Stream of Consciousness

The heart in formaldehyde . Content Warning.
The heart floated in a tall glass cylinder, suspended in a thick, yellowing pool of formaldehyde. Black veins webbed across its surface like ink stains. The tag beneath the case read:
By E. hasan8 months ago in Fiction
Discharge Denied . Content Warning.
They told Corporal Nathan Heller he was cleared for discharge. They gave him papers. A date. A handshake. And a final mission: escort one last supply convoy to Forward Outpost Echo—then he’d go home.
By E. hasan8 months ago in Fiction
We all float downward. Content Warning.
The elevator doors opened on the 13th floor, though the building had no 13th floor. Jacob didn’t question it. Not at first.
By E. hasan8 months ago in Fiction
And She Said to Mr. Sandman.... Content Warning.
It was February and nobody was dead yet, so that was alright. She wandered around the staircase outdoors and it was raining but she didn't have a coat. The sun had already gone down and she didn't feel like going home yet, her hair matted by the water and a thunderstorm rolling in the distance. Stepping down two at a time, she walked across the university square and into the bar where she placed herself down for one beer. Her friends sat across the way and walked over almost silently though the bar was crowded. It was a long 6pm and they had all noticed that if they caught the trains now, they would be packed out - there would be no point. Waiting in the bar across campus therefore, became a staple against the storm.
By Annie Kapur8 months ago in Fiction
What remains of celeste . Content Warning.
Adeline’s empire rose like silk smoke in a shallow sky—graceful, untouchable, and ever-expanding. Her atelier became a shrine for the world’s most elite; fashion editors called her a visionary, collectors called her bags immortal. She smiled for the cameras, always with that glint—one part charm, one part shadow.
By E. hasan8 months ago in Fiction
Time is Money 💰
In the city of Chronovale, time wasn’t just measured—it was currency. Every citizen wore a sleek, silver wristband that ticked down their life’s seconds, each tick a coin spent on survival. Rent, food, love—everything cost time. The wealthy hoarded years, their wristbands glowing with surplus, while the poor scrambled, their bands dimming toward zero. Elias Kane was one of the latter, a street artist whose wristband flickered at 3 days, 7 hours, and 42 minutes.
By TrueVocal8 months ago in Fiction
Her Smile Was the Last Clue
The Girl Who Smiled at Rain It all began in the quiet town of Willowbrook, where the rain fell almost every afternoon, and the streets smelled of old books and roses.
By Muhammad Hayat8 months ago in Fiction
Stitch Count. Winner in You Were Never Really Here Challenge.
Lola could have easily worked in a munitions factory. "I love the repetition, it's so peaceful," Lola said while we took a break from rolling napkins and polishing silverware. She leaned against the cold brick, blowing smoke into the night sky, grinning like a child while she stared at the moon.
By Autumn Stew8 months ago in Fiction
Instructions for the Court
Note - here is a link to the Challenge: Notes for proper behaviour in the courtroom: 1. No smiles. Why did he have to give me such a ridiculous list? And why start with the obvious? I know that the 'court of public opinion' - such a ludicrous phrase - has already decided that I am guilty. I could not keep up the charade of tears and weeping all day long now, could I? When I saw him bloviating and gesturing, it just came out. At least I look good (such a fine artist).
By Kendall Defoe 8 months ago in Fiction
Theriocentricity
“Ahh Rupert, welcome! Welcome! Come in. Set that down.” Rupert did as he was commanded and set down the saucer adorned with a single glass of Port. He should have known–Lord Hood only ordered Port when he wanted to play the game. The study was stuffy, a poor imitation of a bygone era. Mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, almost certainly never opened, intermixed with mounted heads of wild lions and zebras, almost certainly killed by someone else.
By Matthew J. Fromm8 months ago in Fiction
The Keeper of Forgotten Colors
The world had forgotten color when Elara was a child, the Fade stealing hues like a thief in the night. Skies turned to ash, forests to charcoal, and eyes saw only gray. Paintings crumbled, flowers withered, and the word “blue” became a myth. Elders spoke of a time when rainbows arced and sunsets burned, but to Elara’s generation, it was folklore. Yet Elara, now twenty-three, was different. She remembered. In a crumbling lighthouse on a jagged cliff, she became the Keeper, weaving colors from memories in a world that had none.Each night, Elara climbed the lighthouse’s rusted spiral stairs, her hands stained with impossible shades. In a room of shattered mirrors, her loom—a relic of bone and wire—hummed with power. She wove blue from her mother’s shawl, its sapphire folds swaying as she sang lullabies. Red came from the apple she’d stolen at seven, its juice sharp on her tongue. Gold flared from sunsets she’d chased across cliffs, their warmth lingering in her chest. Every thread cost a memory, erased forever. Her mother’s voice faded, then the apple’s taste, then those sunsets’ glow. Elara gave them willingly. The world needed color more than she needed her past.Below, the town of Graysill scoffed. “Colors?” fishermen muttered, kicking gray pebbles. “Delusions.” But children left offerings at the lighthouse—pebbles smeared with charcoal, chalk, anything resembling hue. Elara collected them, her heart aching for their hope. One stormy night, a girl slipped inside. Kiv, ten years old, with slate-gray eyes, stared at Elara’s glowing threads. “You’re real,” she whispered. “Can you make green?”Elara’s breath caught. Green was her last untouched memory: her father’s laugh, fishing on a lake under emerald pines. “It costs me,” she said, voice like sea fog. Kiv stepped closer, her small hand brushing Elara’s. “Then let me help.”No one had offered before. Elara hesitated, then taught Kiv to weave—not with threads, but stories. Kiv spoke of a kite she’d flown, its tail a ghost of green in her mind. The loom sparked, green shimmering, but Kiv’s eyes stayed gray—she couldn’t see it. “Keep telling,” Elara urged. Kiv’s voice grew bold: meadows where she’d run, limes she’d tasted, a jade pendant her mother once wore. The green thread thickened, vibrant, alive, curling like vines in the air.Rumors spread. Children crept to the lighthouse, then adults, each carrying fragments—memories of crimson roses, violet storms, amber dawns.
By TrueVocal8 months ago in Fiction
Residue . Content Warning.
When Leona Bray first walked into the abandoned pathology lab beneath St. Jericho Hospital, she swore she heard something breathing.
By E. hasan8 months ago in Fiction