Psychological

Beneath the Wake
Bane dreamed of the ocean often, though his version was never gentle. It came to him in jagged pieces — cliffs carved by storms, waves that struck like fists, a horizon that never stayed still. The water was darker in his dreams, almost metallic, reflecting nothing but the faint shimmer of his own eyes.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
Into the Void
Sara dreamed of the ocean the way she remembered it as a kid — cold, gray, endless, the kind of water that didn’t sparkle so much as brood. In the dream, she stood at the shoreline with her boots sinking slowly into wet sand, the tide tugging at her laces like it wanted her to step closer.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
You Can See Yourself Out
You come to the open inspection to prove the flat is only a flat. Twenty minutes among someone else’s renovations, then coffee. Perhaps afterwards you can stop dreaming about the kitchen.
By Iris Obscuraabout a month ago in Fiction
Sins of the Father
You hear a loud crash from above. It sounds vaguely like violent thunder. The odor of burning ash fills your nostrils as your eyes flutter. Your vision is blurred at first. You wipe off your face, reach around to find your hat, and turn over. That's when you freeze, and you finally realize you're not alone.
By Jason Mortonabout a month ago in Fiction
I Sat in the Driver's Seat of a Car I Was Never Supposed to Touch
You are not supposed to be here. You know this before you touch the door. The sign on the chain-link fence says NO ENTRY. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. But the gate hangs open six inches, just wide enough to suggest permission if you are the kind of person who needs permission to be suggested.
By Jinabout a month ago in Fiction
It’s Not Me It’s Him. Top Story - October 2026.
The ever-changing scenery scrolls by your drowsy eyes as you gaze out a window. The gentle rocking from side to side of the train carriage only adds to the overall listlessness your body is feeling. Travelling by train is an unusual experience for you, only occurring when your journeys take you across the pond. These trips have become more frequent as the political climate continues to change around the globe, and your particular skill set is in greater demand.
By Mark Gagnonabout a month ago in Fiction
Two Black Cats, a Man and a Crow. . Top Story - October 2026.
There is a full moon out tonight, the streets are luminescent, newly washed by the cleansing rain. Tall stately lamp posts cast their barely perceptible shadows upon the night.
By Novel Allenabout a month ago in Fiction
Respiration
A short story for the 'You Are Hear' Challenge, developed from my prose poem 'Drowning', created for the 'Negative Space' Challenge. https://vocal.media/poets/drowning-ded7be8365
By Alyson Smith about a month ago in Fiction
White Bird Island: The Summer Camp That Never Let Children Go Home
The sea is very blue. A white bird skims under the clouds, its wings cutting the wind. Far off there is an island, like an emerald floating on the sea. White buildings are scattered on the island. Lawns are trimmed neat and even. Children in white dresses and white shirts sing on the grass.
By Jinabout a month ago in Fiction
The Wrong Room at the Right Time
You don’t know how you ended up in this room. You weren’t looking for it. You weren’t even looking for him. You were just walking — down a hallway, through a door, across a threshold — and suddenly you’re somewhere you’ve never been before, somewhere that feels private in a way that makes your skin prickle.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
THE MISFORTUNATES
In the dark suburb of Kahl, in a city you had never heard of and would never want to hear of, every house and empty apartment block seemed to have been built beside a howling railway line. The moon was the only light, and death was the only achievement most people in the city were ever likely to reach.
By Nicholas A. Swansonabout a month ago in Fiction
The Pink Doors
Hux plants himself on the cafeteria stool beside you, the vocal exasperations of his middle age landing with a familiarity that is almost comforting. At fifty-three, he has begun to collect time in places that still surprise you: silver in the beard he mostly forgets to trim, soft pouches beneath his eyes, a roundness where his jaw used to cut cleanly toward his neck. None of it quite adheres. Sometimes you still expect him to grin and show the two missing front teeth he lost at eleven, the year he launched himself from the third-floor banister because Mars convinced him a bedsheet would slow the fall.
By Sara Elise MacDougall about a month ago in Fiction