Stream of Consciousness

Cast No Shadow
The road takes all. She laid atop him, thigh against thigh, breath heavy on his neck. The first light of morning registered through the window slats, painting the rough and worn floorboards a dazzlingly soft orange. The movements, the breaths, all performative at best: hers for the coin in the offing, his because his thoughts were far from the dingy rented bedroom. Liquor, women, God–all failed to draw his mind away from the horizon.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction
Wet Jeans and Inner Screams
Story Time 🤷‍♀️ Wet Jeans and Inner Screams How did I get here? This lack luster feeling. Depletion of all body mind and soul asks the rabbit?
By faline salisburgabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Song Beneath the Stars. Content Warning.
Seren had always known she was the last. The Observatory’s glass dome groaned beneath the winds that scoured the dead Earth, but she barely noticed anymore. The hum of the machines was her lullaby, the stars her only companions. When the world fell silent decades ago, the radio towers had gone dark. She had been a child then, too young to grasp the word extinction, but old enough to remember what silence felt like after the voices vanished. Now, she lived inside that silence. Every night she climbed the spiral stair to the Observatory’s roof, wrapped herself in her father’s coat, and whispered the stars’ names as if they were prayers: Sirius, Vega, Altair, Deneb… Reciting them felt like calling ghosts back into existence. It was on one such night, with her breath crystallizing in the air, that she heard it. Not the wind. Not the groan of steel. Music. Faint, broken, buried in the static of her battered receiver. A voice—no, not a voice, but something like one—singing. Notes stretched like threads of light across the void. Her hands shook as she turned the dials, clinging to the sound. For the first time in years, she wasn’t alone. --- The song returned the next night. And the night after that. Seren began to live for it. She would wait in trembling silence until the melody slid once more through the static. It was in no language she knew, yet emotion poured from every note. Longing. Sorrow. Beauty persisting beyond ruin. She answered. Her father had taught her the piano before the world ended. The Observatory’s instrument was cracked and stiff, but her fingers remembered. She played back through the transmitter—fragments of Chopin, Debussy, lullabies her mother once sang. She poured herself into the keys, praying something, someone, was listening. And always, the song returned. --- Weeks blurred into months. Seren pieced together fragments, learning patterns as though she were being taught a language built from music. She dreamed of the voice, of the being who sang back to her. One night, the melody changed. It pulsed, insistent, repeating a sequence of rising and falling notes. A message. She mapped the pattern against the stars and froze. It pointed toward Orion’s belt, where clouds of gas shimmered like spilled ink. It’s telling me where to go. --- The Observatory had never been meant for travel, but the old escape shuttle buried beneath it still held promise. Her father had once forbidden her from touching it, saying it was only for the end. Perhaps, she thought, this is the end—or the beginning. She worked tirelessly, scavenging, repairing, teaching herself from brittle manuals. Her hands bled. Her body weakened. But the song drove her forward. When at last the shuttle roared to life, she strapped herself in, embracing her father's coat still around her shoulders to not feel lonely. The engines screamed, and the horizon fell away. Grey deserts, broken oceans, forgotten cities shrank behind her, and the black sea of space opened its arms. Seren wept. she wept screams of hope and happiness.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Piece of Cake
Weddings are supposed to be filled with joy. They are meant to be celebrations of life, family, and beginnings. The music, the flowers, the laughter—all of it creates a moment people remember for years afterward. But she only remembered the silence. The day had started like any other storybook wedding. The bride’s veil caught the sunlight, scattering it like silver dust. Guests filled the lawn with soft chatter, their clothes bright with color. The air smelled faintly of roses and freshly baked bread from the feast being prepared. A tall cake, five tiers high, stood proudly on its table, waiting to be cut and shared when the time came. She was only a child, perhaps eight or nine, too small to have a real role in the ceremony. Still, she had been allowed to help arrange flowers at the edge of the path, her small hands busy with petals and stems. She liked to imagine she was part of something magical, weaving beauty into the day. And then came the gunfire. It was sudden, shocking, tearing through the music like a cruel interruption. One moment she was listening to a violin’s soft melody, and the next there were screams. She didn’t understand what was happening. All she knew was that people were falling, chairs were overturning, and the air was filled with a noise so violent it seemed to shake the earth. She ran. Her legs carried her to the line of trees beyond the hill, her heart pounding louder than the shots behind her. She crouched low, hiding behind a trunk, pressing her hands to her ears. She wanted to make it all disappear—the sound, the fear, the confusion. Her dress, so carefully chosen that morning, became stained with dirt and her own tears. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was quiet. The silence that followed was heavier than the gunfire. It pressed against her chest, making it hard to breathe. For a long time, she stayed where she was, too afraid to move, too afraid to see what had become of her family. She thought of her mother’s smile, her father’s laughter, the way her older sisters had teased her while helping her into her dress. Were they still there? Were they safe? She couldn’t bring herself to find out. Eventually, hunger and numbness drove her out of hiding. She crept slowly back toward the lawn, her eyes fixed on the ground so she wouldn’t have to see too much. The bright decorations were trampled, gifts scattered, instruments broken and silent. She walked past the rows of chairs, some overturned, some still neatly lined as if nothing had happened. And then she saw the cake. It had collapsed during the chaos, frosting smeared across the grass. The delicate tiers were broken, their sugary decorations shattered. But on the top, lying lopsided but still together, were the tiny figurines of the bride and groom. They hadn’t broken apart. Somehow, that mattered. She stopped in front of the table. For a long time, she simply stared. It seemed impossible that something so ordinary, so sweet, had survived in the middle of all that horror. Maybe that was why she reached out. Maybe that was why she pulled up a folding chair, sat down, and tore off a piece with her small hands. The cake was soft and sweet, though it carried the faint taste of dust and smoke. She ate it anyway, chewing slowly, as if this moment could anchor her to something real. Around her was ruin, but in her mouth was sugar, cream, and almonds. It felt wrong and right at the same time. That was how the police found her. An hour later, they came rushing in, their voices sharp, their movements urgent. And there she was, sitting calmly by the broken cake, a piece still in her hand, frosting on her fingers. They asked her what had happened, but she had no words. All she could do was point to the cake, still half-eaten, and whisper that it hadn’t been too bad. In the years that followed, memory became blurry. She forgot the faces, the screams, even the sound of the gunfire. Time softened those edges, turning them into something she could barely recall. But she never forgot the cake. Its taste stayed with her—the sweetness of survival in the middle of silence. A reminder that even in the darkest moments, something fragile and ordinary could remain, and a child could cling to it as if it were the last proof that life still went on.
By Atiqbuddyabout a year ago in Fiction
Not You
Ana lived in Flushing, Queens. The street was alive this morning. Red lanterns were strung across the streets and rose towards the clouds with the morning breeze. Neon signs written with Chinese characters lined the street. Shop windows displayed lucky cats alongside food items, herbal medicine, tea pots and odds and ends.
By Carolyn Nones Vazquezabout a year ago in Fiction
Shadows on the Edge of Tomorrow
The train station was almost empty, except for a few scattered travelers dragging their suitcases across the cold concrete floor. The air smelled faintly of rain, and the giant clock above the platform ticked louder than usual, marking each second like a reminder that time was both a gift and a thief.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Fiction
Yixin Yixuan
ZBrush Sculpt - See more on IG or Artstation; Links below In a world divided by conflict and silent defiance, Yixin Yixuan travels as a seeker of peace. After losing her parents to violence and growing up with a warrior couple in the mountains, she stands for resilience and gentle strength. Her journey takes her from loss to legend, as she finds friends and shows a fractured world that sometimes the greatest victories come without fighting.
By Neshzivne Dadirriabout a year ago in Fiction
I Am a Prisoner
“I am a prisoner—not behind bars of iron, but within the fragile walls of flesh and earth. My soul, vast as eternity, is caged in this temporary world, longing for the freedom of the Divine.”
By Zakir Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Story I Was Afraid to Tell
I have carried this story for years, tucked away in the quietest corners of my memory, like a fragile photograph that could fall apart if touched too often. It is not a tale of great crime or remarkable heroism. It is, instead, the story of silence—how silence can be both protection and prison. It began on a damp evening in November, when the air smelled of rust and rain. I was thirteen, old enough to understand danger but too young to name it out loud. My best friend, Daniel, and I had gone exploring near the abandoned railway station on the edge of town. It was the kind of place our parents had forbidden us to go, which of course made it irresistible. The station was a skeleton of itself—wooden benches rotting, graffiti curling on the brick walls, and shards of glass glinting on the floor like broken promises. We were laughing about ghosts when we heard the sound: heavy footsteps, deliberate, echoing against the empty walls. A man emerged from the shadows. His coat was too large, his face half-hidden by the brim of his cap. He didn’t say much, only asked us what we were doing there. Something in his tone made my chest tighten. Daniel, always braver than me, shrugged and said we were just looking around. The man smiled, but it wasn’t kind. He reached for Daniel’s arm. I still don’t know how I found the courage, but I grabbed Daniel’s hand and pulled him toward the tracks. We ran, our shoes slipping on the wet gravel. The man shouted after us, his voice sharp as broken glass, but he didn’t follow far. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe he simply enjoyed the fear. We didn’t stop running until we reached the streetlights of our neighborhood. We never told anyone. Not our parents, not our teachers, not even Daniel’s older brother who would have gone looking for the man with a baseball bat. At thirteen, silence felt safer than questions. If we told, someone might blame us for being there. Someone might say we invited trouble. But silence has weight. Over the years, Daniel and I grew apart, as childhood friends often do. He joined the soccer team, I joined the debate club. We still nodded at each other in the hallways, but the secret we shared became like a wall between us. Every time I saw him laugh with his new friends, I wanted to tell someone what had happened—to lighten the burden. But my tongue felt stitched shut. By the time I turned eighteen, the memory had warped. Sometimes I wondered if I had exaggerated it, if the man’s grip had really been as threatening as I remembered. Maybe he was just a lonely stranger. Maybe he meant no harm. The mind plays tricks when you feed it silence instead of truth. Years later, when I was in college, news spread about a man arrested near that same railway station. The article mentioned assaults, children, and years of suspicion finally proven. My hands trembled as I read. His face was older, but unmistakably the same. I realized then what haunted me wasn’t just the fear—it was the possibility that our silence had left others unprotected. If Daniel and I had spoken up, maybe something could have been done sooner. Or maybe not. That “maybe” has followed me like a shadow.
By Atiqbuddyabout a year ago in Fiction
seven hours missing . Content Warning.
The rain started just as Emma Lowell pulled into the school parking lot. She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, waiting for the stream of children to spill out the doors. Bright backpacks, laughter, the high-pitched clamor of release. But her daughter, Lila, did not appear. Emma craned her neck, scanning every face. Nothing. At first, she told herself not to panic. Maybe Lila was dawdling inside, tying her shoes, or talking to the teacher. But when the last of the children scattered to their cars and buses, the tight coil of fear snapped. Emma got out, rain soaking her coat, and marched inside. “Mrs. Lowell,” the teacher said, startled. “I thought you’d already picked her up. She left when the bell rang.” Emma’s mouth went dry. “Left? With who?” “With no one. Just… walked home like usual.” Emma bolted back outside, calling her daughter’s name until her throat hurt. By the time the police arrived, the rain was pounding in sheets. Flashlights cut through the gathering dark. Neighbors gathered with umbrellas, dogs pulled at leashes, voices shouted into the night. The woods beyond the soccer field loomed, black and endless. Every second felt like glass pressing into Emma’s lungs. Seven hours passed. At 11:17 p.m., an officer’s voice crackled over the radio: “We’ve got her.” Emma ran. Her knees nearly gave out when she saw Lila standing at the tree line, barefoot, her small hands wrapped tightly around her backpack straps. She looked… fine. Untouched. Her hair neatly braided. Clothes dry as bone despite the storm. “Sweetheart!” Emma scooped her up, sobbing into her daughter’s neck. “Where were you? What happened?” Lila’s voice was small, almost flat. “I was waiting. They said I couldn’t move until you came.” Emma stiffened. “Who said that?” But Lila pressed her face into Emma’s shoulder and said nothing more. --- The next morning, the house felt wrong. Too quiet, as though something heavy lingered in the corners. Emma tried to cook breakfast, but her eyes kept darting back to her daughter. Lila sat at the kitchen table, humming softly to herself — a tune Emma had never heard before. The sound was sweet and lilting, but unsettling. Emma set a plate down and froze. Inside the backpack Lila clutched to her chest was a sandwich — half eaten, made with coarse brown bread Emma never bought. “Where did you get that?” she asked carefully. Lila shrugged, eyes lowered. “Lunch.” Emma reached for her daughter’s hand and noticed the ribbon tied neatly around her wrist. Bright red, too clean, as if freshly bought. “Who gave you this?” No answer. --- The police came again that afternoon. Two detectives sat stiffly on the living room couch, rainwater dripping from their jackets. “No signs of abduction,” one of them said. “No evidence of anyone leading her away. CCTV cameras on Maple Street flickered to static at 4:15 p.m. and came back at 11:16. That gap…” He shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense.” Emma gripped her knees, knuckles white. “You’re saying she disappeared into thin air?” The detective didn’t answer. That night, Emma checked on Lila as she slept. A doctor had found nothing wrong, no bruises, no injuries — except for a faint circular burn mark on her ankle, the size of a coin. Lila’s lips moved in her sleep. Emma bent close, barely breathing. “He said he likes our house,” Lila murmured. “He’ll be patient.” Emma jerked back, heart pounding. --- Over the next two days, the unease only grew. A dark sedan sat idling near the house more than once. When Emma approached, it drove away. Lila refused to look into mirrors. She avoided her toys, preferring to sit by the window with her knees to her chest. Once, Emma found her sketchbook full of drawings: a man with no face, standing in a doorway. The same figure, page after page. On the third night, Emma was folding laundry when she heard her daughter whispering in her room. She froze, listening. “I know. I’ll be ready.” Emma pushed the door open. Lila sat on the floor, speaking to the empty corner of the room. She looked up calmly. “I wasn’t talking to you, Mommy.” Emma’s hands shook. She grabbed her daughter, searching her pockets, desperate for answers. That was when she found the slip of paper: a train ticket, dated the day she vanished. From a station three cities away. But the timestamp fell squarely inside those seven missing hours. --- The next morning, Detective Harris returned. He looked exhausted, tie crooked, eyes rimmed with red. “We’ve enhanced the footage from Maple Street,” he said, setting his laptop on the table. Emma’s stomach turned cold as the video played. There was Lila, walking calmly down the sidewalk at 4:14. Then, static. The feed blinked, jumped — and there she was again at 11:17, standing at the edge of the frame. “Watch closely,” Harris said. Emma leaned in. Frame by frame, the video slowed. For an instant, just before the static swallowed the feed, Lila appeared to be holding someone’s hand. An adult. But every time the figure’s face neared the camera, the pixels warped and blurred, as though the footage itself refused to capture it. Emma pressed her hand to her mouth. “What is that?” Harris shook his head. “We don’t know.” --- That night, Emma sat on the edge of Lila’s bed, tucking the blankets around her daughter. The rain tapped against the window. The house was too still, too watchful. Lila’s eyes fluttered as she drifted toward sleep. Then she smiled faintly, the red ribbon slipping loose around her wrist. “He told me you’ll come with me next time.” Emma’s chest tightened, breath catching in her throat. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think, staring at her daughter’s serene face in the dim light. The clock ticked softly on the nightstand. Each second felt like it was running out.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Extra Photo
It was supposed to be a normal weekend. My two closest friends, Arjun and Sameer, came over to my place after years. We hadn’t hung out together since college, and nostalgia hit hard. The evening was full of silly jokes, old stories, and the kind of laughter that makes your stomach ache.
By ETS_Storyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lantern of Serendipity
M Mehran In the small town of Brookhaven, strange things often happened, but no one spoke of them openly. That was, until the night the lantern appeared. It wasn’t an ordinary lantern. Its frame shimmered with a golden hue, and the light it cast didn’t flicker—it glowed steadily, illuminating the cobblestone streets in hues of amber and rose. Nobody knew where it came from. One evening, it simply appeared in the middle of Maple Street. --- Emily and the Lantern Emily, a young woman of 21, was the first to notice it. She had recently returned to Brookhaven after finishing college in the city. Life in the town felt quiet, almost too quiet. But that night, the lantern called to her. Curiosity drove Emily closer. As she reached out to touch it, the light pulsed, warming her hands without burning. And then, something extraordinary happened—images began to appear inside the glass: a young boy laughing by a river, an old man planting a tree, a couple dancing in a candlelit hall. Emily gasped. “It’s showing moments… from people’s lives?” A soft voice echoed around her, though no one was there. “I show the possibilities of life, not just what has been.” Emily froze. Could the lantern predict the future? Or was it a mirror of hidden desires? --- The Mystery Deepens Word of the lantern spread quickly. Neighbors gathered at Maple Street, some skeptical, some in awe. Each person saw something different: a struggling artist saw his paintings displayed in a grand gallery; a retired teacher saw herself leading a new generation of students; a lonely baker saw friends laughing in his empty shop. The lantern had a peculiar effect. People became braver, kinder, more willing to chase their dreams. Those who were hesitant to speak out, to try something new, suddenly found courage. Yet, Emily sensed that the lantern was testing them. It was one thing to show possibilities, another to make people act. --- An Unexpected Challenge One rainy night, a stranger arrived in town. He wore a dark coat, his eyes hidden under the brim of a hat. He called himself Mr. Lorne, and he claimed he had come to take the lantern away. “It doesn’t belong here,” he said quietly to Emily. “It’s not meant for ordinary lives. It’s… dangerous if misused.” Emily was torn. She had seen so many people change for the better because of it. “Dangerous?” she asked. “It’s giving hope!” Mr. Lorne shook his head. “Hope is fragile. Too much reliance on what might be blinds people to reality. The lantern is a guide, not a crutch.” --- The Town Responds The next morning, Emily convened a meeting at the town hall. She told the townspeople about Mr. Lorne’s warning. There was debate. Some wanted to protect the lantern at all costs. Others believed it should be returned to its unknown origin. It was then that Emily realized something crucial—the lantern’s magic was not just in showing possibilities. It was in choice. People could see visions, but they had to act to make them real. The lantern alone could not change lives; it could only illuminate the path. --- A Test of Courage Emily returned to Maple Street that night and looked at the glowing lantern. She remembered the images it had shown her: her own unfinished novel, her plans to travel, her dreams of helping children in need. She realized the truth—if she wanted her visions to come alive, she had to step forward herself. The next day, she started writing again. She organized a small program at the local library to teach reading to children. She even began planning her first solo journey across the country. The lantern’s light flickered faintly, almost like a silent nod of approval. --- Transformation Weeks passed, and the town transformed subtly but noticeably. People were kinder to each other, more willing to collaborate and take risks. Businesses thrived, friendships strengthened, and the streets of Brookhaven were filled with laughter and life once more. Then, one morning, the lantern was gone. No trace remained. Some feared it was lost forever, while others whispered that it had returned to wherever it came from. But Emily knew better. The lantern had never been an object of magic—it had been a catalyst. The true magic was in the people themselves, in their courage to act on the visions they had seen. --- Legacy of the Lantern Years later, Emily’s own work flourished. Her novels were published, her programs expanded, and she often recounted the story of the golden lantern to children and travelers. She told them, “Sometimes, all you need is a light to see the possibilities. But the journey is yours to walk.” Brookhaven became known as the town where dreams found their spark. And though the lantern never returned, its light remained in the hearts of everyone who had seen it—reminding them that hope is not something you wait for, but something you create.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Fiction