Psychological

Who's the real Monsters?
Back in the vents I made a straight shot for Aunt Patty's office. She'd have a contingency plan for everyone here, including the Colonel himself. Sifting through the files I saw two with the name of Armstrong. Checking on Henry Armstrong III first to see if I can use him against the Colonel.
By Lucy Torralbaabout a year ago in Fiction
A good laugh. Runner-Up in The Shape of the Thing Challenge.
Not so long ago, new and overly exuberant neighbors moved in a couple of houses over. Normally, the neighborhood is a maddeningly quiet place. Makes you feel sometimes that no one actually lives here. Even the young ones keep it pretty decently discreet, a few F words here and there, yelled to feel their Moxy - to say "we are arriving world', see, we can cuss too".
By Novel Allenabout a year ago in Fiction
The Teen Who Built a Tech Startup in His Garage
The Teen Who Built a Tech Startup in His Garage When passion met code, a billion-dollar app was born Business / Technology / Startups
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Waiting Place. Runner-Up in Everything Looks Better From Far Away Challenge. Content Warning.
They let us see the stars before we go under. Let us spend a few "days" wandering around in the grey, lifeless ship and look out at the universe. A few people always break a little, just a little.
By Alexander McEvoyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Golden Diary
The attic had always been a forbidden place in the house. Dusty, dim, and filled with relics that no one cared about anymore, it seemed like a graveyard of forgotten objects. Yet, one late afternoon, curiosity pulled Zara toward it. The wooden stairs creaked beneath her feet, as though warning her to turn back. But she didn’t. Something in her heart told her that there was a story hidden there, waiting for her.
By Vocal Member about a year ago in Fiction
The silent miles. Content Warning.
The rain came in sheets, blurring the world into streaks of gray and silver. Noah gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened, eyes fixed on the thin line of headlights cutting through the mist. Beside him, Anna’s hand pressed to her belly, her breath uneven, panicked. “It’s okay,” he said, voice rough from shouting over the storm. “I’ve got you. We’re almost there. Just hold on.” “I—I can’t,” she whimpered. “I don’t think I can…” He reached over, gripping her hand. “Shh, shh. You’re fine. I’m right here. Just breathe with me. In… and out…” The world outside the windshield was a smear of rain, asphalt, and dim light, but up ahead — faint but unmistakable — the hospital loomed. Its white lights cut through the darkness like a beacon. Noah felt a surge of relief. Almost there. And then the road stretched. He gritted his teeth. “It’s just a curve,” he muttered, pressing harder on the accelerator. The tires hissed on the wet asphalt. The hospital remained where it had been — the same distance ahead, the same shape, the same sterile glow. And yet, the road continued. Mile after mile, endless black ribbon curling into mist. Anna gasped. “Noah…the hospital....i-it’s not moving. We’re not getting any closer.” He swallowed hard. “Of course we are. We just have to keep going.” But every curve, every straight stretch, every flickering streetlight, led them back to the same horizon. The hospital never grew larger. It never drew nearer. It was always there, distant, impossible, tantalizingly close yet unreachable. “Noah,” Anna said, her voice breaking. “Please… I don’t want this…” “I know,” he said, forcing a reassuring smile. “You’re doing great. I’ve got you. I promise, you’re safe with me. We’ll—” The tires skidded on a slick patch. He corrected the wheel, breathing fast. “We’ll get there. Just a little farther. I won’t let anything happen to you.” They drove on. --- Hours and hours— Noah couldn’t tell how many— passed. The road was empty save for the rain and the occasional flicker of broken signs. Their headlights bounced off wet asphalt and fog, but nothing else existed. Trees leaned at impossible angles, their branches scratching against the windshield like skeletal fingers. The hospital’s lights remained the same, constant, unchanging. Anna leaned against him, shivering. “Noah… the baby…” “I know,” he said, stroking her hair. “You’re safe. We’ll make it. Just a little farther. Keep breathing.” But as he drove, a creeping fear settled in his chest. Every mile felt heavier. The steering wheel vibrated like a pulse in his hands. The headlights reflected in the rain like twin eyes watching him, mocking him. And the hospital — oh, that relentless, impossible hospital — it never changed. --- He tried everything. He accelerated, pressed harder on the gas, but the road did not shorten. He braked, tried to pull over, but there was no shoulder, no ground, only endless asphalt curling into darkness. He swerved, yelled, begged, but the hospital remained the same distant light, the same sterile promise.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Darling Little Uglies . Top Story - August 2025.
He wakes to see nothing— he feels nothing. But he smells the shore and he can hear the waves and then, bewildered, he tries to move.
By Sam Spinelliabout a year ago in Fiction
Scripture of Bravery and Resilience
The passage is cheerful, and the street across is named unfearful. Couldn't decide on my own crossroads. The unfearful road winds me in. To leave behind the occupant who demands without asking was a breeze to lose consciousness.
By Johana Torresabout a year ago in Fiction
The Town Where No One Remembers Yesterday
The Town Where No One Remembers Yesterday When time resets, trust no one. The first thing that struck Ethan Cross when he arrived in Bellwick was the silence. Not the peaceful kind, but a hollow quiet that seemed to swallow every sound. The quaint town, with its cobblestone streets and perfectly trimmed hedges, looked like a picture frozen in time. Yet something was off. The people smiled too easily, their eyes too vacant, as if the spark of recognition had been snuffed out long ago.
By Farooq Hashmiabout a year ago in Fiction
Griefhouse. Content Warning.
Griefhouse Marla didn’t know why the house called her. On a rainy evening, it appeared at the edge of the road, dark and half-hidden by mist and overgrown hedges. She had passed it countless times, always curious, always turning away. That day, something in her chest tightened — a pull she could not resist. The front door swung open before she reached it. No lock, no key, only a heavy sigh of air that seemed almost alive. Inside, the hall stretched unnaturally, lined with peeling wallpaper and faded portraits that watched her. Her own reflection appeared in a tarnished mirror, pale and uncertain, a ghost of herself she barely recognized. --- I. The First Room The first room smelled of damp paper and smoke. Dust motes floated in the weak light from a cracked chandelier. A chair faced the fireplace, unlit. On the mantle, a photograph of a child she once knew — her younger sister, gone ten years ago — stared back. As Marla reached for the photo, the room shifted. The chair turned slowly toward her, its shadow stretching unnaturally across the floor. A whisper rose from the walls: “You left me.” Her throat closed. She fell to her knees. The room responded, walls contracting, ceilings lowering, pressing against the hollow in her chest. She remembered the argument with her sister the morning she left town, the words that had struck like knives, the silence that followed. The house forced her to see. ---
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The ash season . Content Warning.
No one knew why he did it. The billionaire — known in whispers as Greyson — didn’t announce his games, didn’t publish invitations. One morning, a random name appeared on his list, and by nightfall, they were gone. Maya had been walking home from her apartment when a black van pulled alongside her. A polite voice offered a ride, a simple errand, nothing more. When she awoke, the city lights were gone, replaced by the dense hush of a forest she didn’t recognize. The air was cool, tinged with pine and something metallic. Somewhere above, the stars were small, indifferent. The first rule she learned: you cannot leave. The forest was enormous, too vast to map, too tangled to escape. Trails forked endlessly. Shadows moved where no light fell. Every sound — a twig snapping, the wind in the branches — became a signal of his presence. Greyson was there, always observing, never intervening directly. He didn’t need to. By the second day, Maya had discovered the first traps. A clearing littered with broken branches; a tree hollow stuffed with discarded clothes; footprints that appeared and vanished. Someone else had been here, or maybe it was a test. She didn’t know, and the uncertainty gnawed at her. The ash began to fall on the third day. It wasn’t from fire; it drifted silently from the trees, pale gray, settling on skin, clothes, and hair. It didn’t burn, but it whispered, if she leaned close. She could hear faint laughter, murmurs of instructions, half-remembered voices. The forest played tricks on her mind. Every night, she felt as though someone watched from just beyond her vision. She tried running. She tried climbing trees, screaming until her lungs ached. Nothing worked. Each path led back to the same clearing where the ash was thickest, where the air vibrated with a quiet tension, and where she realized the forest itself had been designed — every tree, every stone, every fallen branch placed with deliberate care. Greyson appeared once, or maybe she imagined him. A tall man, impeccably dressed despite the wilderness, stepping from the shadows as though he belonged to both the forest and the city. His eyes were sharp, indifferent, measuring. “You’re doing fine,” he said. His voice was calm, patient, like a teacher praising a student who’d nearly failed. “Just… keep going.” Maya didn’t know if she should run or answer. The ash settled in her hair, her eyelashes, making everything gray, muted, unreal. He turned, disappeared, and she was alone again. The days blurred. Hunger and fatigue tangled with paranoia. She began to hear voices — some distant, some inside her own head. They whispered secrets, fears she had never spoken aloud, memories she’d tried to bury. The ash listened and repeated them. She screamed, only to hear her own words echoed back at her, twisted, rearranged. Other people arrived. Some ran headlong into trees. Some cried and curled in the undergrowth. Some tried to form alliances, but the forest had a way of turning companions into threats. By the end of the first week, few remained. Greyson never touched them, never forced a hand, but his control was absolute. Each obstacle, each trap, each whispered memory was enough. The forest became a labyrinth of fear and regret. The ash fell, soft and endless, and with every flake, the participants grew smaller, quieter, more pliable. On the seventh night, the forest fell silent. Even the ash stopped drifting, as though it were waiting. Maya found herself alone in the clearing. The ground beneath her feet was gray, soft like dust. The air smelled like iron and old pine. Her lungs burned. Her eyes stung. And yet she had survived, unlike the others. A sound behind her — subtle, deliberate — made her spin. Greyson stepped out from the shadows, his presence calm, final. “You’re the last,” he said. His tone carried no triumph, no malice. Only certainty. “You understand the rules now. The forest is not the trap. You are.” Maya realized then that it wasn’t about escape. The forest had never been a prison in the conventional sense. Greyson didn’t need walls or cages. His power lay in shaping their minds, bending them with fear, memory, and isolation. The ash wasn’t ash. It was the weight of their own choices, sifted, broken down, and scattered back over them until they could no longer distinguish themselves from it. She wanted to run. She wanted to fight. But she couldn’t. Her reflection in the puddles of gray on the forest floor was not her own — it was hollowed, muted, watching. Greyson nodded. “Well done,” he said. Then he turned, leaving her among the ash, among the whispers, in the forest he had built not with fences, but with minds. The sun rose, though it did little to pierce the gray. Maya breathed in the air, tasted the ash on her tongue, and realized the truth: the forest had not ended. Neither had the game. And the ash would fall again. ---
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Jackson's Basketball Journey
Every time that Jackson scores, he hears the distinct snap of a ball bouncing on cracked concrete, and the voice of his mother saying, “Don’t let them decide your worth.”
By Antoni De'Leonabout a year ago in Fiction