Stream of Consciousness

Dog Days of August
August to me is the Dog Days of Summer as well as the month to get ready for Back-to-School. The days are still hot, and one just lays around for the last days of just plain relaxing are just about done for the busy days are not that far off now. The excitement for me and going back-to-school and seeing all my school friends, but also the excitement of family reunions and a few other end-of-summer picnics. The dog days of August are days to remember and to take a breath for Christmas is not that far away for us.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Under the Crimson Sky
By Nadeem Shah The sky bled red the evening I returned to Raven Hollow. I hadn’t been back in twelve years—not since the night everything I believed in was shattered. The roads felt narrower, the trees darker, like the whole town was holding its breath, waiting for me to remember what I’d tried so hard to forget.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Fiction
Torcan: the Vortex and the Boar
Summers often hold hints of golden light and unforgettable good memories, but the summer of 2003 was not one of them. There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens. This was the season of disappointment.
By Katherine D. Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
547 days of silence . Content Warning.
No one expected Adeline to wake up. For 547 days, she had slept—body crushed, spine shattered, dreams stolen. Once the brightest presence in any room, a third-year medical student with laughter like sunlight, Adeline was now a husk. Her body was held together by machines. The doctors had gently encouraged the family to let her go. Even her organs had been discussed—donations in her name. A noble end, they had said. Until her eyes fluttered open. Gasps echoed. Her sister screamed. Her father fell to his knees. The impossible had happened. For weeks, the house bloomed with joy. Neighbors came with food, relatives with tears and gifts. “You’re our miracle,” they’d say, eyes shining. Her younger brother read to her daily. Her mother wouldn’t leave her side. Everyone tiptoed around her, careful not to say the words. But Adeline remembered. She remembered everything. One evening, she sat up straighter in her bed. The gift-wrapped books, soft pillows, and pastel blankets suddenly felt sickeningly sweet. Like dressing a corpse. “Is my rapist still not caught?” she asked. The room stilled. Her mother dropped a cup. Her aunt sobbed into a towel. Her brother shook, silent. “No,” her sister finally said. “The CCTV footage... it showed someone in a black hoodie, black pants, sneakers... face completely hidden. There were no fingerprints. Nothing.” Adeline stared ahead, unblinking. “I don’t even know what he looked like,” she whispered. But inside, something cracked open. Not weakness. Not fear. A primal thing. A fire. Six Months Later She walked again. First on crutches. Then a cane. Then, unaided, albeit with a slight limp. Her body was no longer the same—but her mind? Sharper than ever. Adeline immersed herself in every detail of the case file her cousin—an intern at the precinct—smuggled to her. She watched the footage on loop. Noticed things the police didn’t. His limp. The way his right hand slightly trembled. His gait. His sneakers: a rare collector’s edition, released only for one month five years ago. She trawled forums, resale platforms, subreddits. And then, she found him. A man who posted anonymously, selling that very model. Same shoe size. From the same city. She dug deeper. IP addresses. Linked accounts. Old usernames. His name surfaced like rot rising in water: Marlon Avery. Thirty-four. Freelance photographer. No priors. But a history of accusations that never stuck. She knew it was him. And she had a plan. The Trap Using a fake identity—Vivian DeWitt—Adeline created an online persona: a young woman offering paid modeling gigs for “edgy, exclusive” shoots. She offered him good money and a location—a rented cabin two hours away, staged perfectly. Cameras. Lights. Even a fake assistant. Marlon arrived, intrigued, hungry. The moment he stepped in, the door locked with a thunderous clank. From the shadows, she emerged. No makeup. No smile. Just surgical gloves and silence. Marlon blinked. “You’re not—” She tasered him mid-sentence. Revenge He awoke strapped to a chair, bound with medical tubing. A light buzzed above. “Do you remember me?” she asked sweetly, tilting her head. His mouth trembled. “Please—who are you? Wha—” She punched him. Once. Then again. Not for answers—she didn’t need them. “I remember every second,” she whispered. “Every. Second.” What followed was not rage—it was science. She knew pressure points, nerve clusters, how to cause pain without instant death. She used tools sterile and cruel: scalpels, clamps, needles. She made him feel every bone break, just as hers had. “I was your project once,” she hissed. “Now, you’re mine.” She recorded it all—blurred face, distorted audio. But his jacket was unmistakable. A relic worn during the assault, kept in deluded nostalgia. When he begged for death, she whispered, “Not yet.” She sculpted his corpse. Propped him in the chair. Pried his eyes open. Carved words into his chest: “Do You Believe Her Now?” She displayed him in an abandoned gallery, anonymously emailing coordinates to major news outlets and feminist organizations. By morning, he was global news. The monster was dead. And no one ever found her. The New Beginning Adeline dyed her hair. Changed her name. Applied back to med school—quietly, under a scholarship for trauma survivors. She never talked about Marlon. She didn’t need to. She made new friends. Shared coffee, late-night study sessions, silly dances in the library. Slowly, the light returned. Not the same blinding sunshine she once was, but something softer. Warmer. One evening, as cherry blossoms bloomed outside her dorm, a professor asked why she returned. She smiled gently. “Because some lives are worth reclaiming.” And she meant it.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The $5 Scratch Card That Changed My Life
It was just another Thursday morning. The kind of day where the coffee tastes dull, your phone is filled with spam notifications, and your to-do list is longer than your patience. I stopped at the gas station like I always do — to fuel both my car and my mood. I grabbed a coffee, a pack of gum, and on a whim, a $5 scratch card. The kind with shiny gold foil and flashy promises.
By Shoaib Afridiabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Room📖. AI-Generated.
She booked the cheapest hotel room she could find. One night. No questions asked. Room 313. The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.
By ElaheMindStoriesabout a year ago in Fiction
Summer in Chrome
A sleek, red-streaked chrome vintage car speeds along a neon-lit summer's night highway, shades of blue blending into the intrigue of both the night and the vehicle. Rain streaks across the windshield, reflecting the dazzling lights of the city. The car's design blends classic aesthetics with futuristic upgrades, its body adorned with glowing neon accents and intricate engravings. The scene is reminiscent of Syd Mead's visionary futurism and Katsuhiro Otomo's cyberpunk artistry, with a touch of Simon Stalenhag's dystopian atmosphere. The overall effect is a mesmerizing blend of retro and futuristic elements, capturing the essence of speed, style, and technological advancement.
By Antoni De'Leonabout a year ago in Fiction
🪞Mirror, mirror...wait for me.
The class was almost at an end, when, as if having a second thought...Ms. Bosomworth yelled over the din of everyone packing up to exit the chaos which was the classroom.
By Novel Allenabout a year ago in Fiction
Dancing Under the Moon
Chapter 1: The Promise The village of Eldermere slept soundly each night, its cobblestone streets empty and its windows dark. But in the heart of this sleeping village lived a girl named Lena, whose soul belonged to the night.
By King MAabout a year ago in Fiction
The Day My Shadow Spoke Back
The Day My Shadow Spoke Back It began on a Tuesday, the kind of day that slips between calendar pages unnoticed, with overcast skies and coffee that tastes vaguely like memory. I had just finished rearranging my bookshelf — again — when I noticed something strange
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Another World Nearby
I've decided to move far away. I don't intend to tell any of my housemates; it's none of their business. I spent a long time weighing my options, oscillating between contradicting feelings about what I wanted to do, because I knew I wasn’t happy but I didn’t want to make an impulsive decision that I would regret. And then, one day, my decision was final.
By Testabout a year ago in Fiction
Wrong Number📖. AI-Generated.
1:44 AM. His phone rang. Unknown number. Half-asleep, he answered. No voice. Just slow, muffled breathing—wet and deep, like someone too close to the mic.
By ElaheMindStoriesabout a year ago in Fiction