Psychological

Beneath the Dust
The wind was a constant sculptor in the Grey, a patient artist carving canyons from ruins and smoothing skyscrapers into tombstones. Kael knew its language—the high, thin whistle that presaged a glass storm, the low moan that carried the scent of Scrabblers on the hunt. He was a creature of this desolate wasteland, a reclusive scavenger defined by the silence of the spaces he inhabited. His lean frame was a testament to a life of scarcity, his eyes, the color of rust and watchfulness, missed nothing. He was cunning, a master of survival, but bravery was a currency he couldn't afford and didn't possess. His world was one of solitary, calculated movements, a life of evading conflict by being less than a ghost.
By Shane D. Spear8 months ago in Fiction
Affiliate Abyss: The Links That Led to Nowhere
I built my business around links. Amazon affiliate marketing. Niche blogs. SEO-optimized content. All it took was clicks—clicks that turned into commissions. And I was good at it. Real good.
By Syed Umar 8 months ago in Fiction
Voices from the Virtual: A VA's Descent into Digital Madness
I used to love the silence. Remote work was a dream: pajamas, playlists, productivity. I worked as a virtual assistant for international clients—scheduling meetings, answering emails, ghostwriting blogs. My world was structured, contained, manageable.
By Syed Umar 8 months ago in Fiction
he Whisper Algorithm: A Secret Code That Predicted My Thoughts
I didn’t set out to build something dangerous. I just wanted to improve natural language models. I called it Whisper—a smart algorithm trained not only on public data but on emotion-weighted context trees—a structure that allowed it to associate human emotion with sentence structure, personal history, and behavioral loops.
By Syed Umar 8 months ago in Fiction
Trapped in the Loop: The Freelancer Who Kept Reliving the Same Gig
At first, I thought it was just fatigue. After all, I’d pulled four all-nighters in a row. The client was breathing down my neck, demanding revisions for a data entry project that never seemed to end. I blamed the déjà vu on sleep deprivation.
By Syed Umar 8 months ago in Fiction
The Digital Doppelgänger: When AI Knew Me Better Than I Did
The year was 2028. I had just launched my freelance career as a virtual assistant and data analyst. Juggling gig work with my fascination for AI, I started feeding my personal journal entries and behavior patterns into an experimental neural net I designed. It was supposed to be a productivity tool—something that could help schedule my day, remind me of habits, even mimic my voice for quick replies. I called it Echo.
By Syed Umar 8 months ago in Fiction
WORLD WAR 3
In recent days, the term “World War III imminent” has resurfaced across media platforms, prompting serious concerns among political analysts, defence scholars, and global strategists. While such warnings may initially evoke dramatic online headlines, today's discourse reflects underlying real-world risks, including nuclear brinkmanship, alliance fractures, and the rise of hybrid warfare. This comprehensive overview examines why top experts are sounding the alarm—and what it could mean for global stability.
By Mehtab Ahmad8 months ago in Fiction
"and then you were...". Content Warning.
And then you were gone. There was no warning. There was you. And then there was the memory of you. Words half spoken, laughter hilted by your absence, silence so profound that it was felt–a living breathing thing, heavy, and unrelenting. Only pieces of you remained. The smell of your shampoo on the pillows, coconut and vanilla, tainting the silk with waves of nostalgia that felt like punches to the gut. The smell of your perfume–jasmine and almond. The dress that you wore to dinner–red silk abandoned on the floor. Your hairbrush, strands of onyx black wrapped around it.
By Tara Draper8 months ago in Fiction
Your Friend Mohammad
Light cast a glow on the Hadith. Then the shadow came and all was dark. Mohammad Abbas collected the ancient text. He walked out of the mosque.
By Skyler Saunders8 months ago in Fiction
Theriocentricity
“Ahh Rupert, welcome! Welcome! Come in. Set that down.” Rupert did as he was commanded and set down the saucer adorned with a single glass of Port. He should have known–Lord Hood only ordered Port when he wanted to play the game. The study was stuffy, a poor imitation of a bygone era. Mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, almost certainly never opened, intermixed with mounted heads of wild lions and zebras, almost certainly killed by someone else.
By Matthew J. Fromm8 months ago in Fiction
The Keeper of Forgotten Colors
The world had forgotten color when Elara was a child, the Fade stealing hues like a thief in the night. Skies turned to ash, forests to charcoal, and eyes saw only gray. Paintings crumbled, flowers withered, and the word “blue” became a myth. Elders spoke of a time when rainbows arced and sunsets burned, but to Elara’s generation, it was folklore. Yet Elara, now twenty-three, was different. She remembered. In a crumbling lighthouse on a jagged cliff, she became the Keeper, weaving colors from memories in a world that had none.Each night, Elara climbed the lighthouse’s rusted spiral stairs, her hands stained with impossible shades. In a room of shattered mirrors, her loom—a relic of bone and wire—hummed with power. She wove blue from her mother’s shawl, its sapphire folds swaying as she sang lullabies. Red came from the apple she’d stolen at seven, its juice sharp on her tongue. Gold flared from sunsets she’d chased across cliffs, their warmth lingering in her chest. Every thread cost a memory, erased forever. Her mother’s voice faded, then the apple’s taste, then those sunsets’ glow. Elara gave them willingly. The world needed color more than she needed her past.Below, the town of Graysill scoffed. “Colors?” fishermen muttered, kicking gray pebbles. “Delusions.” But children left offerings at the lighthouse—pebbles smeared with charcoal, chalk, anything resembling hue. Elara collected them, her heart aching for their hope. One stormy night, a girl slipped inside. Kiv, ten years old, with slate-gray eyes, stared at Elara’s glowing threads. “You’re real,” she whispered. “Can you make green?”Elara’s breath caught. Green was her last untouched memory: her father’s laugh, fishing on a lake under emerald pines. “It costs me,” she said, voice like sea fog. Kiv stepped closer, her small hand brushing Elara’s. “Then let me help.”No one had offered before. Elara hesitated, then taught Kiv to weave—not with threads, but stories. Kiv spoke of a kite she’d flown, its tail a ghost of green in her mind. The loom sparked, green shimmering, but Kiv’s eyes stayed gray—she couldn’t see it. “Keep telling,” Elara urged. Kiv’s voice grew bold: meadows where she’d run, limes she’d tasted, a jade pendant her mother once wore. The green thread thickened, vibrant, alive, curling like vines in the air.Rumors spread. Children crept to the lighthouse, then adults, each carrying fragments—memories of crimson roses, violet storms, amber dawns.
By TrueVocal8 months ago in Fiction
Residue . Content Warning.
When Leona Bray first walked into the abandoned pathology lab beneath St. Jericho Hospital, she swore she heard something breathing.
By E. hasan8 months ago in Fiction