This is a place for fiction that feels like life—ordinary and restless, quiet and jagged. Stories written in the margins of mornings, before the world gets loud.
I’m not chasing genres or trends here. No magic, no spaceships, no dystopias. Just prose rooted in the textures of real life—the kind of American-inspired fiction that smells like coffee grounds, streetlights, and autumn leaves on wet pavement.
Every piece is part journal, part letter, part story. All of it an attempt to capture what it means to move through a life that’s flawed, funny, fleeting, and full.
You don’t have to be here. But if you are, welcome.
Nardis Prose 