Psychological
The Second Shift
The automatic doors whispered open like they knew her name. Five years had passed since Grace last walked through the main entrance of Coastal View Medical Center, but the scent hit her like muscle memory—bleach disinfectant, day-old coffee, and something sterile she could never quite name. It was all precisely the same, only she was different.
By Catherine Schafferabout a year ago in Fiction
The Agreement
Link to the original Challenge: The machine was humming under the dying fluorescent light. The cat was ready. “Hello.” The machine clicked and made noises as it focused on its visitor. The deal was that the cat would share what information it had from the neighbourhood and then it would get a treat. But tonight, Mr. Benjamin was waiting for its reward. The machine waited for a moment before it decided to break the silence.
By Kendall Defoe about a year ago in Fiction
WHERE ROOTS REMEMBER YOUR NAME
The Premise: In a coastal town where gardens grow memories, 34-year-old floral genealogist Aris Thorne can touch plants and see their owners’ hidden traumas. Her gift thrives in the greenhouse of Saltwick House—a crumbling estate where flowers bloom from buried secrets. When widower Silas Vale hires her to revive his wife’s poison garden, Aris uncovers a root system preserving his late wife’s final words: “He didn’t mean to kill me.”
By Hamayoun Tareen about a year ago in Fiction
The Last Song She Played
The Last Song She Played By Mahboob Khan The record player clicked softly. A few dust motes danced in the sunlight filtering through the old curtains. Daniel stood still, clutching the faded vinyl cover like it was something sacred. It had been her favorite — Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat major.
By Mahboob Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Taxi Only Comes at Midnight
I first noticed it two weeks after moving into Apartment 7B. Every night at exactly 12:00 a.m., a black taxi pulls up to the curb outside my building. Its headlights cut through the mist like twin blades. The engine hums low, steady, as if it’s been waiting for centuries to be heard. Then it just... waits. I assumed it was someone’s late-night ride at first. Maybe a neighbor working a graveyard shift. But no one ever comes out to greet it. No driver steps out. No door opens. And at exactly 12:10 a.m., it drives away, vanishing into the empty street like smoke. It happened again. And again. Always the same. So last night, I did something I wasn’t sure I had the nerve for. I got in. --- It was cold inside the taxi. Colder than it should’ve been. The kind of cold that creeps beneath your skin and makes your bones remember sadness. The driver didn’t speak. I couldn’t even see his face, just the faint outline of a cap and gloved hands on the wheel. A quiet, vintage jazz tune played on the radio — something from another era, soft and warped like an old memory. I cleared my throat. “Where are we going?” He didn’t answer. The city outside the windows looked… off. Familiar buildings in the wrong places. Streetlights blinking in patterns that didn’t feel random. The people we passed—if they were people—moved like they were stuck between frames of film, stuttering through time. I pressed my hand against the window, and it felt like glass and something else — something humming and alive. After what felt like hours but could’ve been minutes, the taxi stopped. --- We were in front of a small diner with no name, glowing faintly under a flickering neon sign that just said: OPEN. I stepped out. The door creaked behind me as I entered. The air inside was warm, filled with the scent of coffee and pie and something softer — like nostalgia. There were people in the booths, talking in hushed tones, none of them making eye contact. The waitress behind the counter looked up and smiled like she’d been expecting me. “You’re late,” she said. “I wasn’t told where I was going.” “Doesn’t mean you didn’t need to be here.” She poured me a cup of coffee without asking. I took a sip. It was perfect. Not just good—perfect. Like every warm drink you’ve ever needed during your coldest hour. Then a voice behind me whispered my name. I turned. It was my mother. But she had died five years ago. She looked the same. Younger, maybe. Healthier. Her eyes held no pain. “Hi, sweetheart,” she said, reaching out like we’d just seen each other yesterday. I couldn’t speak. “I only have a few minutes,” she said. “The taxi waits for no one.” We talked. I don’t know how long. She didn’t explain how or why. Just smiled. Told me she was proud of me. Told me to let go of the guilt. That her leaving wasn’t my fault. That I could stop punishing myself now. I cried. When I turned to wipe my tears, she was gone. And the waitress was at my side again. “Time to go.” --- The taxi was waiting where I’d left it. This time, as we drove, the streets felt calmer. The glitching figures were gone. The lights seemed to flicker more warmly. When we pulled up to my building again, the driver finally spoke. “Next time, bring someone who needs to say goodbye.” I blinked. “There’ll be a next time?” He didn’t answer. But as I stepped out and turned around, the taxi was already gone — dissolved into the misty night like it had never existed. --- It’s been five nights since. The taxi still comes at midnight. And now, I wait too. Just in case someone else needs that ride.
By Firdos Jamalabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Message From Earth: A Time Capsule in the Stars
The Last Message From Earth The stars no longer blinked. From the observation dome of the Hera II, Captain Nara Myles stared into the dark ocean of space, where Earth once shimmered like a blue jewel. That jewel was now dust—swallowed by its own ignorance and fury.
By Waqar Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last leaf of Hope
The Last Leaf of Hope By Haya Princess In a small, cozy café, Emma sat alone, nursing a cup of cold coffee. She stared out the window, watching the autumn leaves rustle in the gentle breeze. The café was a haven for her, a place to escape the chaos of her life! As a child, Emma had been fascinated by the story of the last leaf. Her grandmother would tell her about the old artist, Behrman, who had saved a young girl's life by painting a leaf on a bare branch during a harsh winter. The story had always moved Emma, and she felt a deep connection to it. Emma's own life was a struggle. She had lost her job, her relationship was strained, and she felt lost and alone. The world outside seemed to be moving forward, while she was stuck in place. As she gazed out the window, Emma noticed a lone leaf clinging to its branch, refusing to let go despite the wind's gentle prodding. Inspired by the leaf's resilience, Emma decided to take a walk in the nearby park. The crisp air and vibrant colors of the changing leaves invigorated her. She felt a sense of peace wash over her as she strolled along the winding paths. As she walked, Emma stumbled upon a small art studio tucked away in a corner of the park. The studio's window display caught her eye – a beautiful painting of a single leaf, clinging to its branch. Emma felt drawn to the studio, sensing a connection to the artist's work. Inside, she met the artist, an elderly man named Jack. He was kind and gentle, with a warm smile that put Emma at ease. As they talked, Emma shared her story, and Jack listened intently. He told her about his own struggles, about the losses he had faced and the lessons he had learned. Jack showed Emma his art, and she was struck by the beauty and emotion that poured from each piece. He explained that his paintings were a reflection of his own journey, a way to process the challenges he had faced. Emma felt a sense of solidarity with Jack, knowing that she wasn't alone in her struggles. As the days passed, Emma found herself returning to the studio, drawn by Jack's wisdom and creativity. He taught her about the power of art, about the way it could transform pain into beauty. Emma began to explore her own creativity, finding solace in painting and drawing. The last leaf outside her window became a symbol of hope for Emma. She realized that, just like the leaf, she had the strength to cling to her dreams, to refuse to let go despite the challenges she faced. With Jack's guidance, Emma started to rebuild her life, finding a new sense of purpose and meaning.
By Haya princessabout a year ago in Fiction
