Psychological
Don't Look Too Closely
Something was just…off. It was 2 am, and Evan was finally shutting down his gaming console after a few hours of catching up with his friends on a slow Thursday evening. Of course, those few hours had turned into several after talking trash across glowing screens and friendly fire, and he cursed under his breath after checking the time on his phone. His screen’s harsh blue light seemed almost too bright, slicing through the dim calm of his apartment. Along with the hum of the refrigerator and faint tick of the wall clock, everything felt unusually loud in the quiet aftermath of digital laughter.
By Nicole Fennabout a year ago in Fiction
Etha and May. Top Story - October 2025.
Etha and May are as different as night is to day. If we are to be particular, we would say one wore red and the other, shades of mild yellow. Both are strong willed, set in their ways, motherly Black women. Etha lives upstairs in the quaint three story house in the Brookdale neighborhood of East 55th street of Brooklyn, NY. May occupied the apartment somewhere between the ground floor and the middle of the house.
By Antoni De'Leonabout a year ago in Fiction
When Dreams Become Memories
When Dreams Become Memories I woke up this morning remembering a birthday party. There were balloons, a cake with pale blue frosting, and a woman laughing softly as she smeared a bit of icing on my nose. I could smell the vanilla, feel her hand, and hear a child’s giggle echoing behind us. It felt so real — only, it hadn’t happened. Not yet. My apartment was the same as always: one coffee cup, one toothbrush, no balloons, no child. But the memory wouldn’t fade like dreams usually do. It was sharp, like something I had truly lived. At first, I blamed stress. Too many hours at the office, too many sleepless nights staring at spreadsheets and city lights. But then, the second one came. A memory of sitting in a hospital room. Machines beeping. My own hand holding someone else’s. Tears — mine, maybe hers. I could smell antiseptic, hear the faint hum of the ventilator. I didn’t know who the woman was, but I knew she was important. --- The first few times, I wrote them down, thinking they were creative ideas, or maybe my brain’s way of coping with loneliness. “Dream 1: Birthday.” “Dream 2: Hospital.” I kept the list in a small notebook by my bed. But as the days went by, the “dreams” became clearer. One morning, I woke with the taste of burnt toast in my mouth and the sound of a car horn echoing in my ears. That same evening, as I crossed the street to get coffee, a taxi screeched to a halt just inches away. The driver leaned out, yelling something about paying attention. The smell of exhaust was the same as in my dream. That’s when I stopped calling them dreams. --- The next few weeks blurred together. I’d wake up with pieces of the future stitched inside my mind — fragments of conversations, smells, or emotions. Sometimes they were small things: the taste of lemon pie, the scratch of a new shirt collar, the sound of rain on a metal roof. But sometimes, they were terrifying. Like the night I dreamed — no, remembered — the sound of glass shattering, someone screaming my name, and a shadow falling. I woke up drenched in sweat, heart racing. The next morning, I stayed home, afraid to go anywhere. I turned off my phone, shut the blinds, and tried to convince myself it was all in my head. But around noon, I heard the crash. My upstairs neighbor’s window had broken during a storm, glass raining down onto the street. If I’d gone out for my usual lunch, I might’ve been right below it. That was the day I stopped doubting. --- I tried telling my friend Leo about it once. He laughed, said I’d been watching too many sci-fi movies. “You’re just having vivid dreams, man. Everyone’s brain plays tricks when they’re tired.” But then I asked him about the scar on his left hand. He frowned, confused. “What scar?” I told him he’d get it next week — from a camping trip, when he’d try to grab a hot kettle before it fell. He stared at me for a long time, then shook his head and walked away. A week later, he sent me a picture of his hand. The scar was there. --- After that, I started keeping track. Every morning, I’d wake up and write down what I remembered: faces, words, dates, emotions. I learned that the memories came exactly seven days before the events occurred — not a day more, not a day less. At first, it felt like a gift. I saved people from small accidents, avoided bad decisions, and once even stopped a fire from spreading in my building by warning the superintendent about a faulty wire. But then came the memory that changed everything. I woke up gasping, drenched in sweat, remembering fire — real fire this time. My apartment engulfed in flames, the air thick with smoke, the sound of sirens closing in. I saw myself trapped, coughing, crawling toward the door. I could smell burning plastic and hear the crackling ceiling collapsing above me. It was exactly one week ahead. Next Friday night. 9:42 p.m. --- I tried everything. Called the fire department, the landlord, even replaced every wire and appliance. I slept at a friend’s place for a few nights. But as the days ticked closer, I felt something pulling me — like gravity. Friday came. At 9:00 p.m., I was sitting in a café down the street, pretending to read. My heart thudded like a drum. 9:30. I checked my watch. 9:40. I couldn’t stay. I had to see. I ran back toward my building, ignoring the rain and the flashing lights of passing cars. When I reached the corner, I saw the glow — orange and alive, devouring the night sky. Flames rose from the windows of my apartment. But the strange part wasn’t the fire. It was me. Through the smoke, I saw a silhouette in the window — my window — moving, coughing, collapsing. I froze, my mind screaming that it was impossible. I was standing here. And yet, I was also in there. Then everything went dark. --- I woke up this morning remembering the fire. The smell of smoke still clung to my clothes. But my apartment was untouched. No burns. No ashes. Just the quiet hum of the refrigerator. I checked the date. Friday, 9:00 a.m. Seven hours before it happens. I finally understand. These aren’t warnings — they’re memories. Memories of futures I can’t escape. And tonight, when the clock strikes 9:42, I’ll be there — just as I remember.
By Abdul Muhammad about a year ago in Fiction
The Last Prayer of Rahim
There’s a small village at the edge of nowhere — the kind of place where time moves slowly, and people remember everything. That’s where Rahim lived. He wasn’t always sick. Once, he was the strongest man in the village — the kind who carried bricks all day and still helped his neighbors fix their roofs before sunset. People used to call him “Bhai Rahim — the man with a heart bigger than his hands.” But life has a strange way of testing the kindest souls. A few years ago, an illness crept into Rahim’s body. At first, it was just pain — something he could hide behind his smile. Then came the swelling, the weakness, the nights of burning fever. Doctors called it incurable. Rahim just called it “Allah’s test.” His house was small — two rooms and a wooden door that always creaked. Every morning, before the sun climbed over the rooftops, he would spread his prayer mat and whisper the same words: >Ya Allah… give me patience, not comfort. Give me strength, not ease.” The neighbors would hear his voice through the thin walls. Some pitied him. Others just shook their heads and said, “He won’t live long.” But Rahim always smiled when he heard that. “I’ve already lived longer than despair,” he’d say softly. -- One cloudy afternoon, a traveler named Saeed arrived in the village. He wasn’t looking for Rahim — he was just passing through, tired and lonely, searching for something he couldn’t name. Someone at the tea stall told him about “the sick man who prays for others.” Curious, Saeed went to find him. When he reached Rahim’s home, the sight stopped him cold. Rahim was sitting on a thin mattress by the door. His body looked fragile, but his eyes — those eyes had light. He wasn’t praying for healing; he was praying for gratitude. Saeed sat quietly beside him. Neither spoke for a while. The sound of their breathing filled the silence between prayers. Finally, Rahim opened his eyes and smiled. “Brother, you look troubled,” he said softly. Saeed’s eyes were wet. “I came to see you, but now I don’t know what to say. I feel helpless.” Rahim chuckled faintly — a dry, gentle sound. “Don’t be. Pain is not always a punishment. Sometimes it’s a reminder… that we still belong to Him.” -Saeed took out a bundle of money, hands trembling. “Please, take this,” he said. “Use it for medicine, for care… for anything.” Rahim looked at it for a moment, then closed Saeed’s hand around it again. “Brother, money can fix a body, but not a heart. And my heart is fine.” Saeed couldn’t hold back his tears anymore. “What can I do then?” he asked. “Pray with me,” Rahim whispered. “That’s all I ever need.” So they sat together — two strangers who suddenly felt like brothers. Their hands lifted, voices low but full of meaning. “Ya Allah, forgive us when we forget to be grateful. Forgive us when we fear pain more than we fear losing faith. And when we suffer, let us remember — You never test without purpose.” The air grew still. Even the birds seemed to listen. Saeed could feel the weight of those words settle deep inside his chest. Rahim’s hands slowly dropped to his lap. His eyes stayed open, but something changed — a softness came over him. He whispered one last time, barely audible: “Tell the world… I wasn’t waiting for death. I was waiting to meet the One who gave me life.” And then, silence. Complete, peaceful silence. The azaan began to echo from the nearby mosque. Saeed sat there, motionless, tears falling one by one. He wasn’t crying out of pity anymore — he was crying because he’d just seen what faith truly looked like. Before leaving, he looked around the little courtyard. There was no wealth, no comfort, no sign of healing. Yet somehow, Rahim had everything Saeed had been searching for — peace. When Saeed walked back to the main road, the evening light touched the village roofs. He whispered to himself: "He healed me, even as he was dying.” And from that day on, wherever Saeed went, he carried Rahim’s prayer in his heart — a prayer that wasn’t just about pain or faith, but about finding light in the darkest corners of life. Moral / Reflection: Some people leave this world without fame or fortune, but they leave behind something far greater — a lesson that faith can turn suffering into strength, and sorrow into peace.
By Vocal Member about a year ago in Fiction
Behold, I Stand at the Door. Honorable Mention in A Knock at the Door Challenge.
There it is again, that distinct sound of a knock at the door. I would probably find that less disconcerting if I knew where the door is. Forget who’s standing on the other side of it. There’s not one anywhere I can see. And I can see a long way in every direction.
By Randy Wayne Jellison-Knockabout a year ago in Fiction
Boop. Content Warning.
Part I The knock at the door wasn't unusual - just four knocks - knock-knock-knock-knock. Usual. The thunderous barking of Ryan Seacrest, my Scottish Terrier wasn't unusual. Pound-for-pound, Scottish Terriers have the loudest bark in the canine kingdom.
By John R. Godwinabout a year ago in Fiction
Remember Your Childhood Bedroom!. Content Warning.
Imagination in childhood is powerful. For a short time, it shapes our lives but how we loose it.. I remember waking up in my bedroom, colours bursting all around me, toys of every shape and size waiting to be played with. Big smiles, bold eyes, and bright creatures greeted me each morning. Back then, even the smallest things seemed huge and magical.
By Cryptic Edwardsabout a year ago in Fiction
In the Loop. Runner-Up in A Knock at the Door Challenge.
My head swiveled as I heard the knock echoing down the hall. I froze at my desk, fingers floating anxiously above the keyboard as I listened. The silence that followed was only broken by the pounding of my heart. “It’s just Ellie,” I muttered to myself, shaking my head.
By Phar West Nagleabout a year ago in Fiction
