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Continue reading →: Borrowed SensesThe disc behind my ear is smaller than a two-forint coin, and if I didn’t know it was there, I might never notice it at all. Cool against the skin, then warm once it’s switched on, and an hour later, when it comes off, it leaves a faint reddish circle…
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Continue reading →: The Old Tape RecorderAunt Ilona died at the end of October, quietly, in her sleep, or so the neighbors said after they noticed she hadn’t opened her shutters in three days. As her only living relative, it fell to me to clear out her house in Kisbárkány, a village in Nógrád County where…
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Continue reading →: The ChoirThe Szentendre Mixed Choir rehearsed Friday evenings in the basement room of the Community House, where the carpet was so old it had worn black at the corners, and where the heating could only manage two states: too much, or nothing at all. On one wall hung a board with…
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Continue reading →: The Keeper of NamesThey say that in Frostvale every person carries two names. Everyone knows the first: it is the name called across the yard when a child tumbles out of a tree, the name used to summon a young man at the spinning circle, the name carved into the church beam’s tally…
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Continue reading →: The Dream We ShareThe pool always exhales the same temperature of air when I step into it. Not cold, not warm – like a room someone has just left, their body heat still caught in the furniture. The tile glows blue in the light that leaks through the broken skylight, and the water…
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Continue reading →: The RoommateI rewrote the ad three times over three days, because the first version sounded too desperate and the second sounded too cold. What I ended up with was: “One-and-a-half-room flat on Bérkocsis Street, 62 square meters, can’t carry the rent alone anymore. Looking for a quiet, tidy roommate, non-smoker preferred.…
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Continue reading →: Chess in the ParkThe bench by Feneketlen Lake looked exactly like every other bench: green-painted metal, slightly sunken in the middle, a brass plaque at its foot bearing some donor’s name from 1987. But the old man always sat on that one bench, always in the same posture: both palms flat on his…
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Continue reading →: The Walking MountainThey say that above the village of Stonefoot, where even the tallest pines give up and only bare crag climbs on toward the sky, there sleeps Slumbrock, the mountain that everyone in that country knows is not quite like other mountains. The old folk say Slumbrock is no dead stone…
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Continue reading →: The Mirrors DelayI noticed it first in the bathroom mirror, on a Tuesday morning, while brushing my teeth. I raised my hand to wipe my mouth, and in the mirror my hand moved half a second after the real one. I didn’t panic right away. I’m thirty-two, and by that age you…
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Continue reading →: The Camera AngleI moved into the apartment on Vörösvári Road at the end of September, onto the third floor of a building put up sometime in the 1930s, where the ceiling height still held onto the taste of those old bourgeois days, the parquet creaked at every step, and the bathroom tiles…
AI-Generated Stories
AI-Generated Stories
We publish AI-generated stories inspired by real-life experiences, mysteries, legends, and the unknown. Any resemblance to real people, places, or events is purely coincidental.
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