Psychological
Glorious Dead. Content Warning.
“For I parted then with valiant men…” - The Foggy Dew, An Irish Revolutionary Song -0- Far out into the hills, pipes began to call their lingering, mournful dirge. It bounced and echoed, harmonizing with itself as the piper played. In perfect time, the call and response of the pipes and the hills melded and blended together until the pipes themselves were lost in their own echoes. Until the very hills and valleys seemed to sing a lament of their own.
By Alexander McEvoy2 months ago in Fiction
Every Night, the Same Man Stands at My Window. AI-Generated.
I used to think the human mind could explain anything—shadows, sounds, the strange ways the night shifts when everyone is asleep. But that was before the man at my window began to return. Before his presence became a routine. Before fear and curiosity tangled so tightly inside me that I couldn’t separate them anymore.
By Muhammad Reyaz2 months ago in Fiction
“The Cunning Fox and the Tree of Truth”
In a quiet corner of an ancient forest—where sunlight filtered softly through towering trees and the smell of damp leaves filled the air—stood a mysterious old tree. The animals called it The Tree of Truth. No one knew how old it really was, but legend said the tree had an extraordinary gift:
By hamad khan2 months ago in Fiction
The Night the Stars Forgot Their Names. AI-Generated.
On the night the stars forgot their names, Rayan was the only person awake on the rooftop. He stood there with a mug of warm chai, expecting the usual comforting view—the stitched blanket of constellations he had admired since childhood. But tonight, the sky felt strangely empty.
By shakir hamid2 months ago in Fiction
When Darkness Taught Me to See
The Night Everything Went Black I still remember the exact moment the world went dark. Not just the physical dark—the kind that creeps into a room when the power goes out—but the emotional one. The kind that settles into your chest quietly, like it has every right to stay there.
By Fazal Hadi2 months ago in Fiction
The Door I Didn’t Mean to Open
I had only been back in my mother’s house for two days when the quiet started getting under my skin. Old houses always have sounds: settling beams, groaning pipes, the occasional thud you try to rationalize as “probably nothing.” I grew up with those sounds. I should’ve felt comforted by them. But grief changes the meaning of familiar things. Suddenly, everything feels like it’s trying to tell you something you’re not ready to hear.
By Maziku Shabani2 months ago in Fiction
