Stream of Consciousness
Unbound
The sun had long since set, but Amelia still sat on the weathered porch swing, her gaze fixed on the distant treeline. The quiet hum of crickets and the soft rustle of leaves were the only sounds that broke the oppressive silence that had enveloped the old farmhouse.
By Ann Silvers 2 years ago in Fiction
"Black Holes: Cosmic Giants and Their Secrets"
In the vast theater of the cosmos, amidst all its powerful and enigmatic phenomena, black holes stand out as some of the most captivating actors. Recent years have seen astronomers peering deeper into their mysteries, unveiling a tapestry of diversity. These cosmic behemoths, once thought to be stationary sentinels of the universe, have revealed a surprising penchant for mobility. Some drift lazily through space, while others hurtle forward at mind-bending speeds, defying our expectations.
By Wali Ahmed Khan2 years ago in Fiction
10 Best Anime To Watch Most Popular Anime Of All Time . Content Warning.
The universe of anime offers an immense scene of stories, from fantastical undertakings to contemplative dramatizations. Picking what to observe first can overpower! This guide investigates both widely praised and fan-most loved anime, giving you a springboard to hop into this unique medium.
By Bikash Purkait2 years ago in Fiction
A Day or So
The morning’s orange rays flutter in through the lattice windows and filter through the sheer, black fabric, bounce off the white, once-flat-packed vanity table left by the bay window and onto the freshly painted walls, eggshell-coloured with a hint of rosemary, and our man wakes up on sheets soiled with last night’s conquest and hates the morning already with its luminous alarm call, puts on the well-worn jeans, black as night, matches it with an unpressed, unimpressive, plain white t-shirt, breathes the last remnants of last night’s wake — the salty tears that had mixed with the fancy perfume of the aunties and the acrid aftershave of the grandparents and the plates of leftover food in the kitchen and living room our hero could not bring himself to clear — and he then heads out, throwing open the squeaky front door, remembering to grab the rusting key from the small, tacky bowl kept on a perfectly-level floating shelf beside the door and feels the brisk air brushing over his face, cooling the sweat that had formed on his brow and his cheeks, and already the crippling knot of anxiety that had settled in his core started to ease, to loosen, and his inhales and exhales stopped stuttering quite so much which is something our hero will have to get used to doing on his own, and even he had to admit, despite the absolutely horrendous circumstances surrounding it all, the service had been rather nice, not too religious and much more humanist than any other funerals he had been to before — which is what she would have wanted, given that it was her funeral — and these thoughts fell from our hero’s head as he turned out of the little sidestreet his small flat is nestled on and emerged onto the high street, a place a far cry from the austere trappings of a church’s graveyard, a place where he is much more at home, where he prays day in and day out to no-one or nothing in particular and it is open air, which means he won’t have to feel that claustrophobia that started to grip him yesterday at the service, that overpowering, disempowering feeling of being crushed beneath the enormity of the building, with the crying people and the sad people and the people deep in prayer or remembrance or the children not quite knowing why they’re there but they had to come because their parents had come, parents who were friends of the deceased and the recently-bereaved from university or from the pub or the open-air, high-street ‘church’ our hero now walks down, aimlessly but free, and it is at this ‘church’ — dubbed by him as the ‘Church of Saints, Sinners and Other Broken Figures’ — where he prays and where the congregation congregates from the BabyGAP to Morris and Morris Funeral Planners — the most meticulous morticians this side of the Thames — and at all stops between the BabyGAP and Morris and Morris’s our friend walks, head bowed low to the ground, eyes fixed on his own shoes with the taped-up toes and re-glued heels, eyes fixed on the cigarette butts with the chewed ends and lipstick, eyes fixed on the chewing gum worn out and stuck flat to the sad grey concrete, fixed on the torn-up losing scratch cards the congregants bought with a fistful of coppers, on balled up receipts for minor scraps of food (a far cry from a tasty morsel), on the small metal canisters leftover from the teenage parties that last as long as the moon is up and they stagger the pavements homeward bound, eyes fixed on his own shoes treading those same pavements in a steady beat towards a bench — dedicated to the memory of Our Faithful Saint here erected in the twelfth month of some year — and he sits and he sighs and the ache that had crawled into the balls of his feet starts to radiate outwards, their small, sharp stings a constant reminder of the network of flesh, bone and nerves that snap and fire and fizz from second to second, snap! like the cracks, now healed, on his shin bones and his fingers from a misspent youth scraping to scrape by, fire! like Mister Horace and Mister Leonard and Mister Ahmed and countless other Misters had done when they relieved him of his duties, fizz! like the bubbles on a heated up spoon as his dinner is served up by a strong, sweaty servant in the little den tucked beneath the street, away from the eyes of men and god and memory where the quick fix like fast food falls sloppily and fails to fill, but yes, yes, it fulfils its purpose and the exchange of crumpled notes for this gift is a small price to pay for the snap, the fire, the fizz of nerves and synapses snapping back into place, and here, on a bench on the road from the BabyGAP to Morris and Morris Funeral Planners — the most meticulous morticians this side of the Thames — our man stands and stretches his back and faces northward, forever northward, pulls a slightly moth-eaten woollen cardigan tightly around him — donated to some charity some ways up the High Street between the BabyGAP and Morris and Morris where it sat, untouched, unlooked, unwanted, until it was wanted by our man — and walks, hands in pockets, to the slow, steady, rockingest rock-steady beat of hailstones bouncing on the cold, midday street where the cardboard bed Ol’ Bez puts down begins to show signs of the changing times, getting thinner and thinner, the bed and Ol’ Bez, visibly shrinking day to day within themselves beneath themselves and their own weight, and our man, as he is wont to do, chucks Ol’ Bez a few pence as he sleeps with his half-high head on some Metros and a Tom Clancy book, well-read and dog-eared — the book and the man — and our man thinks that’ll be a nice surprise when he wakes up if he wakes up, and our man carries on carrying on, weaving between the dog shit and yoga pamphlets and the fix, the lunchtime fix, starts to wear off and the gurgling for some more substantial sustenance takes hold and our man, peering through the unwashed windows of the chicken shacks, the jerk fusions, the Lebanese, the pizzerias, the ramen and the dim-sum and the bakery but none of those seemed to tickle his fancy, really create some sensation of desire, awaken some latent, wanton desire — wanton in the archaic sense, as if the feel of the bread or the chicken or the melted cheese with the barbecue sauce dripping from it were a lapdance on his tastebuds, as if the warmth of the pastry would caress his lips and touch his tongue and feel their way inside of him and hold him tight, like an old flame, a lover-for-the-night, some guy or gal just as confused as he is — but nothing tickles his fancy, nothing except a small, pink cupcake, one of those kinds of cupcakes with the blue icing, the pink, crushed sprinkles and the flowery paper hiding the cupcake’s modesty, and he overpays, partly out of local charity, partly because it is gluten-free and he’s just grateful to be catered to, but mainly because the swelling pit of hunger that’s forming in his core needs satisfying and he reckons his body will be thankful for the little sugar boost, just to keep it going, to keep it moving up and down the neverending streets that all converge on one place, his place, which is a curse at this moment in time because he’s reminded of where home is, or where, more accurately, his four small walls are, where the old futon and the worn-out photo albums live, where he exists, but before he gets too deep into the introspection, a car honks its horn and a fist is raised behind a dashboard and some four-word expletives are thrown his way as he stumbles up the curb and holds his hand out in apology, but the guy behind the wheel of one of those newfangled all-electric status symbol vehicles is having none of it and speeds off — silently, because of it being an all-electric status symbol — and as people see our hero step onto the curb, as an elderly lady pushes a shopping trolley (one of those ones with the tartan print wrapped around a metal cube with cheap plastic wheels attached at the base) and sees our man hold his hand up in apology, as a small gaggle of toddlers walking two-by-two hand-in-hand in fluorescent yellow jackets see our man bite down on his tongue to stop some colourful language emerging, as the tired teachers, salivating at the thought of the post-work gin-and-tonic, herd the small gaggle of toddlers in their bright jackets and see our hero step off to one side of the pavement and wipe something from his eye and sigh, he feels their stares on his nape, scratched, red, scarred, signs of a nervous twitch he has, a nervous twitch that would be hidden under a net of long, brown-and-blonde hair in days gone by but is now shown to the world, shorn to the skin in an act of defiance, an act of pseudo-revenge against a lover long gone but not forgotten, more’s the pity, and he is probably kidding himself when he thinks that she misses it or him or the lazy mornings followed by lazy afternoons and even lazier evenings but deep down, somewhere just out of reach, somewhere just far enough away from the superficial veneer of his face and his performance, there’s a growing shred of a thought that tomorrow will be the day when his days turn around, that he will wake up one morning and the pillow beside him will be occupied by the same person who occupied it the night before, and whether or not it is our hero’s heroine it is too hard to tell, and at that moment, as if the world heard his subconscious screaming for a sign, he sees a face that made him double-take, a face that seemed to shine out to him as if under a spotlight, a face that felt comforting and violent, a face with shining, blue-green, iridescent eyes, eyes that when they locked with the dark-brown pools of our hero seemed to linger for a moment, a moment suspended just outside of time, just on the outskirts of eternity, and as the face with those beguiling eyes floated along, just out of reach but firmly locked within his, burning into his retinas and leaving an imprint on his mind, our hero remembered the service and how lovely it was, not too religious, quiet, small and informal, or as informal as a formal event like that could be, and he began to hope for some raindrops to hang in the air, and for the cars and shops and planes overhead and the faint rushing of the sewer waters below the streets that smelled of heating tarmac, for that all to stop, for this to become a timeless moment, but the face with the iridescent eyes moved on and was swallowed in the crowds welling up from the tube station, a sea of suits and suitcases blotting the face out, and our hero, feeling the balled-up cupcake wrapper he had scrunched up into his pocket, crosses the gridlocked road to dispose of it in a bin in dire need of emptying and there, reflected in the sheen of a newly-replaced pane of glass in a newsagents window, he sees the signs of weariness etch themselves into his face, wrinkle the corners of his eyes, weigh his lower lids down in two dark rings, and he wonders how long this weariness has hung upon his face — maybe all day, maybe recently, maybe it never left — and now he gets stares from the other side of the glass, the stare of an elderly man wanting to close his shutters and retire to bed, and this sudden visitor to our hero’s reflection makes him realise his feet had rooted themselves to the high street concrete for longer than he had assumed, and time had come to move him along so he set off, feeling the painful pull of home — or the four small walls he calls a house — half dazed, feeling drunk on the memories that began to trickle into his mind, slowly at first, of the last argument they had in the confines of his four small walls where she was standing at the foot of the stairs that led out into the cold, autumnal, midnight air, smudged makeup in the corners of her eyes that had started to stain the sides of her cheeks, and there came a voice at that moment, at the back of his mind or from behind him, muffled at first but louder, clearer, telling him it’s okay, it was indeed a lovely service and that she’s okay, for the first time in a long time she could say that and not have her frail frame be evidence to the contrary, that she didn’t mean what she said that night, that her baby boy can stop now, can stop blaming himself or the world, and as our hero put one foot in front of the other, blinded by the rapidly-darkening sky and the tear-mist falling across his tired eyes, he finds himself back home after he wandered home through silent streets, sleep says his mother’s voice, and he slides the rusty key into the lock and ascends the stairs, kicks off his shoes, and falls flat on the mattress and there, as the dying, orange rays of the streetlight outside flutter in through the lattice windows and filter through the sheer, black curtains his mother had made him, I fall into a fitful sleep.
By Daniel Redford2 years ago in Fiction
The Quest of Eternal Mortality
On Survival The question of existence still haunts me in the silence of the stillness that loneliness brings with it. To be or not to be, to exist in the coexistence of dualistic forces, to dance with the uncertainty or to play it along the periphery, what I hold certain, has always questioned me, bemoaned me. Truth be told, I beheld the cry for help when its absence called in silent whispers around the blanket of dwelling and absconded its abundant presence over me. There is a painting that traces the bits of serenity in my life, the colors that adorn the hues of the almighty run deep through the veins of my soul to find the brevity of pain. I glance at the picture of Lord Krishna, reminiscing the days that passed by. Darkness sets its sterility in the brimming light of today, as the dawn of today paints itself in the colours of the dusk of yesterday.
By Hridya Sharma2 years ago in Fiction
The Runner.
'SNAP!' I hear the sound of a branch snap under my feet as I run. A wolf howls in the distance but I continue running. Exhausted and out of breath, I pause to rest on the bracken ground below me. It's not the most comfortable terrain to sit on; I can feel sharp twigs and branches poking through my running pants and stabbing at the skin underneath them.
By Carol Ann Townend2 years ago in Fiction
A Mother's Strength for Her Child
ge nestled between rolling hills and lush forests, there lived a woman named Maya. Maya was a humble woman, not rich but not poor, who lived a simple yet fulfilling life with her only son, Arya. Though their life was modest, it was filled with love, warmth, and a strength that emanated from Maya's heart. Maya worked as a weaver, crafting intricate patterns with skillful hands. Every morning, she woke up before the sun, preparing breakfast for Arya before he headed to school. Her days were long, filled with the rhythmic clatter of her loom and the soft hum of her favorite songs. Despite the challenges, she always found time to be there for Arya, guiding him with gentle wisdom and unwavering support. Arya admired his mother deeply. To him, she was a figure of endless strength and resilience. He often watched her work late into the night, her fingers deftly weaving threads into beautiful tapestries that the villagers adored. Her dedication and hard work inspired him to strive for his best in everything he did. One evening, as Maya and Arya sat together under the stars, Arya asked, "Mom, where do you get your strength from?" Maya smiled and looked into Arya's curious eyes. "My strength comes from you, Arya. Knowing that I can provide for you and help you grow into a kind and brave young man gives me all the strength I need." Arya pondered her words, feeling a deep sense of gratitude and love for his mother. He promised himself that he would make her proud and help her as much as he could. Life in the village was peaceful until one fateful day when a severe storm struck. The winds howled and rain poured down relentlessly, flooding the village. Many homes, including Maya and Arya's, were damaged. The villagers were left in despair, unsure of how they would rebuild their lives. Maya, however, did not succumb to despair. She rallied the villagers, organizing teams to repair homes and distribute supplies. She used her weaving skills to create strong, durable fabrics for makeshift shelters. Arya watched in awe as his mother worked tirelessly, her strength and determination shining through in every action. "Mama, how can you be so strong even when things are so difficult?" Arya asked one night as they sat by a small fire, taking a brief rest from their hard work. Maya took Arya's hand in hers and said, "Strength isn't just about being physically strong, Arya. It's about having the courage to face challenges and the determination to overcome them. It's about standing together and supporting one another." Arya nodded, feeling a newfound understanding of what true strength meant. Inspired by his mother's words and actions, he joined her efforts with renewed vigor, helping his fellow villagers with a heart full of compassion and determination. Weeks passed, and the village slowly began to recover. Maya's leadership and unwavering spirit had united the villagers, turning their despair into hope. The village head recognized Maya's efforts, honoring her with an award for her extraordinary strength and dedication. But their trials were far from over. Just as the village began to regain a sense of normalcy, Maya fell ill. The illness was mysterious and debilitating, leaving her weak and unable to work. Arya was devastated. He had always seen his mother as invincible, but now she lay in bed, pale and frail. Despite her condition, Maya remained positive. "Arya, don't worry about me. Focus on your studies and continue helping the village," she said, her voice weak but filled with determination. Arya did as she asked, though his heart was heavy with worry. He took on more responsibilities, weaving at the loom in his mother's place and continuing to help the villagers rebuild. The once rhythmic clatter of the loom now echoed with the weight of his efforts. Days turned into weeks, and Maya's condition did not improve. The village healer did all she could, but the illness was relentless. One night, as Arya sat by his mother's side, he couldn't hold back his tears. "Mom, I don't know what to do without you. You are my strength." Maya reached out and took his hand. "Arya, my strength is within you. You've always had it. You are brave, kind, and resilient. Remember that no matter what happens, you carry my strength with you." Determined to find a cure, Arya decided to seek help from a renowned healer in a distant village. He knew the journey would be long and arduous, but he was willing to do anything to save his mother. With the villagers' support, he set off on his journey, facing harsh weather, treacherous terrain, and his own fears. The journey tested Arya's limits, but his love for his mother drove him forward. Along the way, he encountered various people who shared their wisdom and strength with him. He learned about medicinal herbs, the importance of faith, and the power of perseverance. Finally, after many weeks, Arya reached the healer's village. The healer, an old woman with a kind heart, listened to Arya's story and agreed to help. She provided him with rare herbs and taught him how to prepare a healing tonic. With the healer's guidance and a renewed sense of hope, Arya made the journey back home. He prepared the tonic exactly as instructed and administered it to his mother. Days passed, and slowly, Maya began to regain her strength. Her color returned, and she was able to sit up and talk with Arya. "Thank you, Arya," Maya said, her voice filled with emotion. "Your strength and determination saved me." Arya hugged his mother tightly, tears of relief streaming down his face. "I couldn't have done it without everything you taught me, Mom. You are my inspiration." As Maya recovered, the village continued to rebuild, stronger than ever. Maya's illness and Arya's journey had brought the villagers closer together, reminding them of the importance of community and mutual support. Years later, Arya would look back on those challenging times with a deep sense of pride and gratitude. He had learned from his mother that true strength was not about physical might but about the courage to face adversity with love and perseverance. Maya's legacy lived on in Arya, who carried her lessons in his heart and passed them on to others. In the village, Maya's name became synonymous with strength and kindness. Her story was told and retold, inspiring generations to come. And every time Arya looked up at the stars, he remembered the nights he had spent with his mother, feeling her strength and love surrounding him like a w
By DEDEN JOHAR SETIAWAN2 years ago in Fiction
