Brian Mule Writes

Short Fictions

Twisty, unsettling, and sometimes tender—short stories that slip from everyday life into something stranger, darker, and brighter.

Stories

About

Stories that Linger After Reading

I’m Brian Mule, and I write short fiction full of twist endings, quiet horror, and wonder—small, strange worlds you can finish in a sitting but think about all week.

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A well-worn hardcover notebook lies open on a dark wooden desk, its creamy pages filled with tight, slanting handwritten paragraphs and abrupt black-ink endings. Beside it, a vintage brass fountain pen rests crookedly, a tiny ink blot soaking into the paper near the final line. In the background, a single desk lamp casts a warm, focused cone of light, leaving the corners of the room in soft darkness. The atmosphere feels tense yet inviting, as if a twist is hidden in the last sentence. Photographic realism, shot at eye level with a shallow depth of field, the notebook in razor focus and the dim study behind blurred into moody bokeh.

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A stack of mismatched short story manuscripts, each printed on slightly different shades of paper, is neatly aligned at the edge of a minimalist black desk. The top page shows a bold, centered title, with red editorial marks curling along the margins and a sharply underlined final sentence. An old-fashioned metal typewriter sits further back, keys catching the cool bluish light from a nearby window on an overcast day. Faint city lights blur beyond the glass. Photographic realism, captured from a slightly elevated angle, with crisp focus on the marked-up page and a soft, atmospheric background that suggests quiet professionalism and creative intensity.
A midnight-blue ceramic mug, half-full of cooling coffee, sits forgotten on a scratched oak table beside a small stack of slim, glossy short story collections. One book lies open, its pages bowed, revealing a single sentence highlighted in pale yellow near the bottom of the right page. A ticking, silver analog clock on the wall behind shows just past 3 a.m., slightly out of focus. Soft, directional lamplight from the right creates gentle shadows and emphasizes the texture of paper and wood. Photographic realism, composed using the rule of thirds, conveying late-night concentration, quiet tension, and the lingering promise of an unexpected ending.
An old, boxy television set with rounded glass, its screen glowing faintly, sits on a low stand in a dim, narrow living room. On the floor in front of it lies a neatly arranged fan of printed pages, each bearing different short story titles in stark black type. The TV displays a static-filled image of a calm suburban street at dusk, subtly distorted. Only the television’s cold bluish light illuminates the room, casting long, eerie shadows over the papers. Photographic realism, low-angle composition from floor level, with deep focus that captures both the textured static on the screen and the sharp edges of the pages, evoking quiet horror and unease.

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