Psychological

The Infinite Vacation
Micah’s days had blurred into grayscale. The blinds in his apartment stayed half-shut even at noon, letting in just enough light to remind him it was still happening, that life hadn’t stopped, just his part in it. He worked from home now, writing meaningless lines of code for a logistics software company that didn’t care if he wore the same hoodie three days in a row or if he ever brushed his hair again.
By Zarina Majidovaabout a year ago in Fiction
Nowhere Girl. Content Warning.
It was a blistering July afternoon, and the Walmart parking lot shimmered with heatwaves. I had just finished loading groceries into the trunk of my car. I always park far out, away from the clustered chaos near the entrance. Less traffic, less noise, fewer eyes. That’s how I like it.
By Shai Andersonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Virus That Stole My Breath—Twice
I never imagined a virus could push me so close to the edge. It started subtly last year — an itch in the throat, a few sneezes, and a persistent fatigue that I attributed to overwork or aging. I remember thinking, “Well, here comes another cold.”
By Anthony Chanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Noise Darkness Makes
Tick… Tick… Tick… That noise—what is that noise? Tick… Tick… Tick… There it goes again. What is that noise? I can only see darkness, so what is causing that sound? Maybe a clock? But where? I tried to concentrate, but it sounded like it was coming from everywhere—All directions, with no relent, as it continued to tick, tick, tick.
By John Henryabout a year ago in Fiction
The Pale Eye of Bethel Moor. Honorable Mention in Leave the Light On Challenge.
By the time I got to Bethel the sun was already gone, and the place felt cold. Nothing moved out there. Nothing grew. It wasn’t dead, more like it had stopped living. Some places just carry a kind of sadness in them, like the land itself had just given up. Bethel was one of those places.
By Tim Carmichaelabout a year ago in Fiction
Episode 2: The Lesson
So the sky was red again, and that meant someone had lied. The children were gathered in the Chapel Pit, lined up by height, boots in bone dust, faces scrubbed raw to look obedient. You didn’t breathe too loud in the Pit. You didn’t blink unless you had permission. And you definitely didn’t twitch — not even if the flies were treating your eyelids like landing strips.
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
The First Step Outside The House, After Leaving Many Footprints Inside The Home
The little boy sat curled up in a corner of the wooden house. Whenever his eyes gazed at the golden, radiant rays of the sun filtering through the white snow outside, a tremor stirred within his tiny heart. He would shrink further into the corner, closing his eyes, trying to hide himself. He would cover his eyes with both hands. But when the golden rays touched his shivering body, the warmth brought him such relief that he slowly removed his hands from his eyes. And when he opened them, he found his body wrapped in that golden light. His eyes sparkled with wonder. He peeked out the window, and as far as his eyes could see, there was only a white sheet of snow. Far off on the horizon, a glowing yellow orb deepened his awe. Gusts of wind bathed his face in icy waves, and he would leap back into the corner, pressing himself against the walls. His brown hair fell across his cheeks, and his eyes were sunken and weary. His eyelids blinked slowly, as if trying to absorb every visible thing. His cheeks were hollow, his intestines shriveled from hunger, and his skin had turned cold and pale. He wore a thick woolen overcoat that had become too small for him. His fingers rarely emerged from the coat’s pockets. He breathed within the wooden walls where life was very cold. Silence reigned, especially at night when darkness seeped in with the cold winds. Then, the lone window would beckon to him. He spent nearly all his time standing by it, gazing at the white land outside. His eyes would freeze in place, and he would stand motionless. The land beyond was far more beautiful than where he was. Only three faces floated in his memories. He wasn’t familiar with two of them, but the creature that didn’t match those faces had lingered around him for a long time. For the past two days, he was surrounded by wooden walls, with the vast white land outside staring back at him. The emptiness in his stomach grew, his lips dried, his breath slowed, and his eyes became still. His skin clung to his bones like a fine silk sheet. Something stirred within him, pulling him toward the door, where faint light peeked through the cracks, as if calling him out. Gathering all his strength, he tried to stand. He stumbled and fell, tried again, and finally, leaning against the wall, he moved toward the door. His footsteps stirred something in the house he had never felt before. He placed his hand on the door and pushed it outward. As the door opened, the bright light outside rushed in, covering all the darkness. His eyes remained still. The cold air mingled with his breath and entered his body. A shiver ran down his spine. His trembling hands tried to hold the door. Then his gaze fell on a white figure lying on the snow-covered land. He stepped outside for the first time. It was a familiar face, a fox. Still and silent. Snow had nearly covered her entire body. Ice had formed on her white fur. Eyes were open, filled with fatigue and stillness. There was no movement in the body. Nearby, some fruits were scattered, perhaps she had tried to enter the house. The little boy’s gaze lingered on it. His fingers gently rustled on the fox’s frozen fur. And the dust over his small treasure of memories was swept away. The fox used to come to that house once every two or three days, leaving some fruit for him before leaving. This had been happening since the time he came into that house. One cold morning, when the fox saw him for the first time, he had cried so much that his voice was hoarse; even his sobs were tearing through his throat. The fox had seen him hanging halfway out of the door of a wrecked car, the hand of the woman lying beside him still holding on to him. Next to the woman lay an unconscious man. Except for the little boy, none of the three showed any movement. The little boy was quiet then. As the fox’s steps slowly moved towards him, she gently held him in her mouth and pulled him out. Then she sniffed the bodies of the man and woman, and turned back from there. The little boy remained seated outside the car, his gaze fixed only on it. A little while later, she returned again, and dragging him over the snow, brought him into that house. Since that day, the little boy has never gone outside again. That world, too, was beautiful, one he no longer belonged to. The fox would bring him crabapples, wild berries. When the emptiness of his stomach and his shriveled intestines began to cry out, his hands would instinctively reach for the fruits. The fox would sit with him for hours inside that home. He would stare at her; in the fox’s eyes floated a deep, peaceful aura. She would gaze at him fixedly. The silence between them was profoundly deep. She wandered most of the time in the wild snowy area, but whenever she came to the house, she brought enough to keep the little boy alive. Touching the fox’s stiff body brought no response. He stood up. For a moment, his longing eyes looked at the fruits scattered near the fox. Then he turned back and went inside. The door remained open. He staggered back to the same corner, curled up, and rested his head on his knees, sitting silently. Her numerous footprints still glimmered, trapped between the thin layers of snow on the floor. Her presence still lingered, as if she were still there, silently watching him. Suddenly, the sound of breaking ice echoed. Fierce winds slammed against the house’s walls, as if trying to carry it away. Thick layers of snow fell from above, like someone gently folding a silky blanket. Within moments, a new, gleaming sheet of snow spread across the ground. Everything became silent. Where the house once stood, there was now only an empire of white land, and spread over it was a glow of cold snowy fog.
By Karan w. about a year ago in Fiction
She Was Never Real
I met her on a rainy Tuesday. The kind of rain that doesn't just fall—it lingers in the air, heavy and cold, like the universe itself is pressing down on you. I was sitting alone in a bookstore café, sipping cheap coffee and pretending to read a book I’d already abandoned. She sat across from me without asking, as if we’d done it a thousand times before.
By Leah Brookeabout a year ago in Fiction
The Woman on the Train Who Wasn’t There
I saw her every day on the 7:06 to Greystone. Same seat. Second row from the back. Window side. Always reading a book — not a Kindle, mind you, but a real one. Hardcover. Worn edges. She turned each page like it meant something.
By Abuzar khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The House That Remembers Me
this story is create by khalid khan I was only supposed to stay for six months. The house sat on the edge of town, crooked and quiet, like it had been waiting too long for someone to remember it. The landlord barely said a word—just handed me the keys with a muttered, “You’ll do fine here. The house likes to be lived in.”
By khalid khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Disappeared
Do you understand why you are here? No. It’s not because you disagree with the President. Okay? It’s not because you have protested against his policies.
By Abdullah khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Dead Air
Night One - The graveyard shift at WZUR 89.9 FM was supposed to be dead... three hours of indie rock, stoner metal, and half-baked conspiracy rants for whoever couldn’t sleep in central Illinois. Danny Rourke liked it that way.
By Veil of Shadowsabout a year ago in Fiction