Short Story
Sleeping Afraid. Top Story - July 2024.
I always wake to three hallowing knocks that reverberate from the back of my skull through my teeth. That’s how I know it’s coming. The bitter metallic taste of adrenaline coats my tongue. Hot panic has its claws in my chest and sweat dews my forehead. Suspense and dread course through my veins and it takes all my strength to choose survival over succumbing to the debilitating fear. My ears twitch like a dog toward every noise and my breath comes hot against the hand that I pressed to my mouth to keep myself quiet. I need to slow my breathing…one breath in, hold, one breath out. I remove my hand from my mouth so I can ease myself out of bed and carefully place my feet onto the floor so as not to make a sound. I half-crouch and feel my way to the bedroom door, and slowly turn the knob. I know when to stop opening it to avoid the creak and I start making my way down the foreboding hallway. The floorboards give in pain as my weight shifts from one foot to the other, not quite walking, just easing my way forward. I feel another rush of dread drop into the pit of my stomach when I reach the stairs – they’re the hardest part. The old wood of the house moans with the weight of my fear and no matter how hard I try they always creak. I’ve learned the hard way that I have to do these quickly – it wakes and finds me with the sound of these godforsaken stairs. I stay in a low crouch, my legs on fire with the effort, as I place one foot on each stair using the handrail to guide myself down and take, albeit minimal, weight off the unforgiving wood.
By Tattoos & Tarot2 years ago in Fiction
An interview with the Goddess of Love
I interviewed the goddess of love recently and I learned a lot about her thoughts on love and sex. She wanted to be very open and honest about the topics and I appreciated that. She also wanted to explain how she sees others by describing them in the 12 "tribes" of astrological order. I was okay with that as a practiced wiccan who is well-read in astrology.
By Shanon Angermeyer Norman2 years ago in Fiction
It Hit Me Suddenly...
It hit me suddenly. A million thoughts swirling inside me, minute after minute, day after day. I’ve analysed all of my feelings, all of the events of a shared past, from every conceivable angle. Every conceivable conclusion has been reached at some point by my mind. The word "ruminating" does not do justice to this seemingly never-ending stream of consciousness.
By Rudolph Lingens2 years ago in Fiction
From Science to the Cosmos: A Night of Discovery Under the Desert Sky
The Celestial Dance of the Saharan Night Kierra's feet pounded the dry earth, sending tiny dust devils swirling around her ankles like miniature whirlwinds as she sprinted through the maze of mud-brick houses. The heavy telescope case bounced against her back, its familiar weight a comforting anchor amidst the chaos that threatened to consume her.
By Kingsley Gomes, PhD.2 years ago in Fiction
Whiskers and the Mysterious Midnight Adventure
The sun had just dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the quaint little town of Maplewood. Nestled in a cozy corner of the Smith family's house was Whiskers, a sleek, silver-tabby cat with a penchant for mischief and adventure. His bright green eyes gleamed with curiosity as he watched the last rays of sunlight fade away, signaling the beginning of his favorite time of day—night.
By Maribel Golosino2 years ago in Fiction
"The frog Prince of heaven :Ferdinand's journey beyond the pond"
Once upon a time, nestled between two towering mountains that kissed the sky, there lay a lush and verdant forest known as Evergreen Hollow. Within this enchanted realm lived a humble frog named Ferdinand. Unlike his pond-mates who contented themselves with lazy sunbathing and insect-hunting, Ferdinand harbored dreams that soared higher than the tallest trees.
By Gobika Senthilkumar2 years ago in Fiction
The women with scarlet scarf
Title: The Woman with the Scarlet Scarf In the quaint town of Willowbrook, nestled amidst rolling hills and whispering pines, there lived a woman whose presence stirred whispers among the townsfolk. She was known simply as Evelyn, the woman with the scarlet scarf. Evelyn arrived in Willowbrook on a misty autumn morning, her arrival unannounced yet captivating. Her scarlet scarf, vibrant against the backdrop of muted fall hues, became her trademark. It wrapped around her neck with a grace that seemed to defy the somber air that hung over the town. Rumors swirled about Evelyn. Some said she was a widow who had lost her husband in a tragic accident, and the scarf was a reminder of their love. Others whispered she was an artist seeking solitude for her next masterpiece, finding inspiration in the town's serene landscapes. Despite the speculation, Evelyn kept to herself, her presence a silent enigma. She would often be seen at the edge of Whispering Lake, where the water shimmered like liquid silver under the moonlight. There, she would sit on a weathered bench, her gaze lost in the ripples that mirrored the scarlet of her scarf. One chilly afternoon, as the first snowflakes began to dance from the sky, a young boy named Thomas dared to approach Evelyn. His curiosity outweighed his apprehension, for he had heard tales of her scarlet scarf and wondered about the stories it held. "E-excuse me, ma'am," Thomas stammered, his breath forming wisps of vapor in the crisp air. Evelyn turned, her eyes a deep shade of emerald, holding a wisdom that seemed beyond her years. "Yes, young man?" Her voice was soft, tinged with a hint of melancholy that matched the winter sky. "Why do you wear the scarlet scarf?" Thomas blurted out, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. Evelyn smiled gently, a fleeting sadness flickering in her eyes. "This scarf belonged to someone very dear to me," she began, her voice carrying the weight of memories. "He loved scarlet, said it reminded him of passion and courage." Thomas listened intently as Evelyn shared fragments of her past—of a love that burned bright yet faded too soon. Her husband, a painter who captured the essence of life on canvas, had gifted her the scarf before his final masterpiece was completed. "He painted me wearing this scarf," Evelyn whispered, her fingers tracing the delicate weave. "He believed scarlet held a power to defy even the darkest shadows." From that day on, Thomas visited Evelyn often, listening to her tales of love and loss, of moments captured in strokes of scarlet on canvas. He marveled at the way Evelyn spoke of her husband, her words painting pictures more vivid than any canvas could hold. As winter melted into spring, the townsfolk began to see Evelyn in a new light—not just as the woman with the scarlet scarf, but as a storyteller whose words wove magic into the fabric of their lives. She became a muse for the local artists, inspiring them with her quiet strength and the scarlet that symbolized resilience. One summer evening, under a sky brushed with hues of scarlet and gold, Evelyn invited Thomas to see her husband's final masterpiece. Together, they climbed to the attic of her quaint cottage, where sunlight filtered through dust motes to illuminate a canvas draped in shadows. "This is his legacy," Evelyn murmured, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. The painting depicted her in the scarlet scarf, her expression a blend of sorrow and serenity. It captured a moment frozen in time, a testament to love that transcended mortal boundaries. Thomas stood in awe, his heart heavy yet uplifted by the beauty before him. He understood then why Evelyn wore the scarf—why scarlet held a power that resonated with those who dared to see beyond the surface. Years passed, and Willowbrook embraced Evelyn as one of its own—a guardian of stories and keeper of memories. She continued to wear the scarlet scarf, a beacon of hope amid the changing seasons, a reminder that love endures even in the face of loss. And so, the tale of the woman with the scarlet scarf echoed through the generations, a testament to the power of love and the enduring legacy of those who dare to dream in shades of scarlet.
By Gobika Senthilkumar2 years ago in Fiction
The Night's Whisper
The Night's Whisper Jenna's strides reverberated delicately as she meandered through the thick woodland. The towering trees with their contorted branches appeared to reach out to her, their bent shapes casting spooky shadows within the moonlight. The takes off stirred with whispers she couldn't very make out, filling her with a sense of premonition. The discussion was cool and soggy, chilling her to the bone. She knew she was imagining, but the striking quality of it all made it feel stunningly genuine. Each night, the woodland got to be more point by point, more lively, and with it, Jenna's sense of direness developed.
By Abdul Qayyum2 years ago in Fiction
