Psychological
Scared of the Dark. Content Warning.
Her eyes would just not close. The clock on the nightstand glowed with the reality that sleep was being wasted; minutes marched by so quickly; she would not get any of them back. Every noise formidably louder than the last. Pipes creaked. The large wall clock in the living room reverberated off the walls as each time the second hand advanced. The springs were wearing out. The echo was ungodly loud.
By Kimberly Delucaabout a year ago in Fiction
Dining Out. Runner-Up in Leave the Light On Challenge.
I can remember the exact moment when I realised that my dad was a bad man. It's not a nice place to be at any time of life but as a young kid, it's the worst, I think, because you don't really have the analytical tools to deal with it, tools that, over time, you've gathered and honed with the experience of living. Then you can craft it, whatever it is - the disappointment, the betrayal, the fear, or all of these things combined - into something manageable, that you can look at, at least, and live with.
By Rachel Deemingabout a year ago in Fiction
Porch Frights. Content Warning.
After eleven Momma has set a new rule, stay on the stoop even if I'm soon seventeen; she's in bed with just the grey light of late night TV floating across her half-open eyes. I promise her to 'keep it down' and kiss her on the top of her head. I get it: lots can happen these days, especially over the course of a night. Think about it. What do we do when we first wake at seven a.m.? Turn on the news or now a days, turn on our phones for the latest headlines. In the course of one night there are people arrested, car accidents, tsunamis, deaths by natural causes and yes, even murders.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)about a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker Who Stole Tomorrow
The village of Marrowford had always smelled faintly of smoke and rain, a place where the river moved slower than the rest of the world. Nestled at the end of its crooked main street stood Ellis Bramwell’s Clockworks—a narrow shop with dust-speckled windows and a hundred ticking hearts beating in wood, brass, and glass. The villagers came for repairs, but they always left speaking in whispers, for there was something peculiar about Mr. Bramwell.
By Hanifullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Day My Grandfather Stopped Time
I always thought my grandfather was just… ordinary. Old, quiet, and a little forgetful. But one rainy afternoon, he showed me something I’ll never forget. He took my hand and led me to the attic—a place I had never dared enter. Dust danced in the light as he opened a small, wooden box. Inside were dozens of old photographs, each labeled with a date. “This,” he said, “is how I stopped time.” I laughed. “Stopped time? Grandpa, you’re being dramatic.” He smiled but didn’t answer. Instead, he handed me a photo. It was me, sitting in the living room at age five, smiling at something I couldn’t see. “Look closer,” he said. And I did. Hidden in the background, almost invisible, was a tiny shadow… smiling at me. He explained that in every photo, there was a moment frozen that no one else could see—a second where happiness was so pure it could outlast the years. He had been capturing them all his life. That day, I understood: time doesn’t really stop. Memories do. And sometimes, the simplest moments are the ones worth holding forever. I left the attic with a strange sense of peace. Because even if the world moves on, the magic of ordinary life never disappears.
By Haileyesusabout a year ago in Fiction
Shadows on the Edge of Tomorrow
By Nadeem Shah The rain had a way of softening the city’s edges. Buildings that normally looked sharp and unforgiving now blurred into a watercolor of gray and silver. Streetlights bled into the puddles, their glow stretching out in ripples with every raindrop that fell.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Fiction
Shadows on the Edge of Tomorrow
By Nadeem Shah The rain had a way of softening the city’s edges. Buildings that normally looked sharp and unforgiving now blurred into a watercolor of gray and silver. Streetlights bled into the puddles, their glow stretching out in ripples with every raindrop that fell.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Fiction
The Last Letter She Never Sent
By Nadeem Shah The envelope had yellowed with time, the edges curling slightly as if it had been holding its breath for years. It sat at the bottom of the box, beneath a stack of old photographs and forgotten receipts, as though it had been waiting—patient, quiet—for someone to finally notice it.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Fiction
