Psychological

The Merchant of Shadows
The weavers of the High Steppe did not use wool or silk. They sat on the rocky precipices where the wind whipped through the canyons like a physical weight, and they wove the air itself. Using needles carved from the bones of mountain eagles, they captured the invisible currents, turning gusts into heavy blankets and gentle breezes into delicate, translucent veils that could ward off the fiercest winter frost.
By Asghar ali awan5 months ago in Fiction
The Whispering Canopy
The glass conservatory at the center of the obsidian city was the only place where things grew by accident. In a society that engineered every aspect of life from the exact density of the synthetic clouds to the emotional baselines of its citizens the conservatory was considered a chaotic relic of an undisciplined past. Maeve was the curator, a woman whose hands were permanently stained with soil that had never seen a laboratory filter.
By Kamal ali5 months ago in Fiction
Crimson Stains
The corpses. Three sets of eyes that were once full of light now lifeless in the vast land of dark. Yet Cielo could still see them, hear them, feel them reaching out to him. Speaking to him.
By Sorcas Bleks5 months ago in Fiction
A shuddering affair
The rain had been lashing down much to her dismay but now the raincoat felt heavy and unnecessary as the ground dried and the scent of lingering wood filled her breath. Gripping her large bag laden with books and stationary she reached the bus stop. Ten minutes to wait, she read on the tracker.
By Paula S.5 months ago in Fiction
You Should Not Be Here. Content Warning.
The Situation: You shouldn't be here. We don't want your type. We just want someone who can clean the filth. Someone who can do the donkey work.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 5 months ago in Fiction
The Stranger on Bench Number Four
The giant digital departures board at Grand Central Station flashed a bright, unforgiving crimson red: Train 402 Delayed – 90 Minutes. Julian let out a heavy, frustrated sigh that was instantly swallowed by the ambient, chaotic noise of the terminal, his leather briefcase suddenly feeling twice as heavy in his grip. He had a client presentation first thing the next morning, and this delay was going to ruin his preparation schedule. Looking for a place to work, he dropped onto the nearest empty seat on wooden bench number four, aggressively pulling out his laptop to answer corporate emails, determined not to let this sudden pocket of wasted time impact his professional productivity.
By Kamal ali5 months ago in Fiction
The Last Voicemail. AI-Generated.
The kitchen clock read 3:47 PM, its ticking the only thing louder than the hum of the old refrigerator. Margaret sat at the worn oak table, her fingers wrapped around a mug of tea that had gone cold an hour ago. In front of her lay the cordless phone, its screen dark and silent.
By Waleed khan5 months ago in Fiction
Out of the dream. Content Warning.
Sunny blue skies, spotted with white puffy clouds. What a beautiful day to be on a boat. Well…. A naval boat, but a boat none the less. I shrug to myself. I don’t know how I ended up on this craft, but I am here and will have to make do with this situation. Warm but dry winds blow with moderate intensity. I stand there awkwardly, under a small protruding roof by a steel door, clueless of what I must do next. I am not in the military, yet I have been ordered to come aboard this boat as the team chiropractor. Don’t ask. As I take glances of the deck, shielding my eyes from the sun under the shaded overpass; I huff out a big sigh and freeze. My throat and chest tighten. My heart feels like it fell a few centimeters in my rib cage and I have a deep, seeding pit of doom forming in my abdomen. WHAT. THE. FUCK.
By Dani5 months ago in Fiction
Plain Pasta Al Dente. Runner-Up in You Had to Be There.
Once upon a time — sometime in late 1997 or early 1998 — when I had just started teaching at a university, my friend Kira was interpreting for an Oxford doctoral student, a multi-lingual Italian on dissertation field research in Bishkek. Funded by a modest grant, he tried to save on everything.
By Lana V Lynx5 months ago in Fiction
Jill Manor: Part III . Top Story - June 2026.
True love does not fail to occupy space in one’s heart; it merely builds a cage in their mind. We only realize we are trapped when the keeper vanishes with freedom’s key and we are left with monsters in the shadows. Our memories keeping watch in spaces we swore someone else stood.
By K.H. Obergfoll5 months ago in Fiction
Beneath My Tongue
"I keep your name beneath my tongue and bite on it each time it tries to escape I can hardly bear the ache, but I love the salted metallic taste." - Sadness in June by Imola Tóth.
By Paul Stewart5 months ago in Fiction
Jill Manor, Part II: Reclamation
The rain pelted over the grassy cliff in sick and twisted drops of icy doubt. It did not fall calmly or with an ounce of love. It hung in the air, cold, deafening, and eternal, like a shroud of impending death blurring the lines between earth and sky the way her kisses melted his being and pulled him back through time to a place he had never been, but couldn’t leave. Not even in death.
By K.H. Obergfoll5 months ago in Fiction