Psychological
The Unseen
Julia's train sliced through the blizzard, a lifeline threading through the heart of a frozen wasteland. She was alone in her compartment, the rhythmic clatter of wheels on tracks a soothing, if monotonous, companion. Outside, the world was a blur of white, the storm obliterating any distinction between land and sky.
By M Dannenfelser2 years ago in Fiction
My Dear Father
I’m Dr. Philip, and my life has recently taken an unexpected and depressing turn. I got a call from the hospital that my father had been in a fatal car crash. They’d ask me to identify the body, but everything in the car was turned to cinders and ashes.
By Alex H Mittelman 2 years ago in Fiction
Some Legends Get Left in the Valley
It started off that way, in the dark. The tranquil swirl of snow made barely a whisper at the bedroom window of Grandma's cabin in Canaan, and the eerie critter-less quiet was a welcome discomfort for to keep awake. I was no more than a ten-year-old sprout when I sat awake under that quilt, listening for the footsteps I was sure I'd hear crunching in the temperamental valley snowfall, searching for its hulking shadow overtaking the floodlight leaking onto the opposite wall. And I laid up watching, watching that surface, flat and far and blurring from focus, slow breaths pressing in my lungs, afeared to turn round and look out that window, if I'm to admit it rightly now. I strained with all my might in that black room, and there it was! Accomplishment thrilled within my chest. I had one chance to turn around and look out that window, into the floodlit snow, to catch that sasquatch once and for all. So I twisted my little body towards the light, hoisting up high to see overtop the headboard, and the first thing to catch me was a red ribbon dragging in the snow, long streaks of muck left by a sharp, gaunt thing dragging a prize behind in its bloodthick maw, backing through the snow hunched with the weight of its prey. And as I saw that bundle of bones with the deer's leg in its mouth, son, it also saw me. I ain't never spoke it till now.
By Harbor Benassa2 years ago in Fiction
Tag!. Content Warning.
I sat with my backed turned against the endless pain of the cold steel that was holding me up while I caught hold of my breath. I had been running for some time and ducked inside of the building where I would hide until the creature searched for me no longer. I had hoped that would be the case. The scratching sounds of the creature claws burrowed like daggers inside my ears, whilst its sweet voice called out to me, calling me by name, “Virgil”, its voice was melodic, soothing, luring, it beckoned to me from deep within to a place inside of me that I had not known. It wanted me, but for what I was not certain. It cried out to me. It knew my weaknesses and how to lure me, as if it had been an expert at the game, it knew how I would react, but this is where the creature was blind, it knew, I decided I would do something that it would not anticipate or had been known before. But what?
By William L. Truax III2 years ago in Fiction
Ravenswood Origins - ICE. Content Warning.
I decided to write this letter one day not too along ago, as more of a why things are the way they are, in doing so, I hope it will help someone, whomever finds this place and myself. Let me begin near the end; it was upon the eve of my youth, when a man steps out into the world to become a man finally, shedding the shackles of boyhood and strings that bind one to their mother or siblings, and in my case, both. I was the eldest of seven, my youngest sister, Edith, passed away one winter due to a mistake that I had made. My father had gone out on a hunt with the other men of our small village and had not been back in some time, in fact, none of them were. I, being the eldest of the family, was at first tasked to seek out the hunting party and being back what stock and ration I could find. If I had known that she was following me, I would have paid better attention. This is, as they say, how life unexpectedly takes a toll or turn on you.
By William L. Truax III2 years ago in Fiction
Ravenswood Origins - Letter. Content Warning.
Ravenswood has always been a place for those who find themselves lost and in need of something, whether it be guidance, or love, or war, irrational, rational, or a place to stay when the nightly air sends that chilling hand down along ones back or the way it may kiss your cheeks, a refusal of whatever belief it was that compelled you to leave and seek those like-minded, or just about any reason. However, not every who, what, where, when, why, or how, will bring one to Ravenswood, it calls out to those IT find as worthy or that IT needs or wants. Ravenswood, as I have come to discover, is very much ALIVE and IT too has similar wants and needs as we humans do, though, not all of us here are human, in one sense or another.
By William L. Truax III2 years ago in Fiction
Ten minutes to mask a murder
In ten minutes, the squad would arrive. I heaved the 'murder weapon', a huge hunk of ice, into the storm drain. As it hit with a smash, the steady stream of meltwater started to push the pieces away, along with the red streaks that had covered one side. I hid the cocaine in the trunk.
By Raymond G. Taylor2 years ago in Fiction
Doctor, Doctor | Pt. 1
Sicily | 1943 She poured gunpowder over the wound in his lower back, then took a lit match to the surface. The powder ignited, snapped, hissed, and crackled, then sealed the wound shut with a swift, blue flame. Methamphetamine was surging through his veins, so he felt nothing. His head was cocked to the right, hard, making his neck appear broken, and sticky drool was seeping from the deep, chapped corners of his lips.
By Kale Sinclair2 years ago in Fiction
Dragon Tree
Sicily | 1943 Her molars ached from the decadent layers of chocolate, hazelnut, and caramel. Unraveling her third napkin, she used the soft, white cloth to wipe away the excess sugar from her lips. Washing down the croissant with a cappuccino, and a tall glass of ice water, she paid for two more croissants and two cappuccinos to go, then exited the American occupied cafe.
By Kale Sinclair2 years ago in Fiction
Personal Contact
A note lay on my entryway floor. She must have slid it under my door after I had gone to bed. Some people might say communicating like this feels much more personal compared to how it happened back in the old days, say one or two years ago. Back then, if someone wanted to contact you for work or just to say hello all they did was pick up their cell phone and dial your number. Sure, it was faster, but it lacked the interpersonal feel that notes have. Who am I kidding? The only reason people are contacting each other with notes is to avoid losing their minds to The Coordinator.
By Mark Gagnon2 years ago in Fiction
