Psychological
It was 4 a.m., and I was craving chocolate.
It was 4 a.m., and I was craving chocolate. If there is one thing you must know about me, I do not have a sweet tooth—at least, I try not to. Most of all, I never crave chocolate. I try to keep it as far away from my thoughts as possible. And the thing is, at this right moment, I do not crave any type of chocolate; I crave a specific one, which, dear reader, is not illustratable.
By Bérengère Balteau12 months ago in Fiction
Beyond the veil
For centuries, humanity had believed in a cosmic balance—three realms forming a divine trinity: heaven, hell, and the corporeal plane. Each obeyed unbreakable laws, locked in an eternal struggle for souls. But when the Vatican uncovered evidence of a forbidden fourth realm—the antispace—the very foundation of faith and reality trembled. This was no celestial body or hellish pit, but a space between spaces, where nothing followed the rules. Unlike angels, who descended only to claim the souls of the good, and demons, who seized the wicked, the fey who resided in the antispace existed outside the established order. Slipping between worlds at will, they moved through the cracks of mythology and urban legend, their presence a whisper in the shadows.
By Deion Townes12 months ago in Fiction
Weegie Wolf?
The eegit bit me. Ah had bin on the scrounge for some hash tae tide me over ‘til Ah could get mah next script of Methadone. Ah had heard Wee Tam had a stash of cheap gear in Maryhill. Ah wis stayin'' at Dennistoun, in mah pal’s flat jist aff The Parade (Alexanra Parade), which wisnae too far away frae Maryhill tae be fair. Ah had been clean for aboot 10 weeks an' counting an' wis determined tae beat this disease. Ah jist needed something tae take the sweats an’ jitters aff. It wid take a long time, but Ah had a sponsor an' had bin attending meetings an' like frae the get-go.
By Paul Stewart12 months ago in Fiction
Little Red Riding Hood 2.0: How Not to Get Catfished by the Big Bad Wolf
Once upon a time, in a world of Wi-Fi and endless scrolling, there lived a girl named Little Red. She had thousands of followers, a perfectly curated Instagram feed, and a knack for posting selfies with inspirational captions like "Lost in the algorithm, but still thriving."
By Alain SUPPINI12 months ago in Fiction
The Last Dreamer. Content Warning.
The Last Dreamer A World Without Dreams The city never sleeps. Neon veins run through its metal framework, reflecting off glass monoliths stretching skyward, forever surrounded by artificial lights. Here, in New Babel, night is not a time to rest—it’s a marketplace of illusions. No one dreams anymore. The Dream Corp. made sure of that. For a price, they offer an escape—artificial dreams, curated and delivered straight to the subconscious. Love stories for the lonely, power fantasies for the weak, nostalgia for the lost. Every night, citizens sink into their pre-designed dreams, never knowing what it really means to dream. Erin is a Dream Architect. He doesn’t sleep the way humans once did. His job is to construct these illusions, weaving together fragments of memory, desire, and artificial wonder. But deep down, he knows: He’s not an artist. He’s a technician, a forger of stolen dreams. One night, in her dimly lit dream lab, a new request comes into her queue. But it's different. It's not a request for a dream. It's a request for a meeting. She arrives quietly, her presence an anomaly in a town that no longer questions. A girl with dark, unblinking eyes, her breath barely stirring the still air. "I don't want a fake dream," she says. Her voice is quiet but firm. "I dream naturally." Erin laughs. "That's impossible. Nobody can." But then she closes her eyes. The air around her glows and twists, like heat rising from the pavement. And then Erin sees it—an image, raw and unfiltered. Not projected, not programmed. A dream, real and alive. The ground beneath her shakes. He stands in an endless golden meadow, the wind whispering secrets in a language he doesn’t understand. The sky above him is not the polluted steel-gray of New Babel but a deep, aching blue, infinite and free. It feels more real than anything he’s ever created. When he blinks, he’s back in the lab, his breathing shaky. She looks at him. “Believe me now?” Her hands are shaking. If Dream Corp finds her, they’ll wipe her out. She’s the last Dreamer. And that means she’s dangerous.
By Rakesh Professional12 months ago in Fiction
