Stream of Consciousness

The hunt
The Hunt The chased across the country. Stowed away in cars — travelling red dust… empty roads. Big skies, of long white clouds.
By Kiana Carda3 months ago in Fiction
My Pieces through the keyhole.
Peeking through the keyhole of life today seems quite dire - it aligns with peeking through the inward parts of my Self. Everything is mis-aligning - chaos reigns (inwards and outwards)
By Novel Allen3 months ago in Fiction
Borrowed Moon
The first time I saw the sign, I thought it was a joke.White chalk on the café blackboard, right under the croissant doodle: Borrow the Moon. Returns due by dawn. Price listed as “suggested donation,” which is either generous or ominous depending on your week.
By Milan Milic3 months ago in Fiction
Experiences May Differ
Just one look. Wouldn't hurt, would it? That's what they all say. That's what they never stop saying. Don't look through the keyhole. Don't tempt fate, don't push for the unseen to be seen. Don't strike up a parley with the unknown beyond the liminality of your doorway/doorframe. Still, what would the harm be in looking through the keyhole or the peephole? The peephole was designed by Abe Nichols and Joseph Spector, who patented their specific version of a concept that had existed for many centuries, and it became known as the optical door peephole or wide-angle door viewer.
By Paul Stewart3 months ago in Fiction
Left Unread
2:22 a.m. Ping. Unknown number. Lock screen—no preview—only a bubble. You made it home? Thumb hovers. The brain negotiates.
By Milan Milic3 months ago in Fiction
Midnight Key
Rude hour. Key on the counter. Old brass—cold weight—crooked teeth. No tag, no ring, no note; just presence where absence lived five minutes ago.
By Milan Milic3 months ago in Fiction
Chaos Theory: Through the Keyhole of Politics and godless men.
🗝️ “The Keyhole” - Part political allegory, part terror of a woeful descent into chaos. In the Beginning: There was Good and there was Evil.
By Novel Allen3 months ago in Fiction
waiting for Gogol
on March 25th I arrived at the bus stop early and out of breath two other passengers loitering beneath the sign stared at one another’s shoes with the sort of interest and anticipation usually reserved for a pretty lass once I caught my breath I greeted the pair jovially but neither looked up instead continuing to stare at one another’s shoes as if expecting something more interesting than the doubtless smelly feet that hid coyly within them it was all extraordinarily strange I tried diverting my attention to avoid joining them in their staring contest by remarking to myself on the poor condition of the road or the terribly worn pickup times on the bus schedule beginning to wonder with increasing irritation when the damn bus would arrive and speculating on whether my silent staring compatriots would notice and board and then sit together to keep an eye on one another’s feet or if they had other stranger business outside my comprehension but once curiosity got the best of me I blurted out waiting for the umm number six gentleman and the one standing closest to me mumbled no waiting for gawd dam Gogol scratching my head I said do you mean waiting for Google it often makes me curse and other one looked up crossly and loudly exclaimed Gogol we’re waiting for Gogol who is this umm Gogol I replied in turn and he hitched his pants as if he had waited for an excuse to do that all morning and slapped his partner hard on the shoulder and shouted who erm is this damn fool Gogol and the other shrugged and rubbed his great bulbous nose so hard that I feared it might pop and spray us both with some puslike effluvium and I shuddered involuntarily the sight of it disrupted my thoughts so completely that I forgot the two men staring resolutely at one another's shoes were waiting for a man that neither they nor I knew though it was perfectly grotesque once I had laid eyes on his swollen probiscis I could not take them off it again strange thoughts infected my mind my feverous imagination conjuring in his swollen sniffer Hell's fire and poor tiny tormented souls howling like banshees in its eternal flames but once I wrenched my own tortured gaze from its bulbous pitted mass I remembered the gentleman who kept them waiting and thought I had heard his name somewhere before so pulling my phone from my pocket I asked Siri who is Gogol she chirped here is some info about Nikolai Gogol he was a Russian novelist short-story writer and playwright of Ukrainian origin born April 1 1809 and died February 21 1852 I think I see a problem with your plans gentlemen you're waiting for someone who died almost one hundred and seventy-five years ago I said with full-throated triumph bulbous nose said I don't see why that should be a problem and his friend vigorously agreed and I was so flustered by their answers that the number six came and went while I stood like a flatfooted boobie soon I too waited like a double breasted idiot for Gogol flinching every time Cyrano D picked at his monstrous nose hours passed in silence which I spent reading Gogol's fiction on my handy device to determine what we might learn if his ghost actually deigned to visit the bus stop where I missed the number six not once not twice not thrice but every bleeding time it passed by sucked in by that hellacious hound dog of a nose and the imagined torment of the wee folk trapped within it do you suppose Gogol can shed any light on such an enormous nose another man arrived and asked me are you waiting for the number six not me brother I answered I'm reading Gogol is it good he asked I shrugged I couldn't say I don't understand Russian
By John Cox3 months ago in Fiction
Artificial
I look at the girl lying against the steel table. She seems so peaceful, her face almost angelic in the way it lacks blemishes or wrinkles. Blonde hair clings to her face and falls in waves down onto the slab beneath her. They removed her from her growth canister and brought her into a sort of observation room. It feels like a morgue the more that I look around. The incubation holds are set into the walls at even intervals. To think that only moments ago, she had lid in there soaking in a hyper growth solution that… I do not remember what they told me it was. As if it really mattered to me anyway.
By Gunnar Anderson3 months ago in Fiction
The Robot. Honorable Mention in Parallel Lives Challenge.
The skeletons in my closet are just old versions of me. The ones I starved so I could survive, locked behind the door with them in darkness. Fear led me to believe that staying confined was noble if it kept you from drifting away from the people you love, but there is one past version of me that just won’t die.
By Aura Starling3 months ago in Fiction
Dreaming in Parallel. Runner-Up in Parallel Lives Challenge.
He does not believe in love at first sight… But when he sees her, he becomes trapped in time, like a fly in amber resin. And he feels exactly as low as an insect.
By Sam Spinelli3 months ago in Fiction
Three Weeks Until Forever. Honorable Mention in Parallel Lives Challenge.
There is an uneasy silence that takes place on country roads at night after the smashing of glass and screeching of tires.
By Ashley Lima3 months ago in Fiction