Psychological
The Mirror of Color
Every hue is a doorway; every shade a choice. You lift the lid from a jar of pigment and the room changes temperature by a single breath—warmer, then warmer still. The color inside looks less like paint and more like a pulse. It stirs the air, rippling the lamplight, a living ember you can hold without being burned.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales4 months ago in Fiction
The Last Cup of Coffee
The Last Cup of Coffee The café was almost empty when she walked in. Rain slid lazily down the wide glass window, tracing lines like tears that refused to fall. The air smelled of roasted beans and soft nostalgia — the kind that only quiet places carry after the morning rush is gone.
By Abdul Muhammad 4 months ago in Fiction
The Last Rain in Bulawayo. AI-Generated.
Bulawayo, 1998 — a city of sunburned streets and restless winds, where the scent of dust and diesel hung heavy in the air. In the township of Mzilikazi, two brothers grew up chasing the same dream but running from different ghosts.
By shakir hamid4 months ago in Fiction
WHAT EMMA SAW
Those blasted kids from around the block had vandalised the shop window. Emma arrived, as she did every day, to open up. Sunday morning, the morning after a wild Saturday night by the looks of the cans of beer littered at the entrance. She’d have to clean it all up, not now though, Emma needed to wipe bloody, red, spray paint from the windows, before her manager saw anything.
By Elizabeth Butler4 months ago in Fiction
The Last Human
The coffee maker still worked. That was something. Lorna stood in the kitchen of a house that wasn't hers—hadn't been anyone's for three years now—and watched the dark liquid drip into a chipped mug. Outside, vines crawled up the sides of skyscrapers. A deer grazed in what used to be Times Square. The planet was healing, they would have said, back when there was a "they."
By Parsley Rose 4 months ago in Fiction
Fate. Top Story - October 2025.
Despite seeing nearly five hundred years on its dusty dais, the meticulously crafted copy of Allgerion’s Catechism—the prophecy within foretelling that the first and only child of the seventh son of Avangarde and the third daughter of Mah’reel would usher forth the salvation of their world—was in a remarkable state of preservation.
By Matthew J. Fromm4 months ago in Fiction
The unexpected.
The unexpected. Ending of a peaceful evening It had been a pleasantly spent evening, alone at last, no demands for attention, no call to be a servant dispensing an endless supply of cocktails. The two dogs lay in front of the fire, peacefulness dominated every aspect of my spirit and body, even my usually overactive mind was still. The dogs were, as usual, the first indication of disturbance to our tranquillity, they both pricked up ears and eased themselves onto all 4 paws. Neither barked but both were looking towards the door to our garden. I thought it may be an over inquisitive fox getting too close to the glass, but then the silence seemed to thicken. There was no noise, in fact it was a sort of super silence, as if any noise would be swallowed up and killed. A strange atmosphere invaded our evening, and my world was never to be the same ever again.
By Peter Rose4 months ago in Fiction
Sunset Grace: A Parisian Balcony Encounter
It was the soft, golden hour in Paris, that fleeting, sacred interlude the French call l'heure dorée. The day, with its clamor and commerce, was exhaling a final, contented sigh, and the city, in turn, breathed back a soft, ethereal light. The wind, a gentle accomplice in this twilight conspiracy, drifted from the Seine, carrying with it the faint, complex perfume of river water, rain-washed stone, and the distant promise of evening blossoms. It brushed against my face, a cool, silken touch, as I leaned back on the modest wrought-iron terrace of my rented apartment in the 7th arrondissement.
By Stefano D'angello4 months ago in Fiction
