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Peter Bugarchich

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Sep, 2025

Stories (4)

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4 Stories

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The Hollow Peak

Peter Bugarchich

Ethan Kline had spent twenty-two years climbing toward a single peak. Not a mountain, not a summit with snow-brushed ridges and the kind of silence that silences you back, but the metaphorical kind—the one you can’t point to on a map, only in the corner of your own ambition.His peak was a book.For decades, he had balanced two lives: the dutiful one, which paid bills and maintained an appearance of normalcy, and the secret one, where nights stretched into mornings over scattered drafts, coffee cups stained with circles of failure, and endless...

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The Mirror of Intentions

Peter Bugarchich

Submitted to Contest #322

Nathaniel Crane liked to think of himself as a man of purpose. He had always carried himself with a kind of quiet assurance, convincing others—and more importantly, himself—that his pursuits were noble. A philanthropist, an innovator, a benefactor of the arts. At least, that’s what he told the papers when they came calling.But purpose has a way of growing shadows.It began with a project: the development of a sprawling community center in his hometown, something that would bear his family’s name for generations. On the surface, it was charita...

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The Listening Post

Peter Bugarchich

The Listening Post Characters: Commander Hale – veteran officer in charge of the outpostLieutenant Brooks – younger, sceptical communications officerDr. Kessler – civilian scientist, expert in xenolinguisticsUnknown Voice – the transmission[Scene: Deep-space monitoring station “Erebus Outpost,” orbiting the dead moon of Virella. 02:13 local time.]Brooks: Commander? You need to hear this.Hale: If this is another ghost signal, Lieutenant, I don’t want to be dragged out of bed.Brooks: It’s not a ghost. It’s—different. Just listen.[Static burs...

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The Archivist’s Confession

Peter Bugarchich

Submitted to Contest #321

You’ll forgive me if my memory drifts. The incident happened—or didn’t—many years ago, and memory is such a fragile instrument. I am, after all, an archivist, not a historian. Historians pursue truth. Archivists merely store whatever is given to us, and truth is someone else’s concern.But I’ll tell you what I recall, though you must promise not to believe it too much.The year was 2149—or 2150. I cannot be precise. The city of Novaterra had grown into the sky, a thousand glass towers like needles piercing the heavens. From my office on the 40...

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