Psychological
Whispering Pines. Top Story - July 2026.
Prologue: July 1994 Jennifer Evans could still taste the raspberry shimmer gloss she wore to her first week of summer camp. The smell of damp cedar hung heavy in the humid air. The bandana she had soaked in ice water wrapped tight around her neck as they readied for further instructions. Her mom’s car faded from sight down the dusty gravel road back towards civilization. Gate guard Rick locked the metal doors behind the last gaggle of parents, some of whom had never left a child at camp before. It would be four-weeks until she would see her mom again, promises of letters and care packages had been exchanged.
By K.H. Obergfoll4 months ago in Fiction
You've Got A Friend In Me
Woody was old and that was one of the things Andy loved most about him. His earliest memory was of his mom pulling out the doll and filling Andy's desperate hands with his weight. His big head rested in the palms of his hands and his limp fabric body draped gently across his knees. From that day on, they had been inseparable. Andy's bedroom walls were a shrine to the cowboys aesthetic. The wallpaper was patterned with horseshoes, a brown felt cowboy hat hung gently over the bedpost, and Woody slept right beside Andy's cheek every night on a stitched patch work quilt. Life was good, in fact, Woody didn't think it could get any better.
By Sara Wilson4 months ago in Fiction
The Final Verse
Today was the beginning. The first man jumped at 8:17 a.m. He was a construction worker eating breakfast on the thirty-second floor of a high-rise. Security footage showed him freeze mid-bite, tilt his head as though someone had whispered his name, smile softly, and walk to the edge. He stepped off without hesitation.
By Kaori Knight 4 months ago in Fiction
The unlabelled jar
Chantal arrived at the shared house for a month; she immediately helped herself to everything. Entitled, ignoring boundaries, she went through shelves and foods that weren’t hers. She used anything from oats to unlabelled glass containers--she disliked plastic.
By Susan Fourtané 4 months ago in Fiction
The Journey Ends Here. Top Story - July 2026.
The greatest and most disturbing thing I have ever learned about humanity is the extent of our mortality: that in all the vastness of space, from the smallest molecule to the stars and planets, we’re really just a blip in time. The universe has no limits, no boundaries, and nothing to tell it to stop. It took chance after chance, rolling the dice, and we are the product of the one time that the universe got it right. Once accepted, this knowledge changes people. It crushes egos, shakes the soul into oblivion, and pushes the human psyche into madness so uncontrollable that a person would rather die than live every day consumed by an insatiable fear.
By L.M. Marlin4 months ago in Fiction
Crumpled Paper. Top Story - July 2026.
They say you never see a stranger’s face in your dreams. That every face you see in your dreams is someone stored in your subconscious. The woman at the grocery store sniffing the tomatoes last week, the kindly old man behind the counter who snuck you a free cookie at the bakery when you were five, the guy dancing in the background for three quarters of a second in a minor scene of your favorite movie.
By Amos Glade4 months ago in Fiction
