Stream of Consciousness
The Silence
Danny used to feel it like weight. Not heavy, but solid, like someone standing behind him in a dark room, not threatening, just present, close enough that if he turned around fast enough he might catch a glimpse. The voice had never been audible. It was clearer than that. It landed inside him fully formed, without effort. Not imagination. Not guessing. Words that carried authority. Stay in faith. I will bring it to pass. Do you trust Me. Those moments had come when life was tight, when invoices went unpaid, when the repair shop sat quiet for hours longer than it should have, when fear crept in through the cracks at night. The words steadied him, not because they fixed anything instantly, but because they made the chaos feel contained.
By Joey Raines7 months ago in Fiction
The Selfish Giant
Every afternoon, after school ended, a group of children loved to play in a beautiful garden. It belonged to a giant who had been away visiting a friend for many years. The garden was full of soft green grass, bright flowers, and peach trees that blossomed in spring and bore fruit in autumn. Birds sang sweetly in the branches, and the children laughed happily while playing there. To them it felt like the most wonderful place in the world.
By Lily Smith7 months ago in Fiction
Magic. Top Story - February 2026.
Note from the Author: I want to let you know this is an unusual story. It has been written purely from whatever is in my subconscious mind, because before I start writing, I go into a flow state that reaches my subconscious. I also write in a mid-flow state between the conscious and subconscious mind.
By Denise Larkin7 months ago in Fiction
The Lumber Room
Nicholas lived with his strict aunt and two cousins in a large country house. His aunt believed children must always behave properly and follow rules without question. Nicholas, however, was curious and imaginative, and the constant discipline often made him feel trapped. One morning the aunt announced a special treat: the cousins and another child would be taken to the seaside. Nicholas would stay home as punishment for secretly putting a frog into his breakfast bowl earlier that day.
By Lily Smith7 months ago in Fiction
THE MAN WHO COULD WORK MIRACLES
George McWhirter Fotheringay was not the kind of man anyone would expect to possess miraculous powers. He was small, with bright red hair, freckles, sharp brown eyes, and a habit of twisting the ends of his moustache when arguing. He worked as a clerk at Gomshott’s and enjoyed proving people wrong. Until the age of thirty, he did not believe in miracles at all. In fact, he strongly argued that miracles were impossible. His strange discovery happened one evening while he was debating the subject in the bar of the Long Dragon.
By Amelia Miller7 months ago in Fiction
The Shifting Current
There’s a particular kind of ghost that haunts us, not of the dead, but of the almost-was. The following story tries to sit with that feeling, not of loss, but of the nebulous space just before it’s clear what’s even being lost. It’s about the edge of a choice, a turning point that might never fully turn, and the quiet, almost imperceptible vibrations of a connection that simply… wasn't ready. The voicemail was a ripple, not a wave. It had arrived three days ago, a quiet disturbance in the otherwise still waters of Liam’s routine. "Hey Liam, it's Maya. Hope you're doing well. Listen, I'm going to be in town next week, just for a couple of days, passing through. Thought... well, thought maybe it would be nice to catch up, if you're around. No pressure, of course. Just a thought. Anyway, talk soon, maybe." The 'maybe' hung in the air long after the message ended, an ethereal smoke ring dissipating slowly in the space between his ear and the phone’s speaker. It wasn’t an invitation, not truly. It was a suggestion, a hesitant half-step on the edge of a precipice, daring him to take the next. Liam hadn't replied. Not yet. He found himself, each morning, staring at the contact entry for Maya. Her name, a perfectly symmetrical pattern of letters, seemed to waver slightly under his gaze, as if the pixels themselves were undecided. He’d scroll past it, then back to it, his thumb hovering over the call icon, the message icon, like a diver contemplating a leap into an unknown depth. The water looked inviting enough, but what lay beneath the surface was a question he wasn’t sure he wanted answered, or, more accurately, wasn’t sure he was ready to ask. Their last conversation had been just as ambiguous, six years ago. A late-night phone call, full of shared laughter and comfortable silences, punctuated by a tentative "What if?" that had drifted unanswered into the static of the connection. They were young then, on the cusp of different cities, different lives. He was poised to take an internship in Seattle, she was heading to New York for graduate school. The logistics were impossible, they’d both agreed, a silent, unspoken concession that felt more like a surrender. But even then, there was a lingering quality, a sense that the door wasn't quite closed, just ajar, letting a sliver of light—or maybe doubt—into the darkened room of their parting. Liam ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, the familiar texture a small anchor in the rising tide of his indecision. He was supposed to be preparing for a client presentation, a crucial pitch that demanded his full attention. Instead, his mind kept replaying Maya’s voice, the slight upward lilt at the end of her sentences that had always hinted at an unspoken question, a yearning for something more. It was the same lilt that had drawn him in all those years ago, a whisper of a possibility that had never quite materialized into a roar. He walked to the window, staring down at the city street. The usual morning ballet of hurried commuters and yellow cabs unfolded below, a rhythm he usually found soothing. Today, it felt disjointed, a sequence of individual movements without a cohesive purpose. He felt a similar fragmentation within himself. Part of him yearned to pick up the phone, to bridge the gap, to see what six years had done to the girl who used to finish his sentences. Another part, a quieter, more cautious voice, whispered about the disruption, the upheaval, the unearthing of old feelings that might not be easily re-buried. What would they even talk about? Would the comfortable silences still be there, or would they be filled with polite inquiries about careers and weather, a polite excavation of a connection that had long since fossilized? He imagined the awkward first few minutes, the forced smiles, the careful probing for common ground, like two strangers trying to navigate a shared memory they weren't sure they both held anymore. Or worse, he imagined the spark, the undeniable chemistry that had always existed between them, reigniting only to be extinguished again by the inevitable march of their separate lives. The timing still wasn't right, was it? Or was it just that he was still the same, still hesitant to step fully into the current? His phone buzzed, a text message from his colleague reminding him about the presentation. Liam sighed, the sound catching in his throat like a half-formed word. The external world, with its demands and deadlines, was pressing in, pulling him away from the internal eddy of his thoughts. He knew he had to make a choice about Maya, or rather, about whether to engage with the choice she had tentatively offered. The window of opportunity was narrowing. She would be "in town next week," not next month, not next year. He pulled out his phone again, the screen now dark. He turned it over in his hand, feeling the cool, smooth metal. It wasn't heavy, but it felt weighted with all the unspoken words, the lingering questions, the road not taken. He pictured her in a new city, different from the one they'd known, perhaps with a different haircut, a different laugh. Would he even recognize her fully, or would he only recognize the ghost of the girl he once knew, shimmering at the edges of his memory? He moved back to his desk, the client presentation still waiting. The files were open, demanding his attention, pulling him back to the present, to the concrete, to the undeniable. He stared at the blank email draft he’d started earlier, addressed to Maya, but with no words typed. The cursor blinked steadily, patiently, an insistent pulse in the quiet room. He could write something, anything. "Great to hear from you." "Would love to." "Let me know your schedule."
By The Night Writer 🌙 7 months ago in Fiction
Finding My Familiar ...
Soul's heart beats flicker across the dappled white moonlight. Etches of a familiar in the fog of time, reverberate across the vast, expansive earth. My hands are scratched and brown, streaked with the marks of dirt I have dug with my thin, exhausted fingers.
By Susan L. Marshall7 months ago in Fiction
Miracle In The Andes Survivors
On October 13, 1972, a chartered plane carrying a Uruguayan rugby team known around the world as the Miracle in the Andes. The aircraft, operated by the Uruguayan Air Force, was transporting members of the Old Christians Club rugby team from Montevideo to Santiago. On board were 45 people, including players, friends, and family members. As the plane crossed the Andes, turbulent weather and navigational errors led the pilot to misjudge his position. Believing he had cleared the mountains, he began descending—directly into the snow-covered peaks.
By Ibrahim Shah 7 months ago in Fiction
