Stream of Consciousness

An algorithms last prayer
The sky was no longer blue. A dull amber glow hung like a dying bulb over the ruined skyline of Old Chicago. Concrete husks of skyscrapers jutted from the earth like shattered teeth, their glass eyes long since gouged out by fire, wind, and war. The streets below were veined with rust and silence, the echoes of humanity scattered to ash.
By E. hasan8 months ago in Fiction
Come Sunday Morning
Sunday morning and another day to say that 'I am here, and I am loved." Sundays are a day of reflection, but to be honest it's also day to catch up or to even get ahead in some other 'work' that one must feel must be done. It is a day to remember some basic rules of living this life that the creator has seen to give us to do with what we please with it, but do we always make the right decisions for ourselves and/or others that happen to be around us and to be truthful I try.
By Mark Graham8 months ago in Fiction
Memorial Day
So, another Memorial Day is upon us this month of May. It seems that we all seem to have fun on this first summer holiday. There are so many of us who plan some sort of family gathering that could mean barbecues of many kinds of picnic foods from the common hamburgers and hot dogs and potato salad and whatever seems to be of interest to share. There may be some who drink, but I hope they do wisely for this is a day to remember the fallen who gave their all to this country we love and live for.
By Mark Graham8 months ago in Fiction
The Wall of Folly
Under the vast, indifferent sky, an old lady sat by the roadside, her gnarled hands resting on a weathered cane. Her eyes, clouded with age yet sharp with intuition, were fixed on a towering wall nearby. It was an ancient structure, its bricks weather-beaten and cracked, leaning precariously as if a mere whisper could bring it down. Every time she gazed at it, a strange, insistent feeling welled up in her heart—the wall seemed as if it would collapse at any moment.
By Heydo8 months ago in Fiction
Raymond
Edgar lived by a strict code of live and let live, firmly believing that life would be better for everyone if they minded their own business and not others. He was never nosy and stayed to himself. Because of this, he was the friend of many and being so popular was always invited to all the major shindigs.
By Mother Combs8 months ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Heir
The bell over the door tinkled with a sound as delicate as a whisper, despite its rusted spring and age. Elliot Travers stepped into the clock shop his grandfather had owned for nearly sixty years, inhaling the scent of varnished wood, oil, and time. It hadn’t changed in the two decades since he’d last visited as a boy—though the man who once stood behind the counter, stooped and grinning, was now gone.
By Ashley Anthony8 months ago in Fiction
I Quit!
To Whom It May Concern (presumably one of the sentient cacti in HR): I am writing this letter to formally tender my resignation from Invertech Solutions Inc., effective immediately, or whenever the office stops spinning sideways on Wednesdays. I’ve tried to make this decision with clarity, rational thought, and at least three kinds of herbal tea, but alas, no chamomile in this universe could prepare me for the continuing existential carnival that is working at Invertech.
By V-Ink Stories8 months ago in Fiction
He Didn’t Die. He Just Disappeared Inside Himself.
They all said he just vanished. One day, he was the loudest laugh in the room, the guy who could pull you out of any dark mood with nothing but sarcasm and bad coffee. The next, he was a ghost behind his own eyes, breathing, walking, and answering when spoken to, but… gone.
By Timeless Truths8 months ago in Fiction
The Last Message
She found the old phone buried beneath the loose floorboard in the attic. The house smelled of dust and forgotten memories, the light from her flashlight trembling across faded wallpaper. The phone was cracked and worn, the kind that felt heavy in her hand — a relic from another time.
By Get Rich8 months ago in Fiction
The Bus to Anywhere
The gas station smelled like gasoline, cold coffee, and memories. Ella didn’t mind. It was the kind of nowhere place that didn’t ask questions—a blessing when you’re trying to disappear.
By Shohel Rana8 months ago in Fiction
Chimney Soot. Top Story - May 2025.
Author's Note: This story was inspired by the poem 'Suburban Sonnet' by Gwen Harwood. Enjoy! ~ Ms Annabelle Morrison enters the hall, holding an envelope and a page of handwritten notes. It is her sister, Margaret’s funeral. This is Belle’s speech.
By Ruby Red8 months ago in Fiction
The Quiet Thing
I don’t know exactly when it began. There was no thunderclap, no revelation. Just a slow, almost imperceptible shift. A sense that something invisible had taken its place beside me, not with noise or threat, but with the patience of something ancient.
By Billys Zafeiridis 8 months ago in Fiction