Psychological

The Turn Of An Intern
There is no clear explanation for my burning desire to be a summer intern at The White House, but it’s been my goal since I was ten years old. Although I didn’t comprehend what was necessary to be competitive enough to actually receive a summer internship at that age, I serendipitously fulfilled every one of them over the course of the next nine years. Studying politics, history and our Constitution inexplicably possessed me, but never a Barbie doll.
By Star Love Greyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Washingtons. Honorable Mention in Everything Looks Better From Far Away Challenge. Content Warning.
Polly couldn't believe her luck when she'd gotten the news: her job application had been accepted. She - Polly Louise Dinkel - Little Miss Nobody, was going to be the media manager for the Washington Family.
By Natalie Grayabout a year ago in Fiction
Back to School
Who remembers reporting to school on that first day of school? Walking into those freshly waxed hallways and classrooms, catching up with some friends that you haven't seen all summer. Then, the bell rings and you head to your homeroom and find your seat and seek out your schedule to see what kind of year you are going to have with happiness or trepidation. All the days as it has done for years starts out with the Pledge of Allegiance followed by a moment of silent meditation followed by morning announcements. Welcome back, everyone and let's have a great year!
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Dog Days of August
August to me is the Dog Days of Summer as well as the month to get ready for Back-to-School. The days are still hot, and one just lays around for the last days of just plain relaxing are just about done for the busy days are not that far off now. The excitement for me and going back-to-school and seeing all my school friends, but also the excitement of family reunions and a few other end-of-summer picnics. The dog days of August are days to remember and to take a breath for Christmas is not that far away for us.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
The Tree That Remembered Me
I hadn’t been back in twelve years. Not since the funeral. Not since I stood in the middle of my grandmother’s backyard, too young to understand what grief really meant, clutching a paper flower I made in school because I didn’t know what else to bring.
By Musawir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Door Was Never Locked
Marla always cried during commercials—especially the ones with dogs in them. Her friends joked about it. Her brother used to nudge her at the movies when the sad scenes hit. “Sensitive,” they said, like it was a diagnosis. Like it was something she’d outgrow.
By Enric Millyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Sound of No Goodbye
The Sound of No Goodbye Written by Mirza The morning she left, there were no slammed doors or tearful hugs. No emotional declarations or scribbled notes. Just the creak of the front door, the whisper of her boots on the wooden steps, and the long, quiet sigh of an engine starting. That was it. Lena had always been a woman of words — a poet by trade, a lover of language — yet when it came to goodbye, she gave none. It was the most painful silence Peter had ever known. He didn’t notice it at first. He thought she had gone to the market, maybe to the bookstore on Fifth, where she often spent hours nestled between worn pages. But by evening, when the shadows of the kitchen walls grew long and her teacup remained untouched, reality began to unravel. She wasn’t coming back. Peter spent the first night pacing. He didn’t cry. Not yet. He was still waiting for a text, an apology, something that would explain the suddenness of her departure. By the second night, he began to remember things—subtle hints he’d ignored: the way she no longer hummed while cooking, how her laughter had faded into polite chuckles, how she stared out the window longer than necessary, as if looking for the exit. Lena had been slipping away for months. The truth was, Peter had been caught in the comfort of routine. He had mistaken her quiet for contentment, her distance for peace. He’d thought love, once spoken, could remain unspoken forever and still survive. But Lena needed to be heard. She had always craved connection, not just presence. She needed someone to feel her silences, read between her pauses, answer the questions she never asked out loud. Peter loved her, but he hadn’t listened closely enough. Not really. Weeks turned into months. Peter still set the second mug out every morning. He didn’t know why. Habit, maybe. Hope, possibly. A punishment, most likely. Friends tried to comfort him. “She’ll come back.” “Maybe she just needed space.” But Peter knew. There were no postcards. No phone calls. Not even mutual friends had heard from her. She had disappeared in every way a person could, without dying. It was grief without a grave. One day, Peter found himself cleaning the attic. He hadn’t been up there in years. Among the dusty boxes, he found an old wooden trunk — Lena’s. Inside were journals, photographs, bundles of letters tied with string. At the bottom, under everything, was a sealed envelope with his name on it. His heart pounded as he sat down on the wooden floor, hands trembling. He opened it. > Peter, I didn’t know how to say goodbye. I guess I still don’t. I loved you. I want you to know that first. I loved you from the moment you made that ridiculous pun at the bookstore and turned beet red when I laughed. But somewhere along the way, we stopped talking. Not about errands or bills or dinner plans. I mean really talking. I felt invisible in the same room as you. I shouted in silence, but you never heard me. I waited for you to notice. I wanted to be reminded that I mattered — not as a routine, but as a person with a beating heart, full of dreams and fears. And when you didn’t, I realized I couldn’t stay. I didn’t want to hurt you with a dramatic farewell. I thought maybe if I just disappeared, you’d look back and find me in the memories — the real me. I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye. Maybe I was afraid you’d ask me to stay. And maybe I would have. But I needed to learn how to be heard again. — Lena Peter read the letter three times before folding it neatly and pressing it to his chest. He wept for the first time since she left. Not just because she was gone, but because she had been right there, breaking quietly, and he had never noticed. He spent the following days reading her journals. It was like hearing her voice again, page by page. Her words were gentle, thoughtful, aching. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him. She had wanted to be seen. Years passed. Peter never stopped loving Lena, but he also never stopped growing from the silence she left behind. He became a better listener, a more present friend, a man who now understood that love wasn’t about avoiding conflict or staying comfortable — it was about being vulnerable, open, and attentive. One rainy afternoon, Peter returned to the same bookstore where they’d met. An open mic night was just beginning. A young woman was reading a poem. He sat at the back, sipping coffee, soaking in her words. After her set, he stood and applauded. And for the first time in years, he spoke into the quiet. “Thank you for your voice.”
By Moonlit Lettersabout a year ago in Fiction
Alabama Rain Book 5 by Lana Campbell
The Book Do you love to read paranormal vampire romance novels, if so, then check out Lana Campbells 707 page book, Alabama Rain Book 5 in the Forever and a Night Series? This book was published on the 31st of October in the year 2018 and sold by Amazon Digital Services, LLC.
By Lisa Briskeyabout a year ago in Fiction
Under the Crimson Sky
By Nadeem Shah The sky bled red the evening I returned to Raven Hollow. I hadn’t been back in twelve years—not since the night everything I believed in was shattered. The roads felt narrower, the trees darker, like the whole town was holding its breath, waiting for me to remember what I’d tried so hard to forget.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Fiction
You're My Favorite Murderer (Chapter 16). Content Warning.
Chapter 16: 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘦𝘳 𝘉𝘰𝘺 “Stazieeeee” I grumble slowly dragging myself from a sensual dream, a dream I really shouldn’t be having but what goes on inside my mind is no one’s damn business but my own. I reach up to hold my head, feeling heavy, weighted; as if I’ve been asleep for days on a layer of concrete. What the fuck, since when do I wake up feeling a headache this fucking big? Usually when I drink, but I didn’t drink enough to get hungover that’s for damn sure.
By 𝓗. 𝓒. 𝓡𝓾𝓫𝔂about a year ago in Fiction
Aestas Futilis
Oliver slung his backpack over his shoulders and headed down the stairs. He had it all planned out. He’d sit at the coffee shop for a few hours and read, write, sketch, and listen to whatever music he would be vibing with in the moment. It was, for lack of a more literary term, going to be a chill morning. Afterwards, he might actually get lunch at a restaurant and have an afternoon beer.
By Aaron Morrisonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Echo Chamber Effect
In a small, windowless room, lit only by the blue glow of multiple screens, Eli sat hunched over his keyboard. The hum of the computer fans was the only sound that kept him company, save for the endless scroll of curated opinions flashing across his monitors.
By Pir Ashfaq Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction