Psychological
The Holy American Empire
Nine days of silence followed Panama’s joint announcement of the South Coalition. The world had expected some kind of retaliation from Emperor Kane. They threatened not just trade in the Americas, but now they had a growing army—experts said it could compete on the battlefield in ways Mexico never could.
By Logan M. Snyderabout a year ago in Fiction
The Sound Beneath the Floor
The first night it happened, I thought it was the pipes. A faint tapping beneath my bedroom floor — rhythmic, like a heartbeat out of sync. I pressed my ear against the old wooden boards, half expecting silence. But the sound grew louder, then stopped the moment I whispered, “Hello?”
By Malaika Pioletabout a year ago in Fiction
The Light That Learned to Walk
They say the first light of morning is older than the sun — that it’s the echo of something that never stopped moving. For years, I thought I understood that kind of immortality. The still kind. The kind that doesn’t breathe, only waits. I thought endurance meant survival. I was wrong.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzalesabout a year ago in Fiction
Through the Keyhole
The story begins, as all treacherously good disasters do, with procrastination. The challenge prompt is open on one screen: Write a story that begins with someone peering through a keyhole or modern equivalent. I've been staring at the prompt long enough that the words have utterly lost meaning. Keyhole. Key. Hole. Holey key. Holey moly. ... My brain is stuck in a buffering loop.
By Autumn Stewabout a year ago in Fiction
Dancing With The Dead
Ta-tum, ta-tum, rat-a-tat-tat, ta-tum; I will never forget the sound, that particular sound on a certain October morning. It was one week following the Autumn Equinox. Just another neighborhood drumming moment- normal in my community, but on this day, the beat to dancing feet synchronized something most surreal, forever altering my vision of the deceased.
By Marilyn Gloverabout a year ago in Fiction
Desperation. Content Warning.
His messages came just before midnight, when my apartment was a nest of blue light, and the kettle hissed in soft bursts like it could hear me think. I scrolled through his photos. He had two of the same photo in a row, one slightly more cropped than the other: a man half-wedged against his truck, with a smile that wanted to be easy. His bio seemed like it had been created in a haphazard plume of a joint. We messaged for a while. He said the right things quickly, and the wrong things even faster. I stared at the screen until the screen was staring back into me.
By Autumn Stewabout a year ago in Fiction
