Stream of Consciousness
The One Who Lives in Dreams
The first time I saw him, I was five years old. It was one of those winter nights when the world outside my window had turned into a silent painting, all white and silver, glowing beneath the moonlight. I remember the shadows of bare trees dancing across my ceiling, and the way the frost etched delicate stars on the glass. I couldn't sleep, so I lay staring up at the sky through my window when I saw him.
By Muhammad Wisal7 months ago in Fiction
Muin
The temptation to wander has left. Dejection settles in its place. A guiding arrow, once followed with absolute resolve, formed from sunrays poking through foliage onto concrete, now points the opposite way. It, too, is unsure of the direction to travel. Conviction morphs into shame when the lack of progress is realised. Only circles have been walked. A forward propulsion by blind faith can solely result in being led astray, though knowledge of this kind is uncommon. Misguided trust is deceptively appealing. Typical when failing to confront beliefs. Sometimes it is easier to trust something outside the body, an external sign or omen. These harbingers are sought after with greedy eyes. Taken from unrelated anecdotes in the landscape. A cloud the shape of death; a tree the epitome of salvation.
By Mollie Narutovics7 months ago in Fiction
Vows Between Heartbeats
The storm arrived just past midnight. Rain tapped against the windows like impatient fingers. Thunder rolled through the sky, loud enough to rattle picture frames. But inside the small house on Maple Street, it was warm, soft-lit, and silent—except for the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor beside the bed.
By Muhammad Wisal7 months ago in Fiction
Feelings of a Witch
The wind takes hold of my hair and pushes it off to the side. Stray strands wisping in front of my eyes as I stare into the distance. It use to feel peaceful here. Before things started to change. But then again, it seems everyone is feeling the strange trill of change. The electrical pulsing of energy in the air. The tingles that see to jolt up my spine every couple of seconds. Something is coming, and it’s coming fast.
By Lane Burns7 months ago in Fiction
Arrow Storm
Send the sun!!!!! It wasn’t something many in the town had heard thunder from their Kings lips. Not in this lifetime, or the next, or the one before last. Centuries had passed and King Leonel was growing war-hungry, nearing his two-hundred-and-fifty-third birthday. She should have been here to celebrate.
By K.H. Obergfoll7 months ago in Fiction
The mirror of the second chances
A cold breeze danced through the cracks of the abandoned cottage as Maya brushed dust from the old mirror. It had been years since anyone had set foot inside. The house belonged to her grandmother, a woman known in the village for strange tales and stranger antiques. Now, after her passing, Maya had returned—not to reclaim her inheritance, but to find a part of herself that she'd lost along the way.
By Shehzad khan7 months ago in Fiction
Between Victoria and Seven Sisters You Were Perfect. Runner-Up in You Were Never Really Here Challenge. Content Warning.
Five forty-five on a summer Wednesday at Victoria station, and I’m curious if closing my eyes and letting the sweating gyre of heat exhaustion drift me down onto the third rail counts as death by my own hand. Until a burst of diesel air and keening brakes tells me I’m still alive.
By Lauren Everdell7 months ago in Fiction
The Meshuggah of Subject 66. The Madness within.
Magnus Arthur had worked at the Asylum for ten years. He had seen it all in his line of work. The doctor studied deeply and feverishly, immersing himself in the uncharted depths of his patients minds. "Careful, you may one day become one of your patients", his colleagues would say cheerfully, smiling, yet with a genuine concern. For his dedication and long hours, poring over his cases, analyzing and annotating, consumed him with the genius of the zealot within.
By Antoni De'Leon7 months ago in Fiction
In the Light of Her Eyes. Content Warning.
It began with a look—a look that pierced the dull haze of a rain-soaked Thursday afternoon in November. I was seated at the window of an urban coffee shop, my nose fogged with steam from coffee and loneliness. Routine was life now. I worked, returned to an empty apartment, listened to the ticking clock at night, and asked myself when something would shatter this locked box I referred to as a heart.
By Muhammad Abdullah7 months ago in Fiction
