Stream of Consciousness

When Lanterns Drown
The harbor smelled of salt, smoke, and old wood. Lanterns hung from every post along the pier, swinging gently in the evening breeze. Yet the light they offered was weak, flickering like it knew its days were numbered. People said the water had grown hungry. That it pulled light down into its depths, feeding on it until nothing remained. Most ignored such stories. Few dared to walk the docks at night. Maris had never been cautious. She had always preferred the quiet company of shadows over the noise of crowded streets. When she stepped onto the pier that evening, her lantern bobbed in her hand, casting soft rings of amber over the wooden planks. The waves lapped at the stilts beneath her feet, restless. She paused, listening. There was a pull in the water, subtle, almost imperceptible. But it tugged at her chest, steady, insistent. She noticed it first in the lanterns. The closest one flickered violently, then dimmed. Another farther down the pier did the same. It was not wind. Not malfunction. The light shivered, shuddered, then vanished, leaving nothing but darkness. Maris froze. The water below licked the shadows like an unseen tongue. She stepped forward, curious. Perhaps foolishly so. Something in her mind urged her closer, as though the harbor itself had a story to tell. And in every story, she had always found the truth she sought. Halfway down the pier, she saw it: a lantern sinking, slowly, deliberately, as though it were being dragged by something beneath the waves. Its glow twisted into the water, spreading like molten gold. Maris knelt, peering into the surface. She thought she saw shapes moving, writhing, like fingers made of light. The lantern disappeared entirely. And yet the glow lingered, faintly, in her eyes. The whispers started then. Soft at first. Names. Pleas. Memories. Voices that had once belonged to fishermen, children, strangers who had vanished on these docks. She could not tell if it was wind or water carrying the sound. She could not tell if it was real. A sudden splash behind her made her spin. A figure stood waist-deep in water, face obscured by dripping hair, lantern in hand. The light was dim, and yet it shone brighter than any flame should. The figure spoke without moving its lips. Why do you carry light when it belongs to the sea? Maris blinked. She wanted to run, but her feet refused. She had come here seeking understanding, and understanding demanded courage. Because without light, we forget, she whispered. The figure paused. The waves pulsed against the pier, echoing her words. Then it moved, gliding silently across the water, holding the lantern high. Where it passed, other lanterns flickered back to life, but only for moments. They too were drawn into the depths, swallowed by the harbor, one by one. Maris realized something terrifying: the harbor did not simply take. It tested. Every lantern it accepted was a memory, a fragment of life. The more precious the light, the stronger the pull. And yet, the lanterns were not lost. They were carried somewhere else, beneath layers of water and shadow, safe in the hold of the sea. Her own lantern trembled in her hand. She stared at it, imagining everything she loved held in fragile glass. She could leave it here. She could let it sink. But her instincts, stubborn as roots, refused. She lifted it high, holding on to the warm glow like a heartbeat. The figure raised its hand. The waves paused. The lantern did not falter. Maris felt a quiet satisfaction settle in her chest. Perhaps she had passed some invisible trial. Perhaps courage was the key to surviving this hungry harbor. The night stretched endlessly. Lanterns continued to flicker, to dive, to vanish. Maris walked the pier, her own light steadfast, guiding her way through shadows. She began to understand the truth: the harbor demanded balance. It consumed, yes, but it also preserved. Every lost light became part of something larger, something eternal. By dawn, the water was calm. The lanterns no longer moved, yet their absence left a faint shimmer across the surface. Maris held her own lantern to the sky, feeling it steady, unyielding. She had learned what many never could: some light must be shared, some light must be surrendered, and only then does the world remember its brilliance. When the villagers returned, they whispered about the strange night when lanterns drowned and yet glowed in their dreams. Maris smiled quietly. She did not need to explain. She carried the memory of the harbor in her heart, the pulse of light in her hands, and the knowledge that even when light disappears, it can live forever beneath the surface.
By syedabout a year ago in Fiction
The Silent Orchard
There was a path few dared to walk. Not because it was long, not because it was treacherous, but because silence itself seemed to guard it. The orchard lay at the end of that path, a stretch of land abandoned by time, where rows of ancient apple trees grew without care, their roots tangled like secrets. People said no bird sang there, no wind dared to whistle, and if you stepped inside, the hush would fall upon you like a cloak too heavy to shake off. Mira had always been drawn to places no one else wanted to see. Curiosity in her was not a spark but a wildfire. So when the village warned her, she packed a lantern, some bread, and the determination of someone who believed fear was only a story told to keep children from wandering too far. She went at dusk, when the world softened, when shapes lost their edges, and when silence itself seemed sharpest. The orchard greeted her not with menace but with stillness. Leaves did not rustle, branches did not sway. Her own footsteps rang louder than they should have, as though the ground amplified each crunch of gravel, each snap of twig. She paused, trying to hear something, anything—yet nothing came. It was not the peaceful silence of night but a silence that watched. She walked further, counting the trees, though their sameness made it impossible. The apples hung heavy, blackened with time, as if no hand had touched them in centuries. She reached for one, but before her fingers grazed the skin, the air shifted. Not wind. Not breath. Something else—like the orchard itself inhaled. Mira froze. Her lantern flickered though no breeze touched it. She steadied her grip, whispering to herself that this was foolish. But the silence grew denser. It pressed into her ears until her thoughts felt too loud. She began to wonder if she had always been alone in her mind—or if, here, her thoughts echoed for others unseen. At the center of the orchard stood a well. Old, stone-carved, its rim cracked but strong. The villagers spoke of it in half-sentences, never fully telling its story, as though the words themselves feared escape. Mira leaned over. The well was dry, yet the bottom shimmered faintly, like starlight drowned. She dropped a pebble. No sound. Not a clink. Not a fall. Only her own pulse, wild in her chest. She whispered into the hollow, “Hello.” The orchard answered. It was not a voice, not exactly. The silence bent, stretched, and reshaped her own word. “Hello.” It came back, not as an echo, but as a new sound born from the stillness. A voice that was hers and not hers. Mira staggered back. The trees groaned—finally breaking their muteness—though not with creaks of wood but with words unspoken for ages. Fragments poured from the branches, whispers like scattered pages. She could not catch them all: lost… waiting… don’t forget… The lantern went out. Darkness consumed the orchard, but her eyes began to adjust. The apples glowed faintly now, each one holding a pale light. Faces flickered across their skins—brief, fading, sorrowful. Mira reached for one again, and this time the orchard did not resist. She plucked it, feeling the weight of a memory not her own. The fruit pulsed in her palm, and suddenly she knew. These trees were not fed by soil. They were fed by stories. Every person who had vanished, every voice that had fallen silent in the village, had taken root here. Their silence was not absence but presence, too heavy for the world beyond. The orchard was their graveyard and their library, each tree a keeper of what could no longer be spoken. Mira pressed the apple to her chest. A warmth spread, mingled with sorrow, but also with clarity. She saw faces she had never known, lives she had never lived, but they felt like threads weaving into her own. The orchard had given her a gift—or perhaps a burden. To carry silence and turn it into speech. When she left, the orchard did not stop her. The hush followed but no longer felt suffocating. It felt patient. It would wait, as it always had, for another wanderer. For another curious soul. For another keeper of silence. Back in the village, when Mira tried to tell her story, words faltered. Not because she forgot, but because no one wanted to listen. Fear had made them deaf long ago. She placed the apple on her windowsill, its glow faint in the night, and began to write. If silence could grow roots, perhaps words could too. Perhaps stories could break what fear had caged. And in the orchard, where the well stood empty, the silence smiled.
By syedabout a year ago in Fiction
The Secrets My Mother Kept
Brittney awoke to tears streaming down her face. In her lap, an old book with scratches on the back and front cover. Alexander lay still in the bed next to her, a monitor beeping every so often to the rythm of his heart.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
Ashes of Tomorrow
The city had no sky anymore. Smoke swallowed it decades ago, turning daylight into a dim, endless dusk. Towers leaned like broken teeth, their glass eyes shattered, and the streets pulsed faintly with the hum of machines that had outlived their makers. People whispered about leaving, about finding someplace untouched, but no one had ever returned with proof such a place existed. I was born after the collapse, when history became rumor and truth slipped into ash. My mother spoke of oceans, though I had never seen more than the cracked reservoir outside the district. My father repaired what he could, but machines resisted him; they seemed almost alive, loyal only to themselves. One night, while scavenging near the ruins of the eastern wall, I found something buried in soot. A sphere, black as coal but warm to the touch, thrumming faintly like a heartbeat. Its surface seemed to shift subtly, as if alive. I hid it beneath my coat, sensing it was both dangerous and necessary. That night I dreamed. Not of smoke or ruin, but of a sky—clear, endless, alive. I saw birds I had only heard of in stories, oceans stretching beyond imagination, forests dense and green. I woke trembling, clutching the sphere. It glowed faintly now, casting pale light against the crumbling ceiling, almost guiding me. I spent days experimenting with it. The sphere reacted to thought, to touch, to even a whispered word. It pulsed brighter when I imagined safety, when I recalled memories of rivers my mother described. At first, fear kept me from revealing it to anyone. But the more I tested it, the more I realized: this was not just a relic—it was a map, a key, a promise. Rumors of resistance fighters lingered in hushed conversations. People who dared hope for change. They spoke of “light-bearers” who would restore the sky, heal the land, awaken what was lost. I had always dismissed such stories. But holding the sphere, feeling its quiet heartbeat, I began to believe that perhaps these whispers were true. Perhaps I could be one of them. I began to move carefully, avoiding the patrols that monitored the streets. Each night, I returned to the eastern ruins, where the sphere seemed to respond to the silence, guiding me along pathways I had never seen. Doors appeared in walls where none had existed, corridors beneath crumbled streets leading to forgotten chambers. The city was alive, but not as the inhabitants thought. It remembered. It waited. On the fifth night, I encountered the first resistance. They were cautious, cloaked in tattered uniforms that blended into the shadows. Their leader, a woman with sharp eyes and a scar across her cheek, studied me silently. When I revealed the sphere, her eyes widened. “Where did you find it?” she asked. Her voice carried awe, fear, and hope all at once. I explained everything I knew, omitting nothing. The sphere pulsed in response, illuminating our faces in pale blue light. They called it “the Heart of Tomorrow.” It had been lost generations ago, a relic meant to guide humanity back from ruin, hidden until someone capable found it. And now, I held it. Together, we devised a plan. The sphere needed energy, a source of life to awaken its full potential. We would venture into the deepest ruins of the city, where machines still hummed with the last vestiges of power. It was dangerous—patrols, crumbling streets, collapsing towers—but the promise of a sky worth seeing again outweighed fear. As we moved, the city seemed to watch. Shadows stretched unnaturally long. Lights flickered as if acknowledging our presence. Every step, every heartbeat, carried the weight of history, and yet a strange exhilaration coursed through me. I realized that hope was infectious, that even in ashes, life found a way to pulse, to persist, to fight. By dawn, we reached the central chamber of the ruins. The sphere floated above a pedestal, reacting to the vibrations of the building itself. Machines hummed, lights flickered, and a low resonance filled the air. I placed my hand on the sphere. It vibrated, pulsing faster, brighter, until a beam shot upward, slicing through the smoke and clouds above. For a brief moment, the sun returned, painting the city in golden light. People emerged from their hiding places, staring in awe. They whispered, cried, laughed. I felt the sphere’s pulse slow, steady, satisfied. Hope, once buried beneath ash and ruin, was alive again. The city had survived because it remembered, and now, so had we. The future was not guaranteed, but for the first time in decades, it felt possible.
By syedabout a year ago in Fiction
The Secrets My Mother Kept
The Morning Light August 19, 2005 The beach stretched endlessly in both directions, a ribbon of silver sand unmarked by footprints or debris. It was that liminal hour just before dawn when the world held its breath, suspended between night and day. The lighthouse at the far end of the bay had already stopped its rotation, leaving only the faintest echo of its beam painting ghosts across the water.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
The Man Who Planted Rain
One morning, under a sky bleached white by heat, an old man knelt in the dust at the edge of a forgotten village. His name was Noor—everyone called him Baba Noor—and he was planting seeds again.
By meerjananabout a year ago in Fiction
The Book That Wrote Itself
The Book That Wrote Itself It began with a whisper. I had just moved into my grandmother’s old house after her passing. Among the dusty shelves and locked trunks, one object caught my attention—a leather-bound book with no title, resting silently in a wooden box. Its pages were blank, or so I thought.
By Muhammad Kaleemullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Train That Never Stops
M Mehran Every night at exactly 2:13 a.m., Sam heard the train. It was impossible. The town’s railway station had been closed for nearly twenty years, the tracks long abandoned, weeds curling around the rusted rails. Yet, like clockwork, the whistle echoed through the valley, low and mournful, followed by the distant rattle of wheels. Sam never told anyone. They’d laugh, say it was the wind or his imagination. But he knew what he heard. And deep down, he knew it was calling him. On the anniversary of his father’s death, sleepless and restless, Sam finally gave in. He pulled on his jacket and followed the sound. The moon was high, silvering the broken tracks as he walked. When the whistle blew again, he froze. Up ahead, where the station had crumbled into nothing but brick skeletons, a train stood. Its cars gleamed midnight black, polished as if fresh from the factory. Golden lamps burned in the windows, and steam hissed softly into the night air. The sign above the station—long fallen years ago—glowed faintly with words he could barely read: The Midnight Line. The doors opened with a sigh. Sam’s heart pounded. He should have run, but grief and curiosity overpowered fear. He stepped inside. --- The train was alive with light. Velvet seats lined the compartments, chandeliers swayed gently above, and an old-fashioned bar sparkled with crystal glasses. Yet no passengers filled the seats. Only shadows lingered, faint outlines that dissolved when he looked too closely. At the far end, a conductor in a crisp uniform waited. His face was obscured beneath the brim of his cap, but his voice was smooth as polished wood. “Welcome aboard, Samuel.” Sam stiffened. “How do you know my name?” The conductor smiled faintly. “I know every traveler who boards. The Midnight Line runs only for those who need it.” Sam swallowed hard. “Need it for what?” The conductor tilted his head. “To visit what they’ve lost.” Sam’s breath caught. His father’s face surged in his mind—his laughter, his rough hands, the way he used to ruffle Sam’s hair before bed. “Is he here?” Sam whispered. The conductor stepped aside, gesturing toward the corridor. “Your destination awaits.” --- Sam moved from car to car. In the first, he saw a child clutching a tattered teddy bear. She looked up with wide, tearful eyes. For a heartbeat, he thought she was real—but she faded into mist, leaving only the bear behind. In the next car, an old woman hummed a lullaby. Her voice broke into silence before she too dissolved. Each car held echoes of people long gone, fragments of memory caught in the train’s current. Sam’s chest ached as he passed them, the air thick with longing. Finally, he reached the last car. There, seated at a table by the window, was his father. Solid. Whole. Just as he remembered—broad-shouldered, tired eyes, a gentle smile when he saw Sam. For a moment, Sam couldn’t breathe. His knees buckled, and he sank into the seat across from him. “Dad?” “Hey, kiddo.” His father’s voice was exactly the same—warm, steady. “Took you long enough.” Tears blurred Sam’s vision. “I thought I’d never see you again.” “You weren’t supposed to,” his father said softly. “But the Line… it bends rules, now and then. Gives people a chance to say what they left unsaid.” Sam gripped the table. “Then listen. I’m sorry. For not being there that night. For ignoring your calls. For—” His father raised a hand. “None of that matters now. I don’t blame you. I never did.” Sam’s throat burned. “Then what does matter?” “That you live. Really live. Not just for me. For yourself.” His father leaned forward, eyes shining. “Promise me, Sam. No more letting days slip by like sand. No more waiting for tomorrow to start over.” Sam nodded, tears streaming. “I promise.” The whistle blew again, louder this time. The train began to shudder. His father stood. “Time’s almost up.” Sam panicked. “Wait—can’t I stay? Just a little longer?” His father placed a hand on his shoulder. “If you stay, you’ll never leave. And your story isn’t done yet.” The car dissolved around them. His father’s outline blurred, light spilling through. “Goodbye, son. Keep your promise.” “Dad!” Sam cried, reaching— But his hand closed on empty air. --- Sam woke sprawled on the cold platform of the ruined station. The sun was rising, gold over the hills. The tracks lay rusted, silent. Yet in his hand, he clutched a small object: a brass train whistle, gleaming as though new. He stared at it, heart pounding. For the first time in years, the weight in his chest had lifted. His father was gone, yes. But he’d been given something rarer than a second chance—permission to move forward. Sam stood, pocketed the whistle, and walked back toward town. The day stretched before him, bright and unfinished. He had promised. And this time, he intended to keep it.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Fiction
A Dreamer's Journey
The neural crown fitted snugly around Pudding's head, its crystalline sensors pulsing with ethereal light as they delved deep into her unconscious mind. She had been asleep for nine months now, her frail body suspended in the gossamer threads of the Dream Weaver—a chair that seemed more grown than built, its organic curves shifting subtly with each of her breaths. Above her, translucent screens bloomed like jellyfish in the sterile air, displaying the vast archipelagos of her sleeping thoughts.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
The Forest of the Forgotten
The wallet felt foreign in Ellie's palm—thin leather worn smooth by countless hands, containing rectangular plastic cards and green paper bills that meant nothing to Amnity but everything to the world around them.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
Stargazing
It is the second night I spend in the wilderness; laying on my back, stars especially bright in the jet black night sky. At such a high elevation in the mountains, there were no trees to block my view of constellations and the occasional comet. The remoteness promised no other hikers to ruin my serenity. My sister had planned a birthday trip to the Rockies in which we were going to hike the sky pond trail and continue on to Lake Haiyaha and the Emerald Lake loop; usually a day trip, we decided to pack a tent to watch the sunrise over Haiyaha. She was gone now though, so I lay staring at the stars alone, with a dry throat, cracked lips, and numb limbs. She felt no pain, but I wasn’t granted the same gift. My breath is short, as if my lungs were compressed, like a balloon that refuses to fill with air. My stomach, an endless chasm, a black hole gnawing at my insides. My head an ice pick, sending pain radiating throughout my skull and blurring my vision. I plead bleakly with the universe to let me join my sister, but to no avail.
By Alicia Morenoabout a year ago in Fiction
Skin Deep
"It's so hot..." Ammy croaked, sprawled across the freshly polished wooden floor. A fan wheezed in the corner, rotating back and forth every few minutes, pushing nothing but dry, dusty air around the room. Usually the fan helped her survive the long summer days, but today it was useless.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction