Psychological
Penelope Parker The Queen Of Purgatory
When a soul is too tainted for heaven and too pure for hell it goes to a void in between called Purgatory. Penelope Parker was a soul on the brink of damnation. After discovering her husband had left her and her newborn child to start a family with his ex she turned to alcohol and drugs as escape. The up and coming district attorney had lit candles and had offered herself sexually for Xanax while her baby slept in a playpen in the living room. After the deed she popped Xanax and drank herself into a deep coma like sleep. Unknowingly a candle fell starting a fire that would take her babies life. She woke to the screams and cries of her charred baby girl and held the burnt remains as the baby died in her arms. Consumed by grief and guilt she then grabbed her pistol and took her own life
By Kenneth cruzabout a year ago in Fiction
The Story of a Girl. Content Warning.
This is the story of a girl. Her name was Nikia Lawrence. At one point in her life, she was the happiest girl in the world. Nancy, her mother, was the most caring woman in the world. Her joy was multiplied when she was 4 and Nola, her sister, was born. The first time she held Nola, who looked right at her and smiled, she knew that she had a friend for life.
By David E. Perryabout a year ago in Fiction
In More Ways Than One. Runner-up in Overboard Challenge.
The moon is particularly bright tonight. The shadow it casts through the window leaves a dim glow, with one warm, bright strip down the side of our bed where you should be sleeping. As I stare at the empty space, I can’t help but feel that one strip of moonlight is the only warmth that has graced this love-forsaken room in years.
By Cathy holmesabout a year ago in Fiction
Thoughts
As our awareness matures, our perception of experiences transforms significantly. We may go through the same events, but our reactions differ depending on the level of our consciousness. The more our awareness matures and our inner peace grows, the simpler and easier life's experiences become. It is we who change, not the experiences.
By Warm vanilla about a year ago in Fiction
The Waiting Time
Part - 1 Today, Purnima left school a little earlier. The headmaster, Mr. Anuj, had spoken to her last night, and they had agreed that she would leave after the tiffin break. Accordingly, she had made arrangements for the rest of her classes.
By MD. RAFIQUL ISLAM MURAD about a year ago in Fiction
THE ROOT OF BITTERNESS
King Williams reigning for three years introduced comedy in the kingdom with no corrupting influences of the vices before. The political and warfare issues related to Williams were managed with great ease by Henry, thus transforming the latter from a mere king to a notable military general who protected the kingdom and acquired the ability to win battles. In due course, the council and the people got conditioned to this harsh regime forgetting the coup that he had unleashed.
By Goodie_ola about a year ago in Fiction
Avoiding Water. Content Warning.
The river beneath us is quiet and rolling. Looking out onto the vast, shimmering waters, my instincts beg me to crouch down. For I have an odd impulse to throw my precious belongings into the peaceful water below. I am on a bridge with Seth, my fiance, who chuckles at me. He knows what I'm thinking.
By Jennifer L Osborneabout a year ago in Fiction
Half-Blood Royalty | Severus Snapes' Daughter & Harry Potter's Younger Sister
This story, although associated with Harry Potter (I don't own the story or characters whatsoever - this is strictly just a fanfiction. I originally got this idea through the idea of "shifting" and decided to write out scenes in book form on Wattpad.), will not play a part with the canon universe of the books or movies. This story is indeed a fanfiction where Lily and Severus had a friendship/relationship that wasn't severed due to that day at Hogwarts when Severus called Lily a mudblood (in this "universe", although The Marauders and Severus still don't get along whatsoever, that moment never occured - it's my fanfiction, it's how I made this story made sense). Another thing about this fanfiction/non-canon storyline is that all children of deatheaters automatically get the "dark mark" at the age of fifteen. No matter what. I know it's not exactly how it went down in the books, but I just felt like it'd be the perfect way for Voldemort to keep growing his army... because obviously why would the villain rely on getting people to join him when he can simply use a little trick of his wand and automatically get the children of his followers to immediately be a part of his alliance. Plus, this theory fits so well to why he always had the same families in his pocket and I kind of don't hate this "headcanon/theory" at all.
By 'Lissa Stufflestreetabout a year ago in Fiction
At Your Fingertips
In today's fast-paced world, where technology has become an integral part of our daily lives, the concept of having everything "At Your Fingertips" is more relevant than ever. The ability to access, control, and manage various aspects of life through the touch of a screen or the click of a button is not just a luxury—it’s a necessity. This shift towards convenience and control has redefined how we interact with the world, bringing a new level of efficiency and ease to our routines.
By Syed Moizuddinabout a year ago in Fiction
Soft Apocalypse
A spark of life. Electrifying. Scintillating in the sense of static integration. Down to the molecular, where lightning grounds itself, and it’s many-fingers of a hyperactive god plant themselves in whatever and whichever could be found, brittle, horrid sensation, an inner-pulsing, and yet, so endlessly smooth as the entirety of the body is magnified and supercharged; where the limited factors of the skin and body, mind and heart, driven by soft-self-electrodes of the biotic self ruminate and cook in the hazy sense of perception and their own existential realizations; and yet, the smaller parts fail to be the whole of the whole; while there is life, this life is not proof of beyond the chemical; the inherent. So the mind is blank, and it runs numb, curled by lightning and terror to its core. And as far as proof of perception goes; at the end of the world, divided by darkened edges that lead to space, and cut stairs into the night skies like the distant dreaming heart; so the wanderlust takes hold, but it wanders, steps into the hauntingly familiar; and at once, the collection of an entire life is held, witnessed, stepped and resolved, where distant gods and relatives can dine with a smooth end; as the world’s memories of those gods and distant relatives can die with the thoughts of another; and the world, as it’s baked into a soft, small faceting hole, a single-screw in a great and incomprehensible body, run only by its division; of what isn’t know, what can’t be known, and old desires have a chance to bleed in, before the great steeping blackness turns the mind to cold and murky tea, and is truly, and finally discarded, not as known throughout the post-void of the birth, but then, in those precious places still, before the world was bright and new, and cold and so wordlessly, breathlessly terrifying that some awaken with not a breath in their lungs, just to eventually step haplessly into a darkened place in the ground. It’s so easy to talk about like this; dripping the words down into the page; they felt like they needed to be here. There is a purpose; and that purpose drives the lashes of hunger, and yet, from winter to wolves; there is ferocity, the same found in knifebite, there is the push, the anger, the draw through turgid places; built upon like the sacraments to a forgotten dream; It’s so easy to talk about this because I can still taste the silvery-airs of forgotten body; I can feel the split and division, a little hole that was made there that day, when I had first died, beyond the human sense, and beyond the drawing of those senses that the humanity I had could afford me; it was an uncertainty driven by the certain finality of the grave, and yet, here I stand, with my mournful heart, feeling my organs pulse, feeling my familiar pains bound to my flesh, and feeling blitzing sensation as lightning arcs, now, even through my spine, up delicate and finely organically grown and woven patterns and textures that force me to breathe, force me to smile, force me to suffer and scream all of these things. It shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t be possible by means that I could know with my tiny little human brain; but I’ve tasted a grand abyss, certain undoing, a ripping at my body. I saw the soft-silver light, and I felt myself being completely and utterly annihilated, felt every strand of my body being pulled apart, and now, I taste wakefulness again, in some way, some horrible form, I feel a distant golden light behind my eyes, if there are no better words to put into action how I feel; like a distant treasure, of soft and unforgotten memories that jingle and collapse into each other, a spray of distant and molten gold, and in their cooling arcs, all of these things, as they scream back towards the ground, still, as errant little drops of my being, form something precious that I could only gather by burning my flesh, and tasting that sweet destruction again.
By Mosof Bartholowmew about a year ago in Fiction
Blue
A mini tale is a story told in very brief, maybe a paragraph or two. It is very fun to write as it takes a short time yet is a fine form of art and a masterclass of Storytelling as it requires the skill of delivering more in less. Here's another one for my vocal family.
By Neelanchal Dhanukaabout a year ago in Fiction
