The Rattling of Wars
a micro fiction tale of fear
The antique shop was an antique itself; passed down for generations. No one understood how it wasn't bankrupt, as city folk avoided the shop like the plague. An old murder-suicide tale haunted the place, and the family's compensation was what kept doors open.
It started with a traumatized soldier.
All he had was a photo of his wife and daughter; memorialized.
The clerk tried selling an old scrapbook, but the raining of bombs interrupted the transaction. As dust settled, the rattled solider could not, proceeding to shoot both the clerk and himself.
Anything was better than being held hostage.
About the Creator
Oneg In The Arctic
A queer storyteller and poet of arctic adventures, good food, identity, mental health, and more.
Co-founder of Queer Vocal Voices
Water is Life ✊
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Outstanding
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
Top insight
Excellent storytelling
Original narrative & well developed characters
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More stories from Oneg In The Arctic and writers in Fiction and other communities.
GRANDMA NELSON
Daddy pulled off the interstate, and I saw the all familiar red barn, and I knew we had arrived at Grandma Nelson's farm. I always had mixed feelings about seeing my Grandmother. It seemed she had as many Grandchildren as the old Mother in the shoe nursery rhyme. I saw her as different, but that is not why I hestiated. The truth be known I always got in trouble at her house, and ended up sitting in the car after I had been scolded.
By Susan Payton5 days ago in Fiction
The Letter I Never Meant to Open
I had always believed my life was ordinary. I worked at a small bookstore, went home to my tiny apartment, and rarely spoke to anyone outside my circle. But everything changed the day I found that letter. It wasn’t hidden, exactly. It was leaning against my apartment door, with my name written in a careful, almost familiar hand. There was no return address. Curiosity pried it open before I could even think twice. Inside was a single page, filled with messy handwriting: "I know what happened that night. I’ve been trying to tell you for years. Meet me at the old pier at 7 tonight if you want answers." I froze. My heart thudded. What night? Years ago, when I was seventeen, my best friend, Clara, disappeared for two days. She came back, shaken, never speaking of what happened. I had forgotten that night—or maybe I had buried it deep in my mind. I debated ignoring the letter, thinking it might be a prank. But something in me—a long-lost curiosity, or perhaps guilt—pushed me out the door. The city air felt colder than usual, each step echoing in the empty streets as I walked toward the pier. When I arrived, the sun was just dipping below the horizon. And there she was—Clara. Older, changed, but unmistakable. She looked at me, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears. "You came," she said softly. "I… I don’t understand," I stammered. She handed me a small box. Inside, I found an old photograph of the two of us, taken on the day she disappeared, and a tiny key. "Do you remember the treehouse by the river?" she asked. I nodded. It had been our secret place, where we hid from the world, told secrets, and dreamed of escaping to distant lands. But that night, the treehouse had burned down. Clara had vanished, leaving me alone to face the aftermath. "I didn’t disappear. I was trapped," she said, her voice breaking. She explained that she had fallen into an old underground storage space beneath the treehouse—an accident—and had been unable to call for help. No one could find her. I felt my knees weaken. Years of silence, of wondering, of guilt, all leading to this. She reached for my hand. "I wrote to you because I need to make things right. There’s something you don’t know." She handed me a folded note. Inside was another secret—a confession she had never dared to share. The night the treehouse burned, she had accidentally started the fire while trying to fix the old wiring. She had been too afraid to tell anyone. I had blamed myself for not seeing her before the fire, for leaving her alone—but it was never my fault. I stared at her, the weight of years melting away in one breath. Relief. Anger. Love. Forgiveness. All at once. We sat there for hours, talking about everything we had never said, filling in the missing years. I realized that life had given me a gift—not just the truth, but the chance to reconnect. By the time the moon rose high above the pier, Clara and I had made a silent promise: never to let fear or guilt keep us apart again. When I walked home that night, the city looked different. Brighter. Full of possibilities. And I knew, deep down, that sometimes the answers you seek come in the most unexpected ways—and that some letters are never meant to be ignored.
By Wasif islama day ago in Fiction
Comments (13)
I really like the way the 4th paragraph is worded. As I initially think that the city really is under attack and at war at the moment, let's say WW2, but then I remember that the soldier is traumatized and could be having a distressing PTSD episode where he's reliving a bombing experience. It really makes me think, as the reader, trying to figure out which path that You, the author, are taking within this story.
That first line is brilliant. Love this!
Excellent
Deep. You create a lot of tension with just the right amount of catharsis.
Oh my goodness! This was exceptionally done. I can see why microstories and flash fiction is your forté.
Wow, what a sad tale. Great job Oneg. Well written and expertly communicated.
I gasped aloud
Such a powerful, short story! You managed to capture a mystery of centuries within a single minute of reading :) Well done!
Ooh what a tale in so few words! Really well executed!
Powerful words
Awesome!!! Left some love!!!💖💖💕
Ancient tales, full of mystery, with no one left to fill the gaps or answer the questions.
Interesting take