Psychological
The Mind Machine
***Note: this is an excerpt from a book I wrote, Return to Space. I maintain all rights to this material.*** Back at The Canary Dido, Princess Annalise stepped out to speak to the people. She paused long enough for the prison transport to leave and her guards to return to her side before speaking. “Niemand is unwell and has asked to go to the mind machine. He believes that Cindy is not actually dead, even though it is pretty obvious that my sister’s body is on the stretcher. Out of respect for Niemand, I hereby order that every test gets run on Cindy’s body to verify that it is her; so that he will, hopefully, come home to us soon.”
By The Schizophrenic Momabout a year ago in Fiction
It Was To Be Expected
The shock of the fall was still on Mother‘s face when I found her at the bottom of the stairs. If only she had been plucked discretely by the Reaper, with no knowledge of the end—not that losing her would have been any easier; just that, perhaps, my skin would have crawled a little bit less. She lied limp on the expensive Italian marble floor. Her eyes—blue like the lagoons on our last trip to Tahiti—were open, looking up as if searching for a way out. I pulled down the hem of her night robe to preserve her dignity. This one was her favorite, white with dark blue lilies—her family’s beloved fleur de lys.
By Lily Séjorabout a year ago in Fiction
Dear Beatrice
Beatrice entered the kitchen half asleep even though it was four in the afternoon. There was a small pause, then everyone went back to their current activity. Beatrice sighed and walked over to the refrigerator. Her exhaustion only grew in the realization that nobody went to the store and her note remained ignored on the fridge door. The sound of the refrigerator door shutting louder than normal did not seem to affect the ecosystem in the kitchen. Every damn day…Beatrice thought to herself.
By Michelle Nguyenabout a year ago in Fiction
The Visitor
Ernie lived in a small cabin in the woods. It was really more of a luxury fishing shack than a true cabin with little work spent on appearance and much more work spent on function. He lived on a hill next to a very bubbly and largish stream which flowed to a river and then on to the sea. The cabin was surrounded by beautiful pines and maples and a sense of peace and contentment filled the air. For miles around, all that could be seen as a sign of human habitation was the small smoke trail from Ernie’s cabin where a warm fire kept the chill out of the air inside. Ernie sat napping in his easy chair, an open book on his lap and a steaming cup of coffee by his side.
By Samuel Martinabout a year ago in Fiction
Reflections . Content Warning.
The drive home is excruciatingly uncomfortable and quiet. I stare dizzyingly out the back window as greenery melts into an optical illusion and cars whoosh past in a speeding frenzy. I feel us turn down my street in an achingly nostalgic way – the same familiarity that would wake you as a child, and you pretended to still be asleep so your parents would carry you inside. That feeling now turns sour, spoiled by shame and dread. My house comes into view – a two-story, red-bricked, suburban family home, complete with a big oak tree and tire swing that has been flat since I was twelve. The car comes to a gentle stop – no one speaks, and no one moves for a moment.
By Tattoos & Tarotabout a year ago in Fiction
Dismantling the Torment Nexus 4.237
[TRANSCRIPT OF TRANSMISSION 4.237 DISMANTLING THE TORMENT NEXUS WITH NO1 METADATA, CHAT LOG, COMMENTS TO FOLLOW] Hello, and welcome to yet another fireside chat, Chat. This is Dismantling the Torment Nexus, and I’m your host, NO1, and we’re broadcasting on the web, narrowcasting on the deep web, and beaming directly into your brain on the astral plane. Again, I’m going to encourage the audience to print out the transcript if they find anything of value in what I say. It’s looking more and more likely that, whether it’s a Carrington Event, foreign adversaries in the infrastructure, civil war, or just our own stupidity, something could thrust us back into the darkness at any moment. People like me will have to go back to telling stories in front of fires. Imagine that, Chat.
By J. Otis Haasabout a year ago in Fiction
A Letter of Perception and Perspective
To Ms Darlington (At Apartment 5/12), I wanted to write to you to explain myself. A little background information – my name is Dereck Disenti, and I am 48 years old. I almost said, “48 years young,” but I abhor it when folks say that. I have worked as a night watchman for the last 2 years at the apartment complex you call home. We have exchanged pleasantries – little nods and smiles here and there. You are one of the friendlier residents. It’s always disappointing that you seem in a rush, as I never get enough chance to speak to you when I am on my shift.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
