Psychological
Aestas Futilis
Oliver slung his backpack over his shoulders and headed down the stairs. He had it all planned out. He’d sit at the coffee shop for a few hours and read, write, sketch, and listen to whatever music he would be vibing with in the moment. It was, for lack of a more literary term, going to be a chill morning. Afterwards, he might actually get lunch at a restaurant and have an afternoon beer.
By Aaron Morrison6 months ago in Fiction
The Echo Chamber Effect
In a small, windowless room, lit only by the blue glow of multiple screens, Eli sat hunched over his keyboard. The hum of the computer fans was the only sound that kept him company, save for the endless scroll of curated opinions flashing across his monitors.
By Pir Ashfaq Ahmad6 months ago in Fiction
The Gilded Frame
The girl in the photo on her wall blinked. Ava froze mid-step, sloshing tea across the carpet. Her eyes locked on the frame. The image looked the same: rusted gold trim, a colourful yet faded garden, a swing dangling from nowhere. And the girl, maybe eight, with porcelain skin, green eyes, a dirty pinkish-red dress, and corkscrew curls.
By Heather Little6 months ago in Fiction
Midnight at the Carnival of Lost Souls
I was nineteen when I stumbled upon the Carnival of Lost Souls. Not in a dream, not in a book—but in real life, on a night when I had nothing left but questions and silence. It was October, the wind sharp with the scent of drying leaves and burning wood. I had run away from another argument, another slammed door, another feeling I didn’t know how to carry.
By Fazal Hadi6 months ago in Fiction
Rubaboo Stew
"If you're not going to sing, why are you still awake?" "I like listening." "Loser." Scout Master Mark interrupted the building argument, "If you don't want to sing, Tres, then you don't have to. But it'll be more fun if you do. And Thomas, don't insult people."
By Alexander McEvoy6 months ago in Fiction
The Man Who Wrote His Goodby
The Man Who Wrote His Goodby Every morning since she turned thirty, Nina Alvarez followed the same quiet ritual — brewed coffee, gentle jazz, and the city paper spread across her small kitchen table, once owned by her mother. It was her way of feeling anchored in a world that often spun too fast.
By Enric Milly6 months ago in Fiction
My Roof Doesn't Leak Anymore, But I Still Miss the Rain
My Roof Doesn't Leak Anymore, But I Still Miss the Rain Written by Raza Iqbal ul, but the kind that makes you search for something you didn’t realize you’d miss. There was no dripping sound in the bucket by the stove. No wet corner in the back bedroom. No mildew scent clinging to the edges of the old floral curtain.
By Moonlit Letters6 months ago in Fiction
Where is Daisy?. Top Story - August 2025.
The colour of the leaves turned to burnt sienna around the edges. Some were green and strong, sporting no change. Some were sheltered and yellow. But others flew to the ground in despair as they waited for our feet to crush them, their parts caught in the crevices underneath our shoes. Turning to grains falling away as we walked. The odd ones stuck to the bottom, refusing to let go.
By Caitlin Charlton6 months ago in Fiction
Summer of 94. Top Story - July 2025. Content Warning.
It was 1994. I had just finished my fourth year of school. I had left on a bit of a high note too. I had won the math contest and was looking forward to the holidays. Most summers we would go on a trip, however this year we were getting our house renovated. We were pretty much confined to the basement and most of the time watching TV or playing Nintendo.
By Sid Aaron Hirji6 months ago in Fiction
