Psychological
The Girl Who Forgot How to Sleep
The Girl Who Forgot How to Sleep By Hasnain Shah The first night it happened, Mira thought it was just exhaustion. She had fallen asleep on her couch after a long shift at the café, the television humming faintly in the background. But when she opened her eyes again, she wasn’t in her living room. She was standing in a wheat field glowing silver under the moon, the air too sharp and too perfect to be real. A child ran past her, laughing, a kite trailing behind him in impossible loops that cut across the stars.
By Hasnain Shah3 months ago in Fiction
Blue Peepshow. Runner-Up in Through the Keyhole Challenge. Content Warning.
His name is nothing. Perhaps it matters, or maybe it doesn't. In this hybridized instance, this laid-bare world has granted him a crack of light, and he's come to accept labeling opportunities as a right of reason. He finds a fissure in the plastered wall of suite 16A, the peeping source? Animalistic reactions hold his fingers by their tips as they graze past a hairline fracture in this all-seeing (no denying) window into her frame.
By Edward Swafford3 months ago in Fiction
The Recluse
I sit in the closet with the skeletons. It’s dark here. Grayscale. A single candle lights the room—a flame that I’ve been trying to snuff out for years, but it keeps coming back, like a trick candle on a birthday cake, its only purpose to remind me that I’ve spent another year smothering my dreams. Each time I blow it out, it takes longer and longer to return.
By Aura Starling3 months ago in Fiction
The Market of Beauty — A Woman, A Society, and an Unforgiving Truth
In every era, literature has held up a mirror to its time. Some stories don’t simply entertain; they expose the soul of a society. Among them stands “Bazaar-e-Husn” (The Market of Beauty), a masterpiece by Munshi Premchand — one of the greatest voices in Urdu and Hindi literature.
By hamad khan3 months ago in Fiction
Private Window
The husband hired me to prove his wife was cheating. I didn’t expect her to be the only one innocent. You learn to keep your voice low in my line of work. Not just in a hallway outside a hotel room or on a stairwell while you count the steps. Inside yourself. The private investigator who shouts in his head misses the small things. The blink of a light. The dip in a timestamp. The way someone looks at a doorknob like it’s an audience. Nobody pays for your opinions. They pay for the small things.
By Aspen Noble3 months ago in Fiction
