• Read short stories (nearly) every week

    The homepage hid a secret.

    Behind its wall of zeros and ones, the voices of short stories called to them.

    A whisper at first, then a roaring thunder, asking to be read.

  • Rita

    The scrunched up paper on her hand was moist from her nervous sweat. Rita unwrapped it. Written in firm pencil lines, the address pulled at her. Calling her. Ever so loudly. She looked up from the paper note. Number twenty-three. Yes, this was it. Her heart beat in sync with the silent calling of the pencilled words.

    She hadn't expected it to be such a nice looking house. Somehow she had assumed someone's living quarters would be as bright or as dark as their soul. Rita thrust the paper note into the pocket of her raincoat. She adjusted her rain bucket hat, pushing her thick dark curls under its edges. Pushing herself to be certain, she took assertive steps forward and crossed the threshold of their property, ignoring the beauty of the blooming flowers and the thick greenery of their garden. Ignoring the majesty of the magnolia tree that grew upwards, protecting the façade of the house from unwanted visitors, like her, and from from indiscrete voyeurism. Ignoring the gentle and happy chirping of birds scattered across the neighbourhood. No form of soft beauty would prevent her from doing what she had come to do. Rita had spent years looking for resolution and had travelled miles to attain it. She was not going to stop now.

    She walked up the three steps and turned left, facing the door.



    Sheila entered the taxi and instructed "Follow that car!".

    The middle aged driver looked in the direction of her extended finger. Confused, he looked back at her and traced and axis with his gaze from where she sat, rummaging her square dark green purse, to where she had pointed.

    They were in a very quiet residential neighbourhood, where he had just dropped off a client. Any car he could see was parked. Motionless.

    Noticing the lack of movement, Sheila looked up from her purse. "What are you doin?" her thin eyebrows frowning. "Well, miss.. Which car exactly do you want me to follow?" he gestured to the street, pointing out the inanimate cars on both sides. "Uff!" Sheila gestured hopelessly and rolled her eyes. "We're gonna lose them!". She opened the back door on her side and got off, leaving the thick soft jacket and her purse on the back seat.


  • Books by caetano fonseca

    (in Portuguese) O feminino tem muitas formas. Nesta colecção de poemas e pequenas histórias viajam da leveza e alegria de apreciar todos os detalhes à força imparável que qualquer mulher encontra no seu âmago.


    Cópias disponíveis em Amazon (US | UK | DE | ES)

    A boy, a fisherman and an art collector all live in the Aral Sea area in Uzbekistan. But in different times.

    Based on real events, this story takes you on a journey through time, experiencing the same land through three different lenses.


    Order on Amazon: US | UK | DE | ES