Stream of Consciousness

The Lighthouse Keeper’s Promise. AI-Generated.
In the sleepy village of Merrow’s Cove, tucked against a rugged coastline, the lighthouse stood tall—weather-worn but proud. Its white stone walls bore the salt and storms of a hundred seasons, and within it lived the last lighthouse keeper: Elias Wren, a man of habit, of silence, and of unshakable devotion.
By Adil Nawazabout a year ago in Fiction
Another Night at the Library
Working for two libraries usually during the night shift is for some a lonely time to work such a job, but for me it's a chance to work and do something that makes me feel good about myself. There was a night not so long ago at another library where I kept hearing the phrase 'Read the Book." "Read the book." so at the end of the shift the voice or more of a whisper lead me to a certain table that had an open book to a particular story and I read the book which by the way was 'The Holy Bible' and open to the story of the 'Good Samaritan' which helped me to make a decision for my life.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
I Found a Photo of Myself at a Crime Scene From 20 Years Ago . Content Warning.
The envelope had no return address. No stamp. Just my name, scrawled in block letters. Elvin Warren. Inside was a photograph — aged, its corners yellowed, the gloss frayed. The scene was unmistakably that of a crime: blood on white tile, overturned furniture, the telltale chalk outline of a body that had once been warm. But that wasn’t what made my stomach twist. What made me drop into the nearest chair, my breath trapped in my throat, was me. I was in the photo. Off to the side. Blurred, half-turned — but it was me. Same face. Same scar above the brow from when I fell off my bike at nine. The photo was dated: July 18th, 2005. I was ten. what? --- The murder occurred in New Hampshire. Back then, my family lived in Chicago. I had never been to New Hampshire in my life. I thought it was a prank. Some cruel, elaborate hoax. But it didn’t explain the photo’s age — its authenticity. The Kodak timestamp printed in faded red. Or the way my stomach remembered something I couldn’t name. I turned it over. In shaky, faded ink: "Don’t let me remember." --- The photo lab was old, tucked beside a dry cleaner in a street that reeked of mildew. I only went because I needed answers — needed someone to tell me this was a fake. The woman behind the counter frowned when I slid it across. “You again?” she said. My spine snapped straight. “Excuse me?” “You dropped this off last week. Said it was urgent. I told you it needed cleaning, and you said, ‘It’ll clean itself once I remember.’ Weirdest thing.” “I didn’t— That wasn’t me.” She peered closer. Her expression changed. “Are you all right, hon? You’re… pale.” --- I started digging. The murder was real — a woman named Marla Henley. Age thirty-three. Throat slit in her home. No forced entry. No suspect ever named. I found her brother, Jeremy, now living in Maine. I told him I was researching a true-crime book. It was a lie. When I showed him the photo, he froze. His hands trembled as he took it. “That boy…” he whispered. “That’s the kid. The one no one could find.” I felt cold. “What kid?” “He was seen by a neighbor that night. Standing at the edge of the driveway. Staring at the house like it was on fire.” He swallowed. “But when the cops came, there was no boy. They thought the neighbor hallucinated.” He looked up, horror blooming. “You’re him.” --- My parents swore we’d never lived anywhere else. Swore I’d never disappeared. But when I pushed — really pushed — they got nervous. Panicked. “Why are you asking this?” my mother snapped. “Why dig up that nonsense?” “Because I think I was involved in a murder,” I said. “Or at least I saw it.” She went quiet. Then whispered, “You promised not to remember.” --- I found the adoption papers in a locked drawer in my father’s study. Filed under a different name. Nathaniel Graves. Adopted August 2005. New Hampshire Foster System. A child with my face. The death certificate came next. Nathaniel Graves: Deceased, age 9. Drowned in a frozen lake. No remains recovered. Presumed accident. Except I never drowned. I became Elvin. --- The memories came in trickles. A woman humming. A knife flashing. A scream — my own. Blood on my hands. But they felt… fractured. Inserted. Every time I dreamed, I saw myself from outside my own body. Like I was watching a stranger wear my skin. --- I burned the photo. It came back the next morning, tucked beneath my pillow. Clean. Whole. I buried it in the woods. It reappeared in my fridge. Damp with frost. Now, the image has changed. There’s something behind me in the photo. A shadow. A hand on my shoulder that wasn’t there before. Each day, it moves closer. --- Last night, I woke up outside. Barefoot. Mud between my toes. Standing in front of an old white house. I looked down. The same chalk outline. The same cracked tile. The same blood, long dried. I wasn’t just there when Marla Henley died. I was the reason. But I wasn’t a killer. I was a witness to myself. --- Now, I understand. I was buried. Rewritten. Replaced. But the photo — it remembered. And the boy in the picture? He wants his life back. --- I don’t know how much longer I have before he wakes up fully. Before he becomes me again. So I’m leaving this here. My name was Elvin Warren. But I think I was someone else before. I'm going away, I don't know where. But I wish to never come across my memories again.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Finding Light in the Fog
The fog was thick that morning, the kind that swallows the world whole. It clung to the grass, wrapped around the trees, and blurred the edges of everything, including me. I stood at the edge of the park, my breath shallow, my chest tight with the familiar weight of anxiety. It wasn’t a new feeling—more like an old, uninvited guest who’d overstayed their welcome. But that morning, something shifted. That morning, I took my first step into the fog, and it changed everything.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
❤️ Before I Loved You
Before I loved you, I was a whisper in the crowd, A shadow moving in daylight, A name without a story. I lived, yes— But more like a leaf in late autumn,
By Muhammad Abbas khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The House That Breathed Grief. AI-Generated.
The House That Breathed Grief When Maren unlocked the front door of the house she hadn’t entered in seventeen years, the air didn’t greet her—it exhaled.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Midnight Rain
The rain started quietly that night. Not a storm. Not loud thunder. Just a soft drizzle brushing the stone streets of the old European town. It was well past midnight. The streetlamps glowed faintly in the mist, and the world felt like it was holding its breath. Luca stood under the narrow roof of an old tram stop, trying to stay dry. His coat was already damp, water dripping from his sleeves, and his boots soaked through from puddles. He’d just finished a long shift at the bakery on 3rd Street and decided to walk home rather than wait for the late tram. He didn’t usually take this route. But something made him walk that way tonight. And then—he saw her. She sat alone on the wooden bench, holding a red umbrella. The umbrella didn’t help much—her hair was wet, her shoes dripping. But her face was calm, eyes closed, as if she were listening to the rain instead of avoiding it. Her presence felt still, like a lake at dawn—soft, beautiful, and quietly aching. Luca hesitated. He didn’t want to intrude. But just as he turned to walk away, she opened her eyes. And smiled. “Hi,” she said. Her voice was soft but steady. “Hi,” he replied, surprised. “It’s a beautiful night,” she added, glancing at the sky. He nodded. “It is. Quiet.” A few seconds passed. The rain continued its quiet song, hitting the rooftops and empty roads. The city was asleep, and they were the only ones awake. “I’m Elena,” she said. “Luca.” She gave a light laugh. “Two strangers sharing shelter in the rain.” “Not strangers anymore,” he said with a grin. Elena looked down at her soaked boots. “I like walking when it rains. It feels like the world pauses, and everything else disappears.” Luca looked at her, curious. “I walk too. Mostly because I can’t afford a taxi.” She smiled—not out of pity, but as if she understood more than she said. “I walk because I feel too much when I sit still.” That line stayed with him. They started talking—nothing big, just ordinary things. Her love for vintage jazz. His dream of opening his own café one day. Her habit of writing poems on receipts. His habit of baking at 4 in the morning while the world slept. It was strange how easy it felt—like they had known each other longer than those few minutes. Maybe the rain peeled away the world’s noise. Maybe it was something else. The rain didn’t stop. But they didn’t care. They sat together until it started to lighten. The sky shifted from deep grey to soft blue. When they finally said goodbye, they didn’t exchange numbers. Just a smile and a promise: “Same place, next time it rains?” And she kept her word. They began meeting during the rain. Always at night. Always when the city was quiet and wet and dreaming. Sometimes they’d walk. Sometimes they’d just sit and talk under the tram shelter. Luca brought her croissants from the bakery. Elena read him poems she’d scribbled during the day. One was about the smell of rain on cobblestones. Another about a boy who smelled like warm bread and thunder. They never said the word love, but it was there. In the way she waited for him, even in heavy rain. In the way his smile changed the moment he saw her. They became part of each other’s world without even trying. Then one night, the rain didn’t come. The sky was dry. The tram stop was empty. Luca waited. And waited. But she didn’t show up. He came back the next night, and the next. Weeks passed. Each time it rained, he returned to the shelter. Sometimes with pastries in hand. Sometimes with hope alone. But Elena never returned. He searched. Walked through nearby streets. Asked at the bookstore she once mentioned. Left a note in case she passed by. But she vanished like the rain does—without warning, without reason. The red umbrella never returned. Months passed. Luca didn’t forget. He poured himself into his dream. He worked double shifts. Saved every cent. And finally, one early winter morning, he opened a tiny café near the corner where they had first met. He called it “Midnight Rain Café.” Inside, the smell of fresh bread and warm coffee filled the air. Soft music played. But the most precious thing in the café was the framed poem he placed near the window—the one Elena gave him the last time they met: “Some stories are not forever, But they stay— Like rain on empty streets, Like love whispered at midnight.” People came for the bread, but many stayed for the story. He never told the full tale. Just that he met someone once—during the rain—and she taught him that some moments don’t need to last forever to be meaningful. Even now, when it rained at midnight, Luca would walk down the same street. Not in sadness. But in memory. In love. He still carried a red umbrella—just in case. Because maybe, one night, under the soft rhythm of the rain, she might return.
By Muhammad Abuzar Badshah about a year ago in Fiction
The House that We Build
The House That We Build: A Haunting of Our Parents The house still stood, even after all these years. Leaning slightly westward with age, the shingles curling like dried petals, its gray frame cloaked in ivy and memory. It was ours once—The House That We Built, as our father used to say. Only, we never built it. We inherited it, like we inherited the sadness and silence that filled its rooms.
By Huzaifa Dzineabout a year ago in Fiction
The Enchanted Boy
I was seventeen the summer I met him — the summer of sky lanterns, of music in the sand, of endless salt in the air and wildflowers in my hair.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Postman Who Delivered to Heaven
In the little town of Windmere, nestled between golden hills and roads no GPS could find, lived a postman named Eliot Finch. Eliot was 84, walked with a wooden cane and the kind of slow grace that made you believe time was just being polite around him. He had been delivering mail for 63 years — never missed a day, never lost a letter. His bag was patched, his route unchanged. People said Eliot knew the town better than anyone alive — which wasn’t entirely true. Because Eliot delivered letters to people who weren’t alive. He’d make his last round around sunset. Up the cobblestone hill. Past the old chapel. And then he’d stop by the cemetery gates. He’d open his mailbag. And gently place each envelope on a gravestone. No one knew where the letters came from. The stamps weren’t real. The ink smelled of lavender and old paper. But the handwriting was always different. Some were addressed to “My Dear Mama.” Others to “Charlie, who died before I could say I was sorry.” One was simply labeled: “To the one I still love.” And Eliot — kind Eliot — never read a single one. He just delivered. --- Every child in Windmere grew up hearing stories of “The Postman to Heaven.” Some believed it. Some laughed. But all watched in silence when Eliot walked by — eyes bright, back straight, heart full of invisible weight. One spring morning, Eliot didn’t show up for work. His tiny cottage was quiet. The mailbag sat by the door. The kettle was cold. The town grew hushed. By afternoon, the mayor and the doctor went to check on him. Eliot was sitting in his chair by the window, smiling. He had passed peacefully in his sleep. But there was one strange thing. On the table beside him was a single envelope. Addressed to: Mr. Eliot Finch Wherever You Go Next There was no stamp. No return address. Inside was a letter, written in the handwriting of every person who had ever sent him one — as if a thousand voices had signed it at once. It read: You delivered our love when no one else could. You carried the words we were too late to say. And now — it’s time we return the favor. We’ll be waiting at the gates. Come home. --- Now here’s where things get strange. At Eliot’s funeral, the whole town came. Children sang. Elders wept. The sky, they swore, turned the color of rose-petals just as they lowered him into the ground. But that night — the mail resumed. Fresh envelopes appeared on the graves again. New messages. New names. Only now, there was no postman to deliver them. Or so they thought. Because just before dawn, Mrs. Linwood — who opened her bakery at 4 a.m. sharp — swore she saw a figure on the hill. An old man in a brown coat. Walking with a cane. Mailbag slung across his back. He tipped his hat to her. And vanished behind the chapel. --- Soon after, children began reporting something even stranger. The children would leave letters of their own— addressed to lost pets, beloved grandparents, even stars that had fallen — and by morning, the letters were gone. But in their place was always something small, something gentle. A feather. A pressed flower. A candy wrapper that smelled like their favorite memory. “I think he read them,” one little girl said. “And he left me something back.” --- A new postman took Eliot’s route. But he always left the last stop blank. “That hill belongs to someone else,” he’d say, with a wink. People still left letters at the cemetery gates. Not every night. Not always seriously. But once, during a particularly snowy winter, a widowed man left a note that read: “I don’t know who you are. But if she gets this, please tell her I’m learning to live again.” The next day, he found a pressed daisy on his windshield. His wife’s favorite flower. many years have passed...... The roads are now mapped. The bakery sells espresso. But the legend has only grown. Visitors come with folded letters in their pockets. They ask, nervously, “Where do we leave them?” Locals just smile and point toward the hill. And once in a while — just once — someone sees him. A man walking softly between tombstones. Worn coat. Crooked cane. A gentle smile. They try to follow, but always lose him behind a breeze, or a rustle of trees that seems to whisper, thank you. The twist? Someone discovered Eliot's childhood diary in an old trunk. Inside, tucked on the last page, was a scribbled note from when he was just ten: “If people can send letters anywhere… why can’t they send them to heaven?” “When I grow up, I’ll be the postman who makes sure they get there.” He never told anyone. He just became it. And in doing so — gave a thousand broken hearts a place to heal.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Butcher’s Table. Content Warning.
I chop the meat. My job is one of transformation. We start with the husk of a living thing. It’s recognizable as a corpse. The bones are arrayed into a skeleton, the machinery of the muscles is still obvious, we can see the tendons that fasten it all together, and there is an image of the whole with all its functioning parts.
By Martin Vidalabout a year ago in Fiction
When the World Could Hear Your Thoughts: 24 Hours of Brutal Truth
The Moment Silence Died At exactly 6:01 a.m., the world changed. Not with an explosion or a broadcast. Not even a warning.
By Ahmad Mustafaabout a year ago in Fiction