Psychological
Crystal Banaba
“Emergency landing requested!” Rachel repeated in a shaky voice. Peering down through thick clouds, she saw an island that seemed to have popped up out of nowhere. It even had its own airstrip! Was she hallucinating, coming out of the storm that nearly split her Cessna? Or was she dead already, with her mind projecting an island that shouldn’t be here?
By Lana V Lynx8 days ago in Fiction
Sixteen Hundred Dollars of Salvation
Oleksandr trudged through the sleet-slicked streets toward the modest bungalow of Pandit Yad Adnan, that curious exile whose name evoked both a sage and a jest, while the cold probed his marrow with the insidious persistence of an ancient, half-forgotten reproach.
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTAR8 days ago in Fiction
THE SCRIBBLER
He scribbles sometimes, though usually with a heavy heart. He is not a man who easily casts the burden of his grievances onto others; instead, he prefers to breathe his miseries into his journals. Only upon those worn pages does he strip away his disguise and expose his true self.
By Jack Scribes9 days ago in Fiction
Everything
My name is Bryce Varden. I say it slowly, even when I’m not speaking it out loud. There’s a shape to the sound that feels important to get right, like saying it too quickly might cause something to slip past unnoticed. When I hear it spoken by other people, it doesn’t echo the way I expect it to. The sound arrives and stops, like it hits a surface instead of continuing through the air.
By Bryce Varden9 days ago in Fiction
The Last Message You Never Sent
At 11:47 p.m., my phone buzzed. I remember the time because I was staring at the clock when it happened, lying on my bed with the lights off, listening to the quiet hum of the ceiling fan. The room smelled faintly of rain drifting in through the open window.
By Ihsanullah9 days ago in Fiction
We Sat in Silence Until the Truth Finally Arrived. AI-Generated.
The café was quieter than usual that afternoon. Outside, a thin October rain slid slowly down the windows, blurring the city into soft gray shapes. Cars passed like distant whispers. The smell of roasted coffee beans hung warmly in the air, mixing with the faint sweetness of cinnamon pastries cooling behind the counter.
By Ihsanullah9 days ago in Fiction
There’s a Cow in the Room
Brian was attending the wake of his work colleague, Barry Rajacostellino. He never really liked the guy that much, although he had sat next to him at work for the last four years. Four years of putting up with garlic breath and his constant snorts instead of just blowing his nose.
By Calvin London9 days ago in Fiction
As the World Turns...and turns
I take up my pen and go back to the time, only a year or so ago...when the world felt almost peaceful - except for the regions and corners of life where people insisted on wars. But somehow, they then seemed like another whole world away from me.
By Novel Allen10 days ago in Fiction
The Silk and the Shrapnel
History is a lazy and superficial artist. It loves straight lines, clear-cut motives, and people who fit neatly into the boxes someone else marked with a thick Sharpie a long time ago. In those boxes, a warrior is a stone-carved archetype: someone who smells of cheap tobacco, wears a low-slung baseball cap, and hasn't taken off a faded camo jacket in the decades since the last howitzers went silent in the distance. There is this unspoken, almost religious dictate that trauma must be visible, abrasive, and unkempt. If you don’t look broken on the outside, the world doesn’t believe you’ve ever seen the abyss on the inside. Society demands that your sacrifice be displayed like an exhibit in a museum of defeat, rather than your triumph in the form of elegance.
By Feliks Karić10 days ago in Fiction
