Psychological
The Last Letter in the Wall. AI-Generated.
Emma had always believed old houses remembered things. That was why she bought the small brick cottage at the edge of the village. It leaned slightly to one side, the roof tiles were cracked, and ivy climbed its walls like green fingers. Everyone said it was too much work, too lonely, too strange. But Emma liked the silence. She liked the creaking floors and the smell of aged wood. Most of all, she liked the feeling that the house was waiting for someone.
By Waleed khan7 months ago in Fiction
We Are Forgetting the Color Red. AI-Generated.
The Inventory of Loss The Chromatic Clinic occupies the seventeen floors that nobody can quite remember building. Dr. Yuki Tanaka has worked here for what she calculates as either three years or thirty—the building's elevator buttons don't correspond to actual floors, and the calendar on her desk cycles through months that may or may not have existed.
By Cordelia Vance7 months ago in Fiction
A Boy, a House, and the Quiet Between Them
The house at the end of Willow Street had always been there, even when people tried not to notice it. It stood a little apart from the others, as if it had slowly stepped backward over the years and decided not to return. Its paint had once been white, though now it carried the color of old paper left too long in the sun. The windows were tall and narrow, like eyes that had learned not to blink.
By hassan khan7 months ago in Fiction
The Boy Who Collected Sunsets. AI-Generated.
Every evening, just before the sky began to burn orange and gold, Aariz would climb the same hill behind his village. People thought he was strange. After all, what kind of boy chooses silence over friends, sunsets over screens?
By Waleed khan7 months ago in Fiction
The Clock That Remembered. AI-Generated.
Amir had never believed in magic. Not the kind people whispered about in old stories. Not the kind that flickered in fairy tales or hid in dusty books. To him, life was simple—work, eat, sleep, repeat. No surprises. No miracles.
By Waleed khan7 months ago in Fiction
It's All There
“What was your earliest memory?” In my mind I am going down the hallway, it's all white and the doors are white and never ending. And if I open a door there may be a memory or it might be more white walls. Some of rooms of black. Others hold actual memories.
By Lisa Pulliam7 months ago in Fiction
The Haunting Cypress:
The bell rings shrilly and loudly through the halls of Idyllwild High signaling our release from this teenage-rage-fueled asylum. I weave my way around idiots shoving each other into lockers and just barely dodge the hooting-and-hollering football players pummeling through the halls. I open my locker, and a pile of muck covered leaves spills out of my locker and onto my boots. Roars of laughter echo all around me and a squirrely, high-pitched voice cuts through the noise from right behind me.
By Tattoos & Tarot7 months ago in Fiction
