Psychological

The Memory Engine. AI-Generated.
Chapter I – The Awakening The laboratory was buried deep enough that no sound from the surface ever reached it. Still, when the Engine stirred, every corridor seemed to vibrate with an inaudible hum. Lights dimmed to a twilight glow, and the air grew heavy, as though the entire weight of the earth above had pressed inward.
By Ai.Pendrakeabout a year ago in Fiction
The Day I Saw The End
"Please!" I pushed the scream out with as much power as my lungs would allow. "I am begging you! Let me go!" I began banging with both fists as hard as I could against the walls. As the water trickled over the top of the glass box I was in, I could just barely make out the sound of his voice. "Stop damaging my product!" he growled. I was trapped. The entire box was slowly being lowered into an empty pool. The roof above was one giant showerhead. It was blasting water into the pool beneath it. It wouldn't take too long before the entire glass prison was submerged.
By Sara Wilsonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Woman at the Window
A New Apartment When Claire moved into her new apartment on the edge of the city, she thought the floor-to-ceiling windows would be her favorite feature. At night, she would sip tea, gaze at the skyline, and let the lights lull her into calm.
By Hassan Janabout a year ago in Fiction
Spider and Fly
It all started before lunch. Usually, when we had lunch at Cicero’s, our table would be waiting for us, our menus set on the table, and a little peace of mind for an hour and half would be available. From our office, the walk would be about ten minutes, even if I had to walk with her and take into consideration her slower gait.
By Kendall Defoe about a year ago in Fiction
The Stillness Beyond the Window. AI-Generated.
The meadow was flawless. It unfolded in front of me like a painting come alive, every color sharp, every detail crystalline. The grass shimmered a hundred shades of green, wildflowers bloomed in pinks and yellows like carefully arranged brushstrokes, and the sky above melted from gold to blue so seamlessly it could have been poured from an artist’s hand.
By Alicia Leneaabout a year ago in Fiction
A Census of Lovers. Content Warning.
Sloan froze when a photograph appeared on the screen. She dragged the page back up, certain her eyes had played a trick, and leaned closer to the light. A row of colleagues stood pressed together at the opening of a civic project, the ribbon stretched across the frame, every smile sharp with celebration. She barely registered most of them. Her focus locked on the man in the middle. The caption named him Blake, senior partner, innovator, mentor. She read the line twice, her lips forming the words while her mind clung to his face. His hair was neatly parted, his suit cut to flatter, his grin steady and sure. The angle of his cheek carried her backward in time. It was Nick. A year had passed since the funeral, yet here he stood again in daylight, alive inside another name.
By Fatal Serendipityabout a year ago in Fiction
In The Name Of Our God Of Love And Peace. Content Warning.
The Faithful We have faith and we believe. We are the chosen ones and our God tells us one we have to do. He speacks through our holy men, and we do his bidding.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
Kira Volkanova: Shadows of the Eternal Dream
Twenty years. Two decades since the rain-swept temple had stolen her mother and marked Kira Volkanova with a knowledge too heavy for a child.
By Stefano D'angelloabout a year ago in Fiction
Kira Volkanova: Shadows of the Eternal Dream
Prologue: Time, the Unforgiving The rain was relentless, a sorrowful sigh against the ancient wood of the temple. Seven-year-old Kira knew she was dreaming—the air was too heavy with cedar and ozone, the reflections in the countless mirrors too sharp, too infinite. Barefoot, in a white yukata that smelled faintly of her mother’s lavender soap, she wandered the labyrinth of polished corridors.
By Stefano D'angelloabout a year ago in Fiction
The Silent Hunger. Content Warning.
Devonne Kincaid had never known thirst like this. Water slid down his throat by the gallon, yet his mouth stayed dry, his tongue raw. Coffee, wine, juice—nothing quenched it. At night he lay awake, jaw aching, grinding against a hunger that felt older than he was. The doctor said dehydration. Work stress. Maybe insomnia. But Devonne knew the truth in his bones. This wasn’t stress. This was something feeding on him from the inside. --- The first crack showed on the subway. The carriage swayed, packed shoulder to shoulder. Devonne leaned against a pole, eyes half-closed, when the smell hit him. Metallic. Sharp. A boy across the car had a wrist wrapped in gauze. The bandage was slipping. A red thread gleamed where it bled through. Devonne’s heart kicked hard. His throat closed. His mouth watered so suddenly he nearly gagged. He couldn’t stop staring. The boy shifted under his gaze. Devonne bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste his own blood, forcing himself back into his skin. When the train screeched to a stop, he bolted into the night air, lungs shuddering, hunger screaming. --- The dreams began after that. Dark alleys. Footsteps echoing. Shapes moving ahead of him. He reached for them with shaking hands, nails digging into phantom skin, the air thick with copper sweetness. He always woke with his pillow torn and his teeth aching as if he’d been gnawing stone. Food tasted like dust. Heartbeats became an unbearable noise. He stopped eating lunch with coworkers, stopped making eye contact, stopped riding the train. But silence only made the hunger louder. The hunger was not meant to be suppressed. --- One morning, Devonne woke with dirt packed beneath his nails. His tongue was coated in iron. His reflection in the mirror looked wrong—skin ghost-pale, pupils blown wide, teeth catching the light in ways they shouldn’t. On the news: "The body of a man was found drained of blood in an alley off Crescent Street. No wounds were visible on the victim." Devonne’s coffee mug slipped from his hand. It shattered across the tile. He looked down towards his shoes laid by the entrance door. Muddy, Thick, wet, black with rain. He couldn’t remember leaving his apartment nor coming back. --- Fear gripped him harder than hunger ever had. He kept his blinds shut. He stopped answering calls. He didn’t dare sleep. But hunger doesn’t care about fear. Hunger grows. --- It was the stairwell that broke him. He was dragging himself upstairs when his neighbor appeared—a woman, groceries in her arms, a polite smile on her face. Then she tripped. The bag split. Apples clattered, a wine bottle shattered, and her hand slid across broken glass. Blood welled instantly. Bright. Hot. Alive. A beautiful hue.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Over the Horizon
It was in the early morning hours; she had just stumbled out of bed after a night of restless sleep. It had been a rough year, where nothing seemed to really be going right. Still though, she was a dreamer, she wasn't the type to give up. She knew that things were going to turn around, they always do.
By Judith Jaschaabout a year ago in Fiction
Sips and Sin
Every sip tastes of desire...and loss. 🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷 Wine bottle labels. Pieces of white paper, gracing hour-glass-shaped green glass. Marcy's life.
By Michelle Liew Tsui-Linabout a year ago in Fiction