m not here to cause trouble, but... I think you should know something. He’s kind, but when things get serious, he leaves.”

Sophia’s throat tightened. “Why are you telling me this?”

Rachel hesitated, her eyes welling up. “Because I didn’t see it coming. And I wish I had.”

That evening, Sophia met Ethan at the park. They sat on the bench, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words.

“I met Rachel today,” she said, watching his reaction closely.

Ethan stiffened slightly, but he didn’t look away. “What did she say?”

“She said you leave when things get hard. Is it true?”

Ethan exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “It was. I didn’t know how to face things back then, so I ran. But I’m not that person anymore.”

Sophia studied him, the sincerity in his eyes clashing with the warning in Rachel’s voice. “How do I know you won’t run from me?”

“You don’t,” he said simply. “But I want to stay. And if you’ll let me, I’ll prove it to you.”

The raw honesty in his words startled her. For the first time, she saw him not as a savior, but as someone trying, just like her.

She looked away, her gaze drifting to the bench they shared. It wasn’t just her spot anymore—it was theirs.

“Okay,” she said softly. “But no running.”

Ethan smiled faintly and reached for her hand, his touch light but steady.

For the first time, Sophia felt something new: not just hope, but the kind of safety that let her finally begin to heal.

Beneath the Crimson Dust by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Science Fiction

 

Beneath the Crimson Dust

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,034

The seismic scans were supposed to map subsurface water, not unearth an enigma. When the Mars Orbiter transmitted images of vast geometric structures buried deep under Utopia Planitia, the world’s governments erupted into a frenzy. The discovery was hailed as the find of the millennium, and within months, the first manned mission to Mars was launched, led by Dr. Naomi Ellis, an astrobiologist with a complicated relationship to her dying homeworld.

Naomi stood in the observation bay of the Ares Horizon, staring down at the red planet as the ship descended. Mars was a beacon of hope—or so the propaganda said. To Naomi, it was more like a mirror, reflecting humanity’s desperate hunger for a second chance.

“It’s beautiful,” said Lieutenant Marcus Hayes, stepping up beside her. A geologist by training, his practicality bordered on cynicism.

“It is,” Naomi said softly, her breath fogging the glass.

“You don’t sound convinced,” he said, giving her a sidelong glance.

“I’ve seen beauty before,” Naomi replied, her voice heavy with memory. “It didn’t last.”

Marcus smirked, his expression unreadable. “Then let’s hope this one does.”

The structures lay deeper than anyone had predicted. For weeks, the excavation team worked tirelessly, unearthing an enormous wall of metallic alloy that shimmered faintly under their lights. The carvings etched into its surface seemed to shift when viewed from different angles, as though alive.

Layla Chen, the team’s engineer, crouched by the wall, her gloved fingers tracing the carvings. “This is… it’s warm,” she said, her voice tinged with awe.

Marcus knelt beside her, skepticism etched into his face. “No way. This thing’s been buried for millennia.”

“Feel it yourself,” Layla said, gesturing.

Marcus hesitated, then touched the surface. He pulled his hand back sharply. “I’ll be damned.”

Naomi stood a few feet back, her gaze fixed on the spiraling patterns that danced across the wall. “It’s waiting for us,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Layla glanced at her. “What do you mean?”

Naomi didn’t answer. Instead, she motioned for the team to begin drilling.

When the wall was breached, a low hum reverberated through the chamber, followed by a rush of cold air that shouldn’t have existed in Mars’s thin atmosphere. The team exchanged uneasy glances before venturing inside.

The chambers beyond were vast, their walls lined with crystalline pillars that seemed to pulse faintly, like a living heartbeat. The light from their helmets refracted into prismatic bursts, painting the cavern in shifting hues.

“This place is ancient,” Layla said, her voice trembling with awe.

“Ancient and dead,” Marcus muttered.

Naomi stopped in front of a towering pillar, her helmet’s reflection distorted in its surface. She reached out tentatively but stopped short of touching it. “Not dead,” she said. “Dormant.”

The team pressed onward, the chambers becoming increasingly intricate. The walls were covered in fractal patterns that seemed to twist and shift as they moved. Finally, they reached the heart of the structure: a monument that towered above them, its surface rippling like liquid gold.

Marcus let out a low whistle. “What the hell is that?”

Naomi approached the monument, her pulse quickening. It seemed to hum at a frequency she could feel in her bones. She reached out, her gloved hand trembling.

“Naomi, don’t—” Marcus began, but it was too late.

Her fingers brushed the surface, and the world shattered.

Naomi awoke in a void, weightless and disoriented. Shapes and lights swirled around her, folding in on themselves in ways her mind struggled to comprehend. Emotions flooded her—curiosity, sorrow, pity—all too overwhelming to resist.

“Who are you?” she asked, though her voice felt small and distant.

The swirling lights coalesced into a towering figure, faceless yet exuding a presence that felt ancient and heavy with grief.

We were here before, the presence communicated, its voice not spoken but felt.

Naomi’s mind was flooded with visions. She saw Mars as it had been: rivers carving through verdant valleys, cities of shimmering light rising beneath twin moons, a civilization brimming with ingenuity and beauty. But the visions darkened. The cities burned, rivers boiled, and the skies turned to ash.

“You destroyed yourselves,” Naomi said, her voice trembling.

We warned ourselves. We built too much, reached too far. And when we could no longer take from our world, we turned on each other. This is all that remains.

Tears streamed down Naomi’s face. “Why show me this?”

The presence shifted, and Naomi saw Earth—its forests replaced by deserts, its oceans choked with plastic, its skies thick with smoke. She saw nations at war, corporations consuming resources with no regard for the future.

“You think we’re the same,” she whispered.

You are.

“No,” she protested, shaking her head. “We’re not doomed to repeat your mistakes. We can change.”

The presence hesitated, as if weighing her words. Your path is not ours to decide. We left this place as a warning—and as a mirror. It is up to you to see clearly.

The void collapsed, and Naomi awoke on the chamber floor, gasping. Marcus and Layla were leaning over her, their faces pale with concern.

“What the hell happened?” Marcus demanded.

Naomi sat up slowly, her mind reeling. “They were like us,” she said, her voice unsteady. “They destroyed themselves, but they left this behind… to warn us.”

Back on Earth, the discovery ignited chaos. Nations raced to claim the knowledge for themselves, each vowing to use it for the “greater good.” Corporations saw dollar signs, while militaries quietly prepared for a new era of warfare.

Naomi watched it all unfold with a growing sense of dread. The Martians’ warning echoed in her mind, but her voice was drowned out by the noise of greed and ambition.

One night, she stood alone under the stars, staring up at the faint red dot of Mars. The weight of the monument’s message pressed down on her. She thought of the void, the faceless presence, and the fragile hope she’d clung to.

Knowing the ending didn’t mean the story had to stay the same. Humanity could choose a different path—if it was willing to see itself clearly.

Perhaps the mirror had shown enough. Perhaps this time, humanity would listen.

If He Was a Woman by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Literary Fiction

 

If He Was a Woman

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 938

If he was a woman, the thought struck him like a sudden gust as the subway lurched forward. Across the aisle, a man leaned too close to the woman beside him. She shrank, her knees drawn together, her shoulders curling inward. Headphones hung loosely around her neck, as though she'd been caught between wanting to block out the world and needing to stay alert to its dangers.

He shifted in his seat, deeply aware of his own sprawl: legs wide, arms draped over his knees, body unapologetically taking space. His eyes flicked to his reflection in the window, faint and distorted by the dim lights outside. Would he still sit this way if he were her? Would his body be his own, or would it feel like an offering the world kept trying to claim?

The train screeched to a halt, his stop. He stood abruptly, glancing at the woman as he moved to the door. Her shoulders were still hunched, her eyes fixed downward. He thought about saying something—what, though? Are you okay? Do you need help? The words felt clumsy, their weight more for him than for her.

He stepped off and climbed the stairs into the night. The cold air pressed against him, sharp and clear, but the thought stayed tangled in his chest. A group of men laughed loudly on the corner, their voices cutting through the quiet like glass breaking. Without thinking, he crossed to the other side of the street. Only after his feet hit the pavement did he realize how easily he had moved—without hesitation, without fear.

If he was a woman, would his breath have quickened? Would his hand have gone to his keys, the metal biting into his palm like a prayer? He looked back at the men briefly. Their laughter wasn’t meant for him, but he could still feel its edges.

At home, he dropped his bag by the door and sank into the couch. The quiet of the room pressed down on him. He stared at his hands—broad, rough, the hands of someone who never thought twice about how they gripped the wheel of a car or the edge of a bar. He flexed his fingers, trying to picture them differently: softer, painted nails catching the light, the hands of someone who might know how to braid hair or cradle a child. The image felt foreign, like it belonged to a stranger.

His phone buzzed, breaking the silence. A work email from his boss. He swiped it away without opening it. His mind drifted to the woman in his office, the one who always spoke deliberately, her words carefully weighed. She was sharp, brilliant, but he’d seen how often her ideas were interrupted, her voice lost in the noise of men claiming the space she carved.

He hadn’t done it himself, but he’d never stopped it either. The thought tightened in his chest. If he was a woman, would he know how to fight for his voice? Or would he have learned to let it go, to swallow his thoughts and wear a smile that didn’t reach his eyes?

He stood and paced the room, the question cutting deeper. If he was a woman, would he know how to scream? Not in the way he sometimes did into the quiet of his apartment, but a scream that filled the air and left a scar in the silence. Or would the world have taught him to bury it, to tuck it away like a secret, hidden even from himself?

The subway woman came back to him, her shrinking frame, her silence. What would she think of him? Not the man sitting across from her, but him—as he was, with all his good intentions that never seemed to leave his chest. Would she see an ally? Or just another man who noticed too late?

His mind shifted to his sister, his mother, the women he knew. They carried themselves not with fragility, but with a strength he couldn’t name, something unyielding despite its quietness. If he was a woman, would he find that strength? Would he take the sharp pieces of what the world handed him and build something whole from the wreckage?

The thought sat heavy, unmoving. He moved to the window and looked at his reflection again, faint but steady against the backdrop of the city lights. He hadn’t noticed before how his outline blurred at the edges, fractured by the uneven glass.

His hands gripped the sill, and he imagined the subway woman’s voice—what she might have said if she had looked up. Would she have asked for help? Would she have told him she didn’t need it? Or would she have said nothing, the weight of silence easier than risking the wrong words?

He let out a slow breath, his chest tightening as the thought settled into something sharper. If he was a woman, his life wouldn’t belong entirely to himself. It would be borrowed, shared, chipped away in ways he never had to consider. But maybe—just maybe—it would teach him to claim it piece by piece, to carve out space no matter how often it was stolen.

He turned from the window and sank back into the couch. The image of her lingered in his mind—her face tilted up this time, her gaze meeting his. Her expression wasn’t fear or anger, but something unreadable, something that left him wondering if she would ever trust someone like him.

The thought lodged deeper. It wasn’t understanding—not yet—but it was a beginning. And maybe that was enough.