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.

The Cup of Suffering by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Spiritual Fiction

 

The Cup of Suffering

By Olivia Salter 

Word Count: 1,341

In the shadow of Mount Tabor, where the wind carried whispers of forgotten sorrows, an ancient legend endured—not of triumph or glory, but of a simple cup—the Vessel of Sorrow—that Christ had used at His last supper. It was said to hold the weight of human suffering, offering no rest but the stark truth of sacrifice and grace.

Amos, weary and broken by years of grief, had heard rumors of the cup. Once a man of learning, now a soul haunted by loss, he had come searching—not for power, but for absolution. The death of his wife had left a wound that never healed, and the gap between him and his children had grown into an abyss too wide to cross. He had tried, in vain, to bury his sorrow, to outrun the consequences of his mistakes. But the cup called to him, a final hope that perhaps, in its depths, he could at last find peace.

The journey was unforgiving. Thorns scraped his skin, and jagged stones threatened to trip him at every step. The air was thick with the stench of decay, and the path twisted as though the earth itself sought to test his strength. By the time he reached the cave, his chest was heavy with exhaustion, his heart burdened with doubt. Could he endure whatever trial lay ahead?

The cave was damp, a cold, oppressive stillness clinging to the stone. In the dim light of his lantern, he saw it—a pedestal of ancient rock, upon which rested the cup. It was cracked, weathered, stained with the passage of time, yet there was an undeniable presence to it. Amos paused, his heart pounding. The air felt charged, as though the very walls of the cave were holding their breath, waiting. The voice that had been murmuring in his mind for days now broke through, clear and unyielding:

Are you prepared to drink deeply of My cup?

Amos’s hand trembled. He had come seeking redemption, but what would it mean to drink from this cup? Would he be forced to endure the same suffering that Christ had endured, or would the weight of his own guilt be enough? He saw the faces of his children—once full of love, now distant, filled with disappointment. His wife’s final breath, taken too soon, still hanged over him. Could he bear such a burden?

If this is what it takes, he whispered, lifting the cup to his lips.

The world shattered.

He was no longer in the cave but in a garden, the sky above torn by dark clouds. A figure knelt beside him, His face twisted in anguish. Though He did not speak, Amos could feel the words echo in his chest: Father, let this cup pass from Me. The pain in His voice was unbearable, a sorrow too deep for words.

Amos’s legs buckled, and he fell to his knees, overcome by the weight of shared suffering. This was no mere vision—it was visceral, real. Every part of him ached with the sharp sting of abandonment. The figure before him, Christ, was drenched in sweat, His body trembling under the weight of the world’s sin. Amos tried to reach out, to comfort Him, but the words stuck in his throat. There was only silence, an endless, oppressive silence that spoke more than words ever could.

Then, the vision shifted.

Amos stood among a crowd, a searing pain slicing through his back. The sting of a whip echoed in his ears, and the weight of a cross crushed his shoulders. His hands were bound, the rawness of his body a reflection of his soul’s torment. The world spun as he staggered, each step toward the hill heavier than the last. Faces taunt at him—mocking, cruel, their laughter like daggers. He stumbled toward the summit, his legs weak, his breath shallow. But in the crowd, he saw them—his wife, her face pale and tear-streaked, and his children, their eyes wide with confusion, then bitterness, then anger.

He reached out to them, but they turned away. They saw only a man who had abandoned them, a man whose pride had come before their needs. His wife’s gaze was distant, her final words—words of pain and disapproval—echoing in his ears. His children’s faces, once filled with adoration, were now clouded with disappointment. They had waited for him, had trusted him, and he had failed them.

Amos fell to his knees once more, his chest tightening, his throat choking on the truth. I did this, he realized. I left them. I let them down. I abandoned them.

The agony in his heart was unbearable, yet it was nothing compared to the searing physical pain of the cross. He could feel the nails through his hands, the weight of the world pressing down on him, the crown of thorns digging into his brow. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t speak. He could only endure.

And then, as if the vision was not enough, the world around him disappeared, and he was weightless, suspended between heaven and earth. The cross stood before him, its shadow swallowing him whole. He closed his eyes, but the faces of his children, of his wife, still haunted him. The love he had lost was the most excruciating of all the wounds. His failures, his neglect, his blindness—they were all written in their eyes, and he could not escape them.

The vision faded.

Amos gasped for air, his body trembling, drenched in sweat. He was back in the cave, the cup lying beside him. He could feel its presence—no longer a symbol of power, but a reminder of the painful truth: redemption was not free. It demanded everything.

He staggered to his feet, his legs unsteady as he made his way back to the village. The night was cold, the wind biting at his skin. His thoughts were a blur, but one truth remained clear: redemption was not an easy gift. It was not a moment of grace that wiped away the past, but a long, painful journey—a daily act of facing the truth of one’s own failures and striving to do better, no matter the cost.

He arrived home, his heart pounding, his mind racing. He didn’t know how to ask for forgiveness, didn’t know if it was even possible, but he knew he had to try. His children stood at the door, their faces guarded, their eyes wary.

“Aaron, Sarah,” he whispered, his voice raw. “I’ve failed you. I’ve failed your mother. And I’ve failed to be the father you needed. I can’t undo the past, but I will spend every day of my life trying to make it right.”

Aaron crossed his arms, his expression hard. “You think a sorry is going to fix everything?”

Amos swallowed, the weight of his son’s words crushing him. “No. I don’t expect it to. But I can’t change what I’ve done. I can only show you that I’m here now. I will fight for you. I will fight for us.”

Aaron looked away, his jaw tightening. But after a long moment, he spoke, his voice quieter than before. “You’re right. You can’t fix it with words. But maybe... maybe we’ll see. If you keep showing up.”

Amos nodded, his chest aching. “I will. Every day.”

Sarah’s voice cut through the silence, soft but firm. “I can’t just forget what happened, Dad. But I’m willing to try. We all are. But you need to prove it.”

Amos’s heart swelled with a cautious hope. “I will,” he whispered. “Every day.”

The road ahead would be long, and the scars of the past would never fully fade. But for the first time in years, Amos felt a glimmer of hope. Redemption wasn’t a quick fix, a magical cure. It was a painful, ongoing process—a choice to face the truth and live with it. And for the first time, he was ready to walk that road, no matter how long it took.

The Hustle Haul by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Thriller/Drama / Contemporary

The Hustle Haul

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 935

Leah’s stomach sank as the moving truck rumbled to a stop outside her apartment. The vehicle looked like a rusted relic from another era, with mismatched tires and a faded logo that barely spelled out Macs Movers. She had a bad feeling, but with her lease ending that day, she had no choice.

Three men climbed out. The leader, Rocco, was tall and broad, with a neck tattoo curling out from beneath a ripped t-shirt. He exuded the kind of confidence that dared anyone to challenge him. Behind him was a skinny man with darting eyes and a constant sniffle. He glanced at Leah’s apartment like he was casing the place. The last man, younger and awkward, trailed behind them, avoiding eye contact.

"You Leah?" Rocco asked, his voice rough.

"Yes. You’re late," she replied, clutching her clipboard tighter.

"Traffic," Rocco muttered. "Let’s get this over with."

Leah shot a glance at Marcus, her fiancé, who stood next to the carefully labeled boxes. His jaw tightened as Rocco flicked a cigarette onto the sidewalk.

Inside, Marcus directed the movers toward the largest items—a couch, a dresser, and a grandfather clock Leah’s father had restored before his passing.

"Careful with the clock," Marcus said firmly.

Rocco smirked, giving a mock salute. "Yeah, yeah. We got it."

But it was clear they didn’t "got it." The skinny man dropped a box labeled FRAGILE onto the pavement, the sound of shattering glass making Leah flinch. The younger mover hesitated before lifting the clock, his hands trembling as Rocco barked at him.

"Pick it up already! You wanna get paid or not?"

The younger man glanced at Leah apologetically before hoisting the clock onto the truck.

By the time the truck was loaded, Leah’s nerves were shot. The drive to their new house felt agonizingly long, her mind racing with worst-case scenarios.

When they arrived, Rocco strutted up to them with a clipboard in hand.

"Alright," he said, "we’re gonna need $5,000 before we unload."

Leah froze. "What? The contract says $1,500."

"Yeah, well, extra weight. Extra time. Fine print, sweetheart." His grin was predatory.

Marcus stepped forward, his voice cold. "You can’t just change the price. That’s extortion."

Rocco shrugged. "Call it what you want. You pay, or we take your stuff back to the lot. And don’t even think about calling the cops—they’ll laugh at you."

Leah’s stomach churned. Everything they owned—furniture, clothes, photos, her father’s clock—was held hostage in that truck.

"You’ve got ten minutes," Rocco added, lighting another cigarette.

Leah and Marcus had no choice but to pay. The movers unloaded the truck with even less care than before, tossing boxes and scratching furniture. Marcus caught the skinny man slipping a pair of headphones into his pocket.

"Put those back," Marcus growled.

"Relax, man. It’s just a mistake," the he replied with a smirk.

Meanwhile, the younger mover handled Leah’s damaged clock with visible guilt. His hands trembled as he set it down, his gaze flickering toward Rocco before he quickly stepped away.

By the time the truck roared off, the house was a disaster. Boxes were crushed, the couch was torn, and the clock’s pendulum was missing.

Leah spent the next day trying to contact Macs Movers, but the number was disconnectd. Furious, she posted about her experience online, and her story quickly went viral. Victims from across the city chimed in, sharing similar horror stories.

Then, someone posted a tip: “Check the Home Depot parking lot. That’s where they find their guys. New name, same scam.”

Leah and Marcus drove to the parking lot the next morning, spotting the truck instantly. The logo now read No Scam Haul & Storage, but the rust and dents were unmistakable. Rocco leaned against the side, laughing with the skinny man. The younger mover sat on the curb, head in his hands.

Leah marched straight up to Rocco, phone recording.

"You think you can scam people and just move on to the next name?" she demanded.

Rocco raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. "Lady, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get outta here."

"You stole from me. You broke my things," Leah said, her voice rising.

Rocco’s smirk twisted into a sneer. "Prove it."

But the younger mover stood suddenly, his face pale. "She’s got a camera, Rocco."

"Shut up," Rocco snapped.

Leah turned the camera on the younger man. "Why do you stay with them? You know this is wrong."

The man hesitated, looking between Leah and Rocco. Finally, he muttered, "I'm just a day laborer; I need the money."

Leah softened her voice. "It’s not too late to do the right thing. Help us stop this."

Unbeknownst to Rocco, Leah had tipped off a reporter from the local news. Moments later, a camera crew arrived, catching the confrontation in real-time. The younger mover stepped forward, his voice shaky but firm.

"I’ll talk. I’ll tell you everything," he said, ignoring Rocco’s furious glare.

The news segment aired that evening, exposing the entire operation. With the younger mover’s testimony and Leah’s video evidence, law enforcement quickly arrested Rocco and his crew.

Months later, Leah watched as Marcus carefully hung the repaired pendulum back on the grandfather clock.

"It’s perfect," she said, her voice soft.

Marcus nodded. "We’ll never let anyone take advantage of us again."

"And next time," Leah added with a smile, "we hire movers with reviews. Real ones."

They laughed, the warmth of their home finally settling in. Leah had lost money and endured stress, but she’d reclaimed her dignity—and ensured that no one else would fall victim to Macs Movers.

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

 

Twin Flames: When Mirrors Shatter

By Olivia Salter

Long Version

Word Count: 1,373

Lisa’s dreams were always the same: two flames, luminous and unrelenting, circling each other in an endless void. As they drew closer, their light grew brighter, throwing sharp shadows that revealed every crack in the surrounding darkness. But when they collided, the flames didn’t merge—they shattered into a thousand sparks, leaving her gasping awake, her chest heavy with an ache she couldn’t name.

The dreams had haunted her for months, their meaning just out of reach, until the day she met Kieran.

It was at an art exhibit in Chicago—her first solo curation. The gallery was alive with murmurs of admiration, but Lisa barely heard them. Her attention was fixed on Reflection in Ruin, the centerpiece of the show: a fractured heart sculpture made entirely of shattered mirrors. It was her most personal work, an embodiment of the loneliness and imperfection she’d carried for years.

Across the room, she noticed him. Kieran stood still before the sculpture, his head tilted slightly, as if he were listening to something only he could hear. There was a tension in his posture, a stillness that drew her in.

“This,” he murmured, not looking away from the piece, “feels like standing inside myself.”

Lisa stopped in her tracks. Something about his voice sent a ripple through her, a sensation she couldn’t explain. “That’s what it’s meant to do,” she said, stepping closer.

He turned, and when their eyes met, the air seemed to shift. His storm-gray gaze was steady but searching, as if he recognized something in her that even she hadn’t seen.

“I’m sorry,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“You didn’t.” She hesitated. “Art is supposed to challenge you.”

He nodded, his expression softening. “Then you’ve succeeded.”

Their conversation was brief but electric, a strange mix of ease and tension that left Lisa restless. Over the next few weeks, they saw each other often, first at the gallery, then at coffee shops and parks. Their connection deepened quickly, but it wasn’t smooth.

Kieran was a mirror, reflecting Lisa’s insecurities back at her. When she hesitated to share her ideas for a new project, he pushed. When she deflected with jokes, he saw through her.

“Why do you hide?” he asked one evening, his voice quiet but firm.

Lisa tensed, her hands tightening around the mug she was holding. “I’m not hiding. I just… I don’t know if anyone wants to see what’s underneath.”

Kieran leaned forward, his gaze unflinching. “Maybe it’s not about them. Maybe it’s about whether you want to see it.”

His words stayed with her, tugging at the edges of her thoughts. But Kieran wasn’t without his own shadows. He disappeared for days without explanation, returning with excuses that felt rehearsed. When Lisa pressed him, he deflected with a practiced charm that left her frustrated and hollow.

One night, their fragile connection cracked.

“You don’t trust me,” Kieran said, his voice tight with anger.

“How can I trust you?” Lisa shot back. “You vanish without a word, and when you’re here, it’s like you’re only half-present!”

“I pull away because I’m scared, Lisa!” he shouted, his voice breaking. “I look at you, and I see everything I’m afraid to face. Every mistake, every weakness—right there, staring back at me. And I hate it.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Lisa’s chest tightened as she watched him, his shoulders slumped and his hands clenched into fists. For the first time, she saw not just the man who challenged her, but the man who was just as fractured as she was.

That night, the dream came again. The flames collided, but this time, they didn’t shatter. Instead, they burned brighter, their light exposing every scar, every imperfection in the void. Lisa woke with a clarity she hadn’t felt in years.

The next day, she found Kieran at the park where they often met. He sat on a bench, his head bowed, a shadow of the confident man she’d first encountered.

“We’re not here to fix each other,” Lisa said, her voice steady as she approached. “We’re here to face ourselves. Together.”

Kieran looked up, his eyes rimmed with exhaustion and something else—hope. “And if we break again?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Then we’ll rebuild,” she said, sitting beside him. “Piece by piece.”

From that moment, their relationship shifted. It was still messy, still full of challenges, but it was real. They began to confront their fears, not just through each other, but within themselves. Lisa finished her new project—a series of sculptures called Unbroken Light, each piece a mosaic of shattered glass. Kieran returned to his love of writing, penning stories that wrestled with his own fractured past.

In time, they learned that the twin flame connection wasn’t about perfection or harmony. It was about transformation—burning away the illusions to uncover the truth beneath. Together, they faced the light and the shadows, neither completing the other but walking side by side, whole in their imperfections.

And for the first time, Lisa’s dreams were quiet. The flames no longer flickered or collided—they burned steadily, illuminating the path ahead.

The gallery hummed with quiet murmurs as visitors walked through Lisa’s latest exhibit, Unbroken Light. The centerpiece, a towering sculpture titled Harmony Through Fracture, stood bathed in soft golden light. It was a chaotic symphony of shattered glass and steel, its jagged edges somehow forming a radiant, cohesive whole.

Lisa watched from a distance, her heart swelling as people stopped to marvel at the piece. Some leaned in close, tracing the intricate cracks with their eyes. Others whispered among themselves, their faces reflecting awe, curiosity, and, sometimes, tears.

Beside her, Kieran stood quietly, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. His presence was grounding, like the weight of gravity after floating too long in a dream.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” he said, his voice low but filled with pride.

“It’s not just mine,” Lisa replied, glancing at him. “You’re in there too. Every crack is a part of us.”

He turned to her, his gaze steady. “You didn’t need me for this, Lisa.”

She smiled softly. “No, but I needed to see myself through you first. That’s what you taught me.”

Kieran didn’t respond right away. Instead, he looked back at the sculpture, his expression unreadable. “Do you ever think,” he began after a moment, “that the cracks never really heal? That they just… rearrange?”

Lisa considered his words, her fingers brushing over the pendant she wore—a shard of mirror from Reflection in Ruin. “I think healing isn’t about erasing the cracks,” she said. “It’s about learning to live with them. To see them as part of the design, not a flaw.”

He nodded, a small, wistful smile tugging at his lips. “You’re wiser than I am.”

“Not wiser,” she said, bumping his shoulder gently. “Just further along the path.”

The exhibit was a success, drawing critical acclaim and a sense of fulfillment Lisa hadn’t known was possible. But it was what came after that mattered most.

Lisa and Kieran’s lives didn’t become perfect—far from it. They had their arguments, their silences, their moments of doubt. But they approached each other with a new understanding, one built not on dependence but on a shared commitment to growth.

Kieran finished his first novel, a hauntingly beautiful story about two souls navigating the maze of their own brokenness. He dedicated it to Lisa, calling her his “brightest mirror.” Lisa continued to create, her art evolving into something bolder, freer.

Years later, as they stood together beneath a clear, starlit sky, Kieran reached for her hand. “Do you think we were destined for this? For each other?”

Lisa tilted her head, her gaze thoughtful. “I think we were destined to meet,” she said. “What we did after that was our choice.”

He smiled, squeezing her hand. “A good choice.”

As they stood in full of, the flames of their souls burned steady, not as halves of one another but as two whole beings who had found their way through the darkness, side by side. The stars above seemed brighter somehow, reflecting the light they had found within themselves.