Psychological
She Blocked Him Everywhere… Except in His Dreams
Her profile disappeared from his screen. Their chats—years of late-night conversations, inside jokes, voice notes, and shared secrets—vanished as if they had never existed. Even the little heart emojis they exchanged seemed erased from memory. He stared at his phone that night, willing it to be a mistake. It wasn’t.
By Tawseef Aziz28 minutes ago in Fiction
After the Third Step
They count without saying it. No one announces the numbers. No one marks them aloud. But the counting is there, built into the rhythm of movement, into the way people cross thresholds, approach objects, complete small, ordinary actions.
By Alain SUPPINIabout 8 hours ago in Fiction
THE INVENTORY OF THE VOID:
The Great House of Carl sat atop the highest hill in the valley, a sprawling labyrinth of gilded mahogany, reinforced steel, and glass that reflected the sun so fiercely it blinded the peasants in the flats below. For generations, the Carl family didn't just live in the valley; they were the valley. They owned the stream, the air rights above the orchards, and the very shadows cast by the mountains.
By Meko James about 10 hours ago in Fiction
You Learn the Shape of Silence
The first time Mara left food on her plate, no one said anything. That was how she knew. Dinner had already ended. Chairs pushed in. Dishes stacked. The sound of the tap running in the kitchen, steady and indifferent. Everyone else had finished.
By Miss. Anonymous🌻about 16 hours ago in Fiction
52
"What of it!?" the woman said, staring at the Victories. "What of it!?" She was merciless in her berating of the guards. "You stooges are part of the problem!" she shouted, walking towards them. "I spit on your antiquated mores, and your withered obeisances. You're a cancer to the very word that this establishment uses to define you. I spit on it and I spit on you!"
By John Scipioabout 17 hours ago in Fiction
Ra'ad Does Not Dwell in Time . Content Warning.
Ra'ad Does Not Dwell in Time By luccian layth Here collapses a corner of events — purely narrative, risen from the drain of our old house's gutter, seeping into the channels of a despondent city. Dark of atmosphere. Wretched to look upon. Like an old grey woman the ages have ruined, her sides ulcerated, spoiled like dried apple where worms have long since finished their work and moved on to something equally forgettable.
By LUCCIAN LAYTHabout 18 hours ago in Fiction
The Downstream
The record player in the corner playing "Rock the Casbah" skipped every two seconds but it took three minutes for anyone to notice. Being in rural Wisconsin, there was loads of beer, plenty of cheese, and everyone's children were there too, making a racket because they had nowhere else to be. With all that going on maybe nobody noticing the music kind of made sense.
By Scott Christenson🌴about 22 hours ago in Fiction
