Psychological
The Man Who Knew Too Much
Chapter 1: The Notebook That Shouldn't Exist It started with a $3 purchase at a dusty thrift store in Sedona. I was there to kill time, not uncover secrets that would unravel my reality. The leather-bound notebook caught my eye because of the strange symbol on its cover—a triangle with an eye inside, drawn in fading silver ink.
By Naveed Khan7 months ago in Fiction
OKC Psychiatrist vs. Therapist: What’s the Difference?
Figuring out where to turn for mental health support can be confusing, especially when the roles of psychiatrists and therapists appear alike on the surface. The best choice comes down to what you personally need, your symptoms, and how you prefer to approach treatment.
By Resilient Psychotherapy7 months ago in Fiction
The Man Who Sat at Table Seven
There’s a quiet little café on East 41st Street, nestled unceremoniously between a secondhand bookstore and a flower shop that always smells of jasmine and damp stems. Blink, and you might miss it. No neon signs. No whimsical chalkboard menus boasting fancy lattes or turmeric infusions. The awning just reads “Mira’s Café” in fading gold letters. Inside, it smells like toasted bread, warm milk, and stories too old to tell.
By Arshad khan7 months ago in Fiction
The Town That Erased My Memory
I arrived in the town of Alder Creek on a rainy Thursday evening, not entirely sure why I was there. The drive had been unplanned. I had set out for a weekend getaway from the noise of city life, hoping to clear my mind. My GPS had glitched an hour out, rerouting me off the main highway onto a winding forest road. By the time I realized I was off course, I saw the wooden sign: Welcome to Alder Creek - Est. 1834. The lettering was faded, the wood half-rotted, but something about it pulled me in.
By Harley Morris7 months ago in Fiction
The Clock maker's Curse
Chapter 1: The Shop That Ticked Too Loud The bell above Holloway's Horology jingled weakly as Mrs. Pembroke stepped inside, her umbrella dripping onto the worn wooden floorboards. The air smelled of oil and aged mahogany, with a faint metallic tang that clung to the back of one's throat.
By Shehzad Ahmad7 months ago in Fiction
The House That Remembers.
The old Victorian house on Chestnut Street was our dream, or at least the skeleton of it. It was a fixer-upper, with peeling paint and floors that groaned like a sleeping old man, but my husband, Ben, and I saw its potential. We were young, in love, and naively optimistic about how far a few coats of paint and a lot of hard work could go. We bought it for a steal, blissfully unaware that the house came with a feature not listed in the realtor’s description.
By MUHAMMAD FARHAN7 months ago in Fiction
Why Casually Eating Entire Cloves of Garlic During Meetings Earned Me a Fearsome Reputation. AI-Generated.
The meeting was supposed to last thirty minutes. In corporate time, that usually meant forty-five — but not today. Today, it would end precisely when I decided it should.
By Jesse Shelley7 months ago in Fiction
Prewash. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
I found the blood in the sink again. Not fresh—never fresh. Thick, dark, clotted like guilt under fingernails. It didn’t alarm me this time. I just nudged the sponge aside and turned on the hot water. It’s easier when the steam blurs the reflection.
By Jesse Shelley7 months ago in Fiction
