Psychological

Timeless Pain. Content Warning.
Yesterday, I finally gave in and took your telephone number. We talked for a very long time, and I agreed to have dinner with you that same week. "And you were my first love." You arrived early, while I was late, and my makeup was a mess. The dinner was burnt, and when you came in, I was crying. You kissed my forehead and asked me, "Do you want to dine in or out?" "And he was my first love."
By KC Taylor4 months ago in Fiction
Etha and May . AI-Generated.
Etha and May are as different as night and day. To speak technically, we can say that one of them wore red and the other soft yellow colors. Both are obstinate, stubborn, motherly Black women. Etha is in control of the upstairs of the charming three story house in the Brookdale section of East 55th street of Brooklyn, NY. May rented the flat halfway between the ground and the middle of the house.
By Dipnarayan bhagat 4 months ago in Fiction
The Passport of Torenza — Part II
Jonathan Reed had worked at London Heathrow for fourteen years. He’d seen frightened tourists, forged documents, and even a smuggler who tried to hide a parrot in his coat sleeve. But nothing—nothing—prepared him for the man from Gate 13.
By Wellova 4 months ago in Fiction
The Holy American Empire
Nine days of silence followed Panama’s joint announcement of the South Coalition. The world had expected some kind of retaliation from Emperor Kane. They threatened not just trade in the Americas, but now they had a growing army—experts said it could compete on the battlefield in ways Mexico never could.
By Logan M. Snyder4 months ago in Fiction
The Sound Beneath the Floor
The first night it happened, I thought it was the pipes. A faint tapping beneath my bedroom floor — rhythmic, like a heartbeat out of sync. I pressed my ear against the old wooden boards, half expecting silence. But the sound grew louder, then stopped the moment I whispered, “Hello?”
By Malaika Piolet4 months ago in Fiction
The Light That Remains
Morning comes softly for those who remember how to wait. Lucian walks through the thaw one last time, carrying the warmth that once carried him. This is what remains when hunger becomes light.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales4 months ago in Fiction
The Light That Learned to Walk
They say the first light of morning is older than the sun — that it’s the echo of something that never stopped moving. For years, I thought I understood that kind of immortality. The still kind. The kind that doesn’t breathe, only waits. I thought endurance meant survival. I was wrong.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales4 months ago in Fiction
The House That Keeps the Light
Some houses remember more than they should. Mine hums with old stories, carries warmth like a heartbeat, and keeps the light for those who once kept me.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales4 months ago in Fiction
The Room That Waited
Lucian wakes to a door that was never there. Some rooms are built by memory, others by regret. But this one — this one remembers him first.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales4 months ago in Fiction
Where the Glass Begins
They say reflections are harmless, that glass only borrows light. But every mirror keeps a record: every photograph, a promise. The more you look, the more it learns the shape of you.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales4 months ago in Fiction
The Light That Looked Back
One harmless selfie. One flash too bright. In a quiet clinic lobby, a reflection forgets who it belongs to—and the world shifts by half a heartbeat.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales4 months ago in Fiction
Through the Keyhole
The story begins, as all treacherously good disasters do, with procrastination. The challenge prompt is open on one screen: Write a story that begins with someone peering through a keyhole or modern equivalent. I've been staring at the prompt long enough that the words have utterly lost meaning. Keyhole. Key. Hole. Holey key. Holey moly. ... My brain is stuck in a buffering loop.
By Autumn Stew4 months ago in Fiction