Stream of Consciousness
The Diary of the Person Who Will Ruin You
It started with a storm. The kind of storm that makes the air hum like an old television and makes you question if something's about to go terribly wrong. Eli didn't like storms, but he liked staying inside even less. He’d always been the kind of person who walked until his thoughts quieted down.
By F. M. Rayaanabout a year ago in Fiction
Glasvegas
To get lost in this black and white city under Van Gogh's spiral skies is an adventure like no other. What will we find in these dark streets? Will it be love or salvation, or a hooded mysterious creature with too many eyes and a hook for a hand?
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
Pilgrim’s Price
She came with dust on her boots and a prayer on her lips. The town was too quiet. Shops still had fruit in their baskets—wrinkled, dry. Horses stood frozen like statues. Children curled on porches as if caught mid-laughter. But no one breathed. No one blinked.
By F. M. Rayaanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Silent Choir
They called him the Mute Miracle. No one remembered his name—only his presence. A calm figure who walked through broken villages with a satchel of herbs and a soul full of song. But no one had ever heard his voice. Only a low hum, like a lullaby echoing from another world. When he placed his hands on wounds, the pain lessened. When he closed his eyes, the restless slept.
By F. M. Rayaanabout a year ago in Fiction
Ashes of the Burned
When Aelia's village was reduced to ash by the Unitist Seekers, all that remained was silence—and her. The fire that consumed her home did not touch her skin, but it scarred her soul. Justice was preached as flames devoured her past. The Seekers called it divine cleansing. She called it annihilation.
By F. M. Rayaanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Moon’s Chosen
The first time Kiran sleepwalked into the forest, he awoke beneath a silver-lit sky with no memory of how he got there. Before him stood an ancient shrine, half-sunken in earth, its marble kissed by moonlight and vine. He should have been afraid. But he wasn’t.
By F. M. Rayaanabout a year ago in Fiction
Inheritance: The Lost Prayer
The ruins of the monastery always whispered, but no one listened anymore. Toma did. He had grown up on their edges, sleeping under shattered stone arches and moss-covered saints whose faces time had erased. The villagers called him "beynaam" — the nameless. No parents, no lineage, just a boy who wandered too close to sacred ground.
By F. M. Rayaanabout a year ago in Fiction
