Stream of Consciousness

Ghosts of Summer Rain
The Memory That Wouldn’t Leave Some moments stay with you long after you think you’ve moved on. Not because they haunt you in a frightening way, but because they whisper—softly, constantly—like rain hitting a window on a quiet afternoon.
By Fazal Hadiabout a month ago in Fiction
Malnourished
In our house, meals were not about hunger. They were ceremonies. Food arrived at the table carrying expectations, not nourishment. Each dish was proof. Proof that someone cared. Proof that effort had been made. Proof that love, however clumsy or distorted, had taken physical form. To refuse it was not to dislike the food. It was to reject the person who made it.
By Jesse Leeabout a month ago in Fiction
The bench in the square
The Bench in the Square There was this old bench. It was made of weathered wood with exposed nails, and the varnish was cracked and faded. It was located smack dab in the middle of the city square near a kiosk and directly across the street from the school. Nobody seemed to pay attention to it. Not even me.
By BHUMIabout a month ago in Fiction
The last time I ever heard rain hit tin. Content Warning.
“The Last Time I Ever Heard Rain Hit Tin” That first drop landed on the roof like a marble on a cookie sheet. It wasn’t loud; it simply was — there. Then the sky cracked and poured out all of its contents.
By BHUMIabout a month ago in Fiction
She Painted Dreams on Glass
The Girl Who Colored the World From the Outside You can learn a lot about a person by the way they hold a brush. Some hold it like a tool.
By Fazal Hadiabout a month ago in Fiction
Knew not confinement (Vignette ). Content Warning.
The word you might use to describe me would be: lesbian, a charting author, or something in between. I was drawn by the way she was moving on her feet, yet I knew that alone did not set her apart. She pushed quick shifts like a half breath that never became steps. Her shoulders were perched high, covering her neck with a kind of guarded confidence. The candy coloured crystals held in the jewelleries, blinked a glint in the light; They finished the question her lips wouldn't speak.
By Caitlin Charlton2 months ago in Fiction
The Last Letter He Never Sent
I wasn’t looking for anything that day. I was just cleaning out a drawer I hadn’t opened in years—one of those places where old memories hide until you’re finally brave enough to face them.
By Fazal Hadi2 months ago in Fiction
"Τhe weekend in the mountains and the bread of chaos"
"Τhe weekend in the mountains and the bread of chaos" There's a place in the mountains where my mother-in-law resides in a house that is older than time itself. Her passion is the outdoor oven in the yard, which she describes as "an oven with a soul." To me? "A Volcano Crater Just Waiting to Erupt."
By BHUMI2 months ago in Fiction
Elevator of the Soul
Elevator of the Soul Steven stared blankly at her; the way everyone does when we have barely awoken. The little girl clutched a folded sheet of paper tight in her small hands.
By BHUMI2 months ago in Fiction
Forgotten
I sit alone, as I always do. In a corner where everything is seen and I am seen by everything. Fear rushes through me as someone enters the room. I cannot see their face and I tremble at the thought of what they want. Words, sounds, speech, a question... a conversation. I thought I had forgotten how to have a conversation but it seems, as the draftiness in this room persists, so do old habits.
By Silver Holly Hope2 months ago in Fiction
The Forgotten Room
For as long as Mara could remember, the room at the end of the hall had been off-limits. Her mother never locked it, but she might as well have chained the door in iron. It was a rule spoken only once—“We don’t go in there”—and never discussed again. Children have a way of accepting the mysterious borders adults draw around certain places; Mara grew up treating the door like part of the architecture, something solid and quiet and unimportant. A blank piece of the house.
By Atiqbuddy2 months ago in Fiction
Safe is where you choose it to be.
The key is still in the lock. It seems I was in a hurry to get out. I grasp onto the handle, as I have done every time before. My knuckles white, I rub at the ornate filigree tip. Glancing down, I can glimpse my reflection in that sliver of brass. Polished to gleaming from my every attempt. I note the notches along the doorframe. Two, four, six and eight.
By Sarah O'Grady2 months ago in Fiction