Literary Fiction

Ava’s fingers trailed along the spines of the books, savoring the tactile sensation of worn leather and crisp paper. The familiar scent of aging pages enveloped her as she moved through the stacks, a comforting ritual she’d performed countless times over her years as head librarian. But today, a bittersweet undercurrent tainted the experience. Her gaze drifted to the notice posted near the circulation desk, its stark digital display a jarring contrast to the analog surroundings: ...

The gentle rustle of pages filled the air as Meredith Sawyer methodically worked her way through a stack of ledgers. The warm glow of her desk lamp cast long shadows across the library’s main room, now empty save for her presence. Outside, twilight settled over Willow Creek, painting the sky in muted purples and deep blues. Meredith’s brow furrowed as she tapped her pen against the open book before her. Something wasn’t adding up. She’d been reviewing the library’s financial records for hours, a task she’d undertaken hundreds of times before. But tonight, a nagging sense of unease had taken root in the pit of her stomach. ...

The wind-whipped spray stung Mira’s eyes as she peered through binoculars at the churning gray sea. No sign of the tagged fish she’d been tracking for weeks. She lowered the lenses with a sigh, her data sheets fluttering in the gale. “Anything?” called Dr. Reeves from the research vessel’s cabin. Mira shook her head, salt-crusted hair whipping across her face. “Nothing. They should be migrating through this channel by now.” ...

The steady tick-tock of dozens of clocks filled the small workshop, a symphony of time keeping perfect rhythm. Emilia Frost’s nimble fingers worked with practiced precision as she adjusted the delicate gears of a pocket watch. Her brow furrowed in concentration, she barely registered the chiming of the hour. “Emilia?” Her father’s weak voice called from the adjacent room. “Is that you, my dear?” Hastily, Emilia set down her tools and hurried to Theodore Frost’s bedside. The once-renowned clockmaker was a shadow of his former self, his skin sallow and his frame gaunt beneath the bedcovers. ...

The rhythmic hum of the photocopier filled the small alcove as Mira Chen impatiently tapped her foot. She glanced at her watch, then back at the machine, willing it to spit out her reports faster. The quarterly marketing presentation was in less than an hour, and she still needed to review the final numbers. “Come on, come on,” she muttered under her breath. “Talking to inanimate objects again?” a quiet voice asked from behind her. ...

Mira Chen stared at the blinking cursor on her computer screen, willing inspiration to strike. The sleek lines of her latest building design refused to coalesce, remaining stubbornly fragmented in her mind. She sighed, pushing back from her desk and rubbing her temples. The muffled sounds of the architecture firm drifted through her office door - phones ringing, printers whirring, the low murmur of voices discussing projects far more exciting than hers. Mira’s gaze drifted to the window, where fat raindrops streaked down the glass, mirroring her mood. ...

The wind whispered through the birch trees, carrying with it the promise of an early winter. Mira Winters pulled her jacket tighter around her body, her breath forming small clouds in the crisp Alaskan air. She paused to jot down a few notes in her weatherproof journal, her gloved fingers moving swiftly across the page. “What do you think, girl?” Mira asked, glancing down at her husky, Cora. The dog’s ice-blue eyes met hers, intelligent and alert. “Yeah, I feel it too. Something’s changing.” ...

Amira squinted against the harsh sunlight, her eyes scanning the shimmering horizon. The desert stretched endlessly before her, a sea of golden sand dunes rippling in the scorching heat. She adjusted her hijab, tucking a stray lock of dark hair beneath the fabric as sweat beaded on her brow. “Any sign of them?” Khalid’s gruff voice called from behind her. Amira shook her head, not bothering to turn around. “Nothing yet. But they’ll come. They always do.” ...

The silk threads slipped through Mei Lin’s fingers, impossibly fine yet strong. She held the skein up to the light, marveling at how the fibers shimmered. Even after weeks in this remote Chinese village, the beauty of raw silk still captivated her. A sharp rap on the door startled her from her reverie. “Come in,” she called in Mandarin, hastily setting down the silk. The wrinkled face of Mrs. Chen, her landlady, appeared in the doorway. “Your dinner is ready, Miss Mei,” she announced. Her eyes flicked disapprovingly to the silk samples scattered across the small desk. “You work too much. Young women should enjoy life more.” ...

The sound of shattering porcelain echoed through the Chen household, followed by a muffled curse. Evelyn Chen stood in the living room, surrounded by the remains of what had once been an ornate Chinese vase. She stared at the shards, her mind racing with conflicting emotions. “Mom? Is everything okay?” Lily’s voice called from upstairs. Evelyn took a deep breath, composing herself. “Everything’s fine, sweetie. Just knocked something over.” As she knelt to clean up the mess, Evelyn’s gaze drifted to the eclectic mix of decor surrounding her. Buddha statues nestled next to Norman Rockwell prints. Delicate silk fans hung alongside abstract expressionist paintings. The room was a visual representation of the inner turmoil she’d been grappling with for years. ...