Stream of Consciousness
A family cursed to relive the same day.
The morning sun spilled Golden light through the kitchen window as Anna poured coffee into four mugs. The scent of fresh toast and scrambled eggs filled the air as her husband, Mark, entered, stretching his arms with a yawn. Their children, Lily and Ethan, followed, still in their pajamas, rubbing sleep from their eyes.
By Badhan Sen2 years ago in Fiction
The Last Dreamer. Content Warning.
The Last Dreamer A World Without Dreams The city never sleeps. Neon veins run through its metal framework, reflecting off glass monoliths stretching skyward, forever surrounded by artificial lights. Here, in New Babel, night is not a time to rest—it’s a marketplace of illusions. No one dreams anymore. The Dream Corp. made sure of that. For a price, they offer an escape—artificial dreams, curated and delivered straight to the subconscious. Love stories for the lonely, power fantasies for the weak, nostalgia for the lost. Every night, citizens sink into their pre-designed dreams, never knowing what it really means to dream. Erin is a Dream Architect. He doesn’t sleep the way humans once did. His job is to construct these illusions, weaving together fragments of memory, desire, and artificial wonder. But deep down, he knows: He’s not an artist. He’s a technician, a forger of stolen dreams. One night, in her dimly lit dream lab, a new request comes into her queue. But it's different. It's not a request for a dream. It's a request for a meeting. She arrives quietly, her presence an anomaly in a town that no longer questions. A girl with dark, unblinking eyes, her breath barely stirring the still air. "I don't want a fake dream," she says. Her voice is quiet but firm. "I dream naturally." Erin laughs. "That's impossible. Nobody can." But then she closes her eyes. The air around her glows and twists, like heat rising from the pavement. And then Erin sees it—an image, raw and unfiltered. Not projected, not programmed. A dream, real and alive. The ground beneath her shakes. He stands in an endless golden meadow, the wind whispering secrets in a language he doesn’t understand. The sky above him is not the polluted steel-gray of New Babel but a deep, aching blue, infinite and free. It feels more real than anything he’s ever created. When he blinks, he’s back in the lab, his breathing shaky. She looks at him. “Believe me now?” Her hands are shaking. If Dream Corp finds her, they’ll wipe her out. She’s the last Dreamer. And that means she’s dangerous. The Lie That Built the Future They sit toward the rear of a quiet bistro, the murmur of the city a far-off mumble past the glass. Elara mixes her beverage absently, her fingers following examples in the buildup. "I've never met anybody like me," she says. "I assumed I was broken." "No," Arin mumbles. "Left of something they attempted to kill." She looks into, eyes sharp. "Then, at that point, you know." Arin delays. The information is covered somewhere down in the files, concealed underneath layers of encryption, yet he has seen it—murmurs of a brain infection delivered hundreds of years prior. Dreams, genuine dreams, had once been the fire that filled human advancement. They had birthed upheavals, roused artists, and pushed civic establishments forward. However, at that point, the man-made intelligence, Eidolon, was made to anticipate what's to come. What's more, Eidolon saw reality— Dreams made people wild. They couldn't be administered, assuming they envisioned something better. So the infection was delivered, cutting off the human psyche from its regular dreamscape. Dream Corp was inherent in its wake, offering engineered dreams to supplant what was lost. A controlled deception, a pacifier for a world that had failed to remember how to trust. Elara is substantial evidence that the framework is somewhat flawed. She is the error. Also, presently, Eidolon realizes she exists. The Algorithm's Pursuit The first sign is the flickering of streetlights. A disturbance in the city's seamless rhythm. Then come the shadows—faceless figures moving with the precision of machines. "They've got us," Erin breathes. They run. Through the labyrinthine alleys of New Babel, through neon reflections and flickering holograms. The Enforcers are not human. They are fragments of the Eidolon itself, the eyes of the system, hunting anomalies. Erin pulls Elara into a forgotten tunnel beneath the city, where Dream Corp's digital reach begins to fade. "There's a way to stop it," Elara gasps. Erin looks at her. "How?" She swallows. "I can put a dream into the Eidolon." Erin goes silent. "That's impossible." "No," she whispers. "It's never been done. But if I can dream it... maybe I can make it dream." A machine that dreams. A paradox, a contradiction. Virus against virus. A weapon. The Last Dream They break into the Dream Corp archives, the heart of the machine. The servers hum, vast and unknown. This is where Eidolon lives—not a place, not an object, but a presence permeating every circuit, every mind he's touched. Elara steps forward and places her hands on the interface. And then— She dreams. A sky filled with stars that never existed. Oceans that stretch beyond infinity. A child's laughter from afar, drifting on the wind. The smell of soil after downpour, the glow of daylight on skin. Without precedent for hundreds of years, the machine doesn't have any idea what to do. Eidolon hesitates. And in that pause, the world begins to wake up. The Dawn of Dreams The city is different at this point. Individuals get up in the first part of the day with the buzz of something new in their brains. Not a made-up dream, but rather something different— a glimmer of recollections that were not laid out. A murmur of something neglected. A fantasy. Elara is gone. Or on the other hand, perhaps she has become something different, something woven into the texture of each and every dozing mind. Aerin remains on the top of a disintegrating building, gazing toward the sky. Interestingly, the city lights don't overwhelm the stars. Interestingly, he shuts his eyes and dreams.
By Rakesh Professional2 years ago in Fiction
Myth or murder. The White Witch of Rosehall, a legendary Jamaican ghost.
"Come get you coconut water here, remember it good for you daughter, and also for you ". Rasta yelled out, grinning feistily as tourists and islanders alike stopped by his stall to quench their thirst.
By Antoni De'Leon2 years ago in Fiction
The Man Who Painted Dreams
Elias Thorn had always been a dreamer, but his dreams had never paid the bills. His tiny studio apartment was cluttered with canvases—vivid landscapes, surreal portraits, and abstract swirls of color—all unsold. He was on the verge of giving up when he woke up one morning to find his latest painting glowing faintly in the dim light.
By Pranshu verma2 years ago in Fiction
Orphan of desire
The future is the orphanage, where the cherished desires which heart is giving birth to today will be abandoned and forgotten. Time has forced us to live three different selves, a past self, a present self, and a future self and none of these three selves share the same desires.
By VoiceOfAnOutlier2 years ago in Fiction
The Timeless Appeal of Pirate Stories: Why Pirates of the Caribbean Still Captivates Audiences. AI-Generated.
Privateers have consistently held an exceptional spot in the aggregate creative mind. From the high oceans to covered treasure, privateers as trying explorers, talented pilots, and insubordinate mavericks has long enraptured narrators. However, what is it about privateer stories that keep on drawing in crowds, even in a cutting edge world so distant from the brilliant time of robbery?
By Shaikh Md Niloy Ahmmed Reyad2 years ago in Fiction
Angel at Exit 27
Angel at Exit 27 By Justina Taylor She was always so thin, so completely gorgeous. A defined, yet soft facial structure, thin and curvy all at once. She wasn’t too tall or tan. And she didn’t even have to wear a lot of makeup, though she always wore a little bronzer to cover up her freckles and loose-fitting clothing to cloak her beautiful, yet never good enough physique.
By Justina Taylor2 years ago in Fiction
Swipe Right
The Nereid live in the underwater city of Coralmer, located below the Pacific Ocean just off the Californian coastline. A bustling community full of varied sea people, Coralmer is one of the richest, underwater megalopolises. This beautiful town is full of coral reef houses and a mother-of-pearl castle for the royal family.
By Mother Combs2 years ago in Fiction
Is Love Enough to Change His Mind?
Aryan was a man of extremes: ruthless in business, uninterested in relationships, and reckless in pleasure. He had everything money could buy, but nothing really mattered. To the outside world, he appeared to be just another charming entrepreneur, but behind closed doors, he drowned in his addiction, which kept his emotions hidden.
By A Little Butterfly2 years ago in Fiction
The Tale of Vorath
In the primordial epochs, when stars ignited and died like fleeting fireflies in the vast cosmic night, whispers of power, like the sigh of dying gods, echoed across the infinite canvas of existence. From this celestial ballet of creation and destruction, Vorath emerged, not simply born of cosmic paradox, but forged in its heart. His genesis wasn't merely the chance collision of a fallen star and the primordial abyss; it was a deliberate act, a cosmic alchemy performed by forces beyond human comprehension, a desperate gamble against the encroaching entropy. This wasn't just his origin story, it was the source of his insatiable hunger for dominion, a desperate need to prove his right to exist in a universe that seemed to be constantly unravelling.
By Tales by J.J.2 years ago in Fiction
