Psychological
The Shadow Painter
The Shadow Painter The first time Elara discovered her gift, she was only nine years old. She had been sitting cross-legged in her grandmother’s attic, where dust floated in beams of late-afternoon light and the smell of turpentine lingered. Her grandmother, once a painter of modest renown, had left behind dozens of cracked canvases and jars of half-dried paint. Most children would have found the place eerie, but to Elara, it was a sanctuary.
By Numan writes5 months ago in Fiction
Elion
There was once a man named Arin. He was the kind of person everyone admired—always ready to listen, always ready to help, always putting others before himself. If a friend was sad, he stayed up all night talking with them. If a neighbor was in need, he gave without hesitation. To the world, he was a source of warmth.
By silent spoke5 months ago in Fiction
Much Too Young - Much Too Old
Studying my words from long ago, in the yellowed pages of my manifesto, when my mind was more alive than it is today. "Sat at my desk to create legacy. Seeking fame and respect. An empire. From behind my desk in my humble log cabin, the void between inspiration and desolation breached. With the right words in the right sequence, one could tap the creative depths of my mind and bring to fruition something remarkable-unforgettable.
By Paul Stewart5 months ago in Fiction
Aetheria's Song
Elara's fingers danced across the ebony and ivory keys, a tempest of sound filling the small apartment. The melody was Tchaikovsky, passionate and soaring, mirroring the fervor in her own heart. In a week, she would be boarding a plane to Vienna, a scholarship to the prestigious Royal Conservatory clutched in her hand, a dream she had pursued with every fiber of her being since she was a child. The world of classical music, of grand concert halls and rapt audiences, was finally within her grasp.
By Mehrdad Rajabi5 months ago in Fiction
Guardians And Angels | Chapter Five | Part 20
One My father stood at my bedroom door buzzing Hard as Fuck. That Friday night, when he decided to walk into my bedroom, I was still at the dance with mirror ball lights spinning across my freckles not knowing back home the robot cicadas from the fucking Jungle were screaming at him again.
By Christopher Dubbs5 months ago in Fiction
The Mirror That Remembers
The Mirror That Remembers The bell above the thrift store door jingled softly as Lena stepped inside. Dust motes swirled in the golden light from the afternoon sun, and the air smelled faintly of old paper, cedar wood, and forgotten time. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just a distraction from the silence of her empty apartment.
By Numan writes5 months ago in Fiction
The Shape of His Absence. Top Story - September 2025. Content Warning.
25 - The Ghost of You Elijah is dead. I wanted to melt into the floor. I fixated ahead and away from the photo of him propped up on an easel. My legs crossed at my ankles, hands clasped in my lap. Promise ring still on my index finger where he put it at 19, 6 years ago, though it might as well have been yesterday.
By Danielle Eckhart5 months ago in Fiction
The Weight of Honor
Elara moved through the echoing halls of the Scriptorium, her footsteps barely a whisper against the ancient stone. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light piercing the high, arched windows, illuminating shelves upon shelves of scrolls, tomes, and brittle parchments – the amassed wisdom of Oakhaven. As the Principal Archivist and Keeper of the Scrolls, Elara was not merely a custodian; she was the living memory of their secluded mountain community, the guardian of its intellectual and spiritual heritage.
By Mehrdad Rajabi5 months ago in Fiction
A Proud Man
When the pen landed on the desk, Garther Binkins sighed. He had just closed another multi-million-dollar deal for credit cards. He leapt out of his seat with the last few ounces of energy he had left in his body. His dark skin contrasted with his tan suit. He wore expensive clothes that looked frumpy and didn’t fit him well. Instead of getting them tailored, he just let them look like his suits originated from the rack. He gathered his briefcase and headed out of the door. The Wilmington, Delaware air beckoned him to go out onto the street. It was the fall of 1996.
By Skyler Saunders5 months ago in Fiction
The Empty Seat
The Empty Seat The number 42 bus rattled through the city every morning, its tires humming over cracked asphalt, carrying with it the rituals of strangers. Office workers clutched their coffee cups, students hunched over glowing phones, and shopkeepers nodded off against the window glass.
By Numan writes5 months ago in Fiction
