Psychological
The Last Screenshot on Her Phone
The house had fallen into silence since Sana’s funeral. It was the kind of silence that sticks to the walls, clings to the curtains, and curls itself around your chest like a fist. Her room remained untouched — books still stacked on the nightstand, perfume bottles still half-used, and her phone… still on her bed, blinking occasionally as if waiting for her to return.
By Musawir Shah6 months ago in Fiction
The Sound of Her Still. Winner in The Shape of the Thing Challenge.
The room is silent. Not the quiet of repose. But the quiet of waiting. Photographs are gone from the mantle, just the ghost of dust where frames once sat. Floorboards creak under no foot. The air chills but is not sharp—rather it clings, rich and palpable, like something unseen in the rafters.
By Salem Youngblood 6 months ago in Fiction
Miller's Girl
Miller’s Girl – Part 1 If you blink, you’ll miss Miller’s Grove. One stoplight, a diner that still uses hand‑written tickets, and a Main Street that smells like cinnamon in the fall and fresh‑cut grass in the summer. It’s the kind of place where nothing changes except the shade of paint on the post office door, and even that happens only when the old one starts to peel.
By Shakespeare Jr6 months ago in Fiction
The Speakeasy Jazz Club
It is 1922. In a dimly lit, clandestine Speakeasy establishment, a scene enfolds in the hidden but lively social scene. Elegantly clad Clients enjoy drinks, music, and dancing as a jazz band plays in the smoky room. Welcome to Billingsley's fashionable Stork Club on West 58th Street. Women are attired in stylish flapper dresses, and mysterious dapper gentlemen enjoy a variety of drinks and cocktail concoctions in the relaxed and comfortable setting.
By Novel Allen6 months ago in Fiction
Unlearning Who I Thought I Had to Be
For most of my life, I believed I knew exactly who I was supposed to be. At least, that’s what I told myself. Growing up in a small town, with its quiet streets and sharp opinions, the expectations felt like a heavy cloak draped over my shoulders from the moment I could remember.
By Haris Raheem6 months ago in Fiction
A Letter to the Father Who Left
Dear Dad, I don’t know how to begin this letter. It feels strange even calling you “Dad.” The word feels foreign in my mouth, like a name I was never meant to say. But here I am, writing to you after all these years—years that have shaped me, scarred me, and, strangely enough, strengthened me.
By Haris Raheem6 months ago in Fiction
