Stream of Consciousness
Reaching for You
Jumping into my car on a hot summer day in anticipation of meeting friends for an ice cream cone right down the road is one of those quinntesential teen moments that I've been looking forward to all schoolyear. It's a quick five minute drive down the street with only that one intersection to pass through. I've done it a million times now on my way to school, friends' houses, and the store for milk.
By Kristen Barenthalerabout a year ago in Fiction
Muin
The temptation to wander has left. Dejection settles in its place. A guiding arrow, once followed with absolute resolve, formed from sunrays poking through foliage onto concrete, now points the opposite way. It, too, is unsure of the direction to travel. Conviction morphs into shame when the lack of progress is realised. Only circles have been walked. A forward propulsion by blind faith can solely result in being led astray, though knowledge of this kind is uncommon. Misguided trust is deceptively appealing. Typical when failing to confront beliefs. Sometimes it is easier to trust something outside the body, an external sign or omen. These harbingers are sought after with greedy eyes. Taken from unrelated anecdotes in the landscape. A cloud the shape of death; a tree the epitome of salvation.
By Mollie Narutovicsabout a year ago in Fiction
Feelings of a Witch
The wind takes hold of my hair and pushes it off to the side. Stray strands wisping in front of my eyes as I stare into the distance. It use to feel peaceful here. Before things started to change. But then again, it seems everyone is feeling the strange trill of change. The electrical pulsing of energy in the air. The tingles that see to jolt up my spine every couple of seconds. Something is coming, and it’s coming fast.
By Lane Burnsabout a year ago in Fiction
Arrow Storm
Send the sun!!!!! It wasn’t something many in the town had heard thunder from their Kings lips. Not in this lifetime, or the next, or the one before last. Centuries had passed and King Leonel was growing war-hungry, nearing his two-hundred-and-fifty-third birthday. She should have been here to celebrate.
By K.H. Obergfollabout a year ago in Fiction
The mirror of the second chances
A cold breeze danced through the cracks of the abandoned cottage as Maya brushed dust from the old mirror. It had been years since anyone had set foot inside. The house belonged to her grandmother, a woman known in the village for strange tales and stranger antiques. Now, after her passing, Maya had returned—not to reclaim her inheritance, but to find a part of herself that she'd lost along the way. Life in the city had hardened Maya. A decade spent chasing corporate success left her emotionally numb. Promotions, parties, paychecks—none of it filled the hollowness she carried. Worse, she had cut ties with her parents and abandoned her younger brother after a family feud. She never forgave them. Or herself. The mirror stood taller than Maya, with a bronze frame curled in vines and mythical beasts. Its glass shimmered unnaturally, even in shadow. Her grandmother once told her, “This mirror doesn’t just reflect what you are. It shows what you could be—if you dare to look deeper.” Maya scoffed then. Now, her skepticism was tinged with curiosity. She looked into the mirror… and blinked. The reflection wasn’t right. The woman staring back had the same face, same brown eyes, same tired expression—but something was different. Behind the mirrored version of Maya stood a boy. Her brother, Arman. He was twelve again, standing in the doorway of her old bedroom, holding a paper boat they made together before things fell apart. Maya gasped and stepped back. The reflection remained unchanged. She turned to check behind her. Nothing. No boy. Just silence. “Great. I’m hallucinating now,” she muttered. But something inside her stirred—a memory long buried. That paper boat was the last gift she ever gave him, before the fight, before the slamming doors and bitter silence. She stared at the mirror again. This time, she saw her younger self and her brother laughing in the backyard, making snow angels. The image faded, and a new one appeared: her mother crying in the kitchen, the day Maya left without saying goodbye. Tears welled up in her eyes. “I didn’t mean to leave forever,” she whispered to no one. A soft whisper echoed from the mirror. “Then go back.” Maya stumbled backward, her heart pounding. The room seemed to shift, the air thick with emotion. The mirror pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. Her hands trembled. “I can’t,” she said aloud. “It’s been too long. They’ve probably moved on.” But deep down, she knew that was just an excuse. The truth was simpler and scarier: she was ashamed. Ashamed of the words she said. Ashamed of the years she stayed silent. Ashamed that she waited until her grandmother died to come back. The mirror flickered again. Now it showed an older Maya, sitting in a sunny garden surrounded by children. Her brother was there too—grown up, smiling, forgiving. “Is this… possible?” she whispered. The mirror said nothing. --- The Next Morning Maya awoke on the dusty couch, the memory of the mirror vivid in her mind. She made a decision. She drove straight to the village where her parents still lived. Her hands shook on the steering wheel. She rehearsed apologies in her head—each one sounding too small for the years they had lost. As she neared the gate, she saw her mother outside, watering the plants. Time had aged her gracefully, but sorrow clung to her shoulders. “Mama?” Maya called softly. Her mother turned. The watering can dropped. “Maya…” she whispered. For a moment, neither moved. Then her mother ran, and Maya found herself wrapped in the kind of hug that melted ten years of pain in a single breath. “I thought we lost you,” her mother sobbed. “I was lost,” Maya replied, “but I want to come home. If you’ll have me.” Inside, her father sat stunned. Arman, now twenty-five, leaned against the wall, arms folded, unsure how to react. “You left,” he said bluntly. “For ten years.” Maya nodded. “I know. And I was wrong.” Silence hung heavy. Then he walked over and hugged her. Tight. “I kept the boat,” he whispered. That night, they sat together over tea, laughing through tears, sharing stories of the years they missed. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start. --- Months Later Maya moved back to the village, renovated her grandmother’s cottage, and turned it into a small counseling center. People from nearby towns visited, drawn by the warmth she radiated—a warmth she rediscovered through healing. And the mirror? It remained in her room. Every so often, she’d stand before it, and see versions of herself—some joyful, some broken. But she no longer feared them. She understood now: the mirror never showed what was, only what could be. And for Maya, that made all the difference.
By Shehzad khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Meshuggah of Subject 66. The Madness within.
Magnus Arthur had worked at the Asylum for ten years. He had seen it all in his line of work. The doctor studied deeply and feverishly, immersing himself in the uncharted depths of his patients minds. "Careful, you may one day become one of your patients", his colleagues would say cheerfully, smiling, yet with a genuine concern. For his dedication and long hours, poring over his cases, analyzing and annotating, consumed him with the genius of the zealot within.
By Antoni De'Leonabout a year ago in Fiction
In the Light of Her Eyes. Content Warning.
It began with a look—a look that pierced the dull haze of a rain-soaked Thursday afternoon in November. I was seated at the window of an urban coffee shop, my nose fogged with steam from coffee and loneliness. Routine was life now. I worked, returned to an empty apartment, listened to the ticking clock at night, and asked myself when something would shatter this locked box I referred to as a heart.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Fiction
