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Tonight’s pieceThe wait1 min

Don’t Tell Me

Silhouetted against a warm, blind-slatted window in a bedroom, a woman raises two fingers to a man’s lips as the two stand close, face to face, beside a bed.
Two fingers. The lightest pressure possible.

“Don’t tell me,” she said.

She had her hand on his chest, two fingers, the lightest pressure possible. The kind of pressure that means stop, the kind that means stay.

“Don’t tell me yet.”

They had three hours before the car came. The blinds were already drawn. The phone was already face-down. The world had already been agreed-upon to not exist for a little while.

“Tell me at three,” she said.

“What if I forget.”

“You won’t.”

“What if I change my mind.”

She moved the two fingers up to his mouth, slow, like she was setting a watch.

“You won’t,” she said.

The catalog

Pick one to take to bed.

Every piece is a stand-alone read of about a minute. Each has its own URL — click to open, copy to share. The catalog grows; nothing gets deleted.

The publication

Adultfiction,writtenlikeitmatters.

SparkBang publishes one new short piece every night. We don’t do video or anything streaming. We do prose — short, charged, the kind you’d underline in a book if you owned it on paper.

  1. One piece, every night

    A new story lands at midnight Pacific. Tonight’s is at the top of the page. Last night’s is in the catalog. Yesterday’s, the day before’s, all the way back — they stay there, exactly as written.

    Nightly

  2. Suggestive, not graphic

    We write the second before and the second after. We trust you with the part between them. The pieces are short on purpose, suggestive on purpose, and edited until every sentence earns its place.

    By craft

  3. Yours to share, not to claim

    Every piece has a clean URL. Send it. Quote it with credit. Read it aloud to whoever deserves it. Don’t republish it as yours — the byline matters.

    Open shelf
Open the catalog

The reading position

How to read this.

A short publication is a short ritual. These are the seven instructions our editors taped to the wall above the desk. Borrow them.

  1. Find a window.

    Open it if you can. The kind of air that comes through a window is the kind of air this is for.

  2. Turn the overhead off.

    A lamp is correct. So is candlelight. So is your screen, on its lowest setting.

  3. Put your phone face-down.

    No notifications, no scrolling, no proof-of-life for the next minute.

  4. Don’t sip anything yet.

    Save the drink for after. Reading first.

  5. Read it aloud if you’re alone.

    Whisper it if you’re not. Move your mouth either way — these pieces were written to be heard.

  6. Don’t skim.

    Every piece is short on purpose. The pace is the point. The sentences are exactly as long as they need to be.

  7. Sit with it for a minute after.

    Don’t refresh, don’t share, don’t tell anyone yet. Let the last line land before you move.

— The editors

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