Psychological
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🌴2 minutes ago in Fiction
Ping
Laughter at the beach tickles my ears, blending with the harmony of the crashing waves. Smiles on every beachgoer greet my gaze as the sun shines down upon us. The perfect day off. Away from the four walls of the office building located many miles away. Time to just lie back and enjoy the ocean view. My eyes close, allowing the gentle, serene waves to soothe my nerves and wash away thoughts of stress. Tension recedes from my muscles with each pat from the water on the shore while the sun kisses my dark skin. This is what they mean when they say tropical bliss.
By Iris Harrisabout 7 hours ago in Fiction
The Envious Man and the Man of Light
In a quiet town of modest size, where neighbors knew each other by name and life moved at a gentle pace, there lived two men in adjoining houses. At first glance, they seemed ordinary—just two residents sharing a boundary wall. But behind that wall grew a darkness that would soon change both their lives forever.
By Mariana Fariasabout 10 hours ago in Fiction
The Last Days
The Last Days Part I Kinsley clutched her throat and began squeezing harder and harder. As Lacy lay on the ground dreaming of mermaids. She couldn’t help but wonder as her mind drifted to darkness. The night grew silent, as Lacy lay on the ground lifeless.
By Charelle Landersabout 23 hours ago in Fiction
Ra'ad Does Not Dwell in Time
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 23 hours ago in Fiction
Perfect people on perfect social media pages.
Restaurant “N”. A week in advance, I reserve a table at one of the most popular restaurants in the city. I spend days preparing for the evening, imagining the atmosphere — elegant interiors, expensive details, a table overlooking the city at sunset.
By Eliza Woodstorma day ago in Fiction
OLEKSANDR UND MAVRIN (Oleksandr and Mavrin)
The Russian artillery had been pounding for three days straight. By the fourth morning the field hospital was no longer behind Ukrainian lines. It was simply in Russian lines. The white flag that someone had tied to a broken antenna flapped uselessly in the cold wind like a dying bird. Soldiers in different uniforms now walked the corridors. Some still wore the pixelated Ukrainian pattern; most wore the green and brown of the Federation. No one quite knew who was prisoner and who was guard anymore. In war, the line between the two is always thinner than men admit.
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTARa day ago in Fiction
AI Interrupted
Kristin loves AI. Ever since AI became a thing, she has been on the phone or using it on her laptop, uploading photos and stories to her social media. It’s like it was made for her. It’s brilliant and perfect in her eyes. She can escape the daily grind of high school and other trivial matters thanks to AI. She spends her days creating things like an image of a goat eating at a diner with a monkey as a waiter. She proudly shows it to all her friends. Her friends seem to love the wild ideas she comes up with. They even insert their own ideas at times. Anytime there’s a new assignment due, she is thrilled because it’s an excuse to improve her AI technique.
By Meredith McLarty2 days ago in Fiction
The Door at the End of the Hall. AI-Generated.
The dream always began the same way. Margaret would find herself standing at the end of a long hallway — walls the color of old teeth, carpet the deep burgundy of dried blood, and a single door at the far end that seemed to breathe. Not move. Breathe. The wood expanding and contracting in a rhythm that matched her own pulse, as if the door had swallowed something living and hadn't yet finished digesting it.
By Alpha Cortex2 days ago in Fiction
