Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Psyche.
Against the Maple
Buffalo County sits thick in fog as my mother and I put the finishing touches on our faces. It’s too early for anyone to be doing their makeup. The kind of early that when the sun finally reaches and stretches into the sky, it reveals patches and crooked lines upon the face. But now, here in the dim light before dawn, Mom looks beautifully made up. Tired-but gorgeous. The skin under her arm hangs loose as she blots her red lipstick, weighed down by the day’s task.
By Ian Hardeman5 years ago in Psyche
Dying to be Heard
I am tired. So very, very tired. Tired of the sameness of my days and nights. Tired of nothing going my way. Ever. Tired of never being touched, or heard, or really seen. Tired of dreaming of the impossible. Tired of the dreary monotony that is my life. Most of all, I’m tired of the pain. So why should I get up today? Or, ever?
By Sherry McGuinn5 years ago in Psyche
Enigmatic
Staring at a cardboard package on the kitchen island. A young woman, still holding her school books, is puzzled by the appearance. The package is weathered and looks quite old. Her eyes hastily look to see if someone is still there. A chill stands the light colored hairs on the back of her neck. Moving closer, cautiously, she cannot help but be drawn to the parcel. Her big and bright beautiful eyes focus on the label. It is addressed to her brother Nathan whom is two years older than herself. She fights the urge to see what is inside, insomuch she instinctively reaches out without hesitation tearing open what has been tugging at her curiosity. She steps back, inside is a black notebook, almost as if it had never been used. "That is odd!" she thinks to herself. Underneath the black notebook appears to be a large book nicely wrapped in an old newspaper. The date reads 1959. The headline catches her eye. "The Disappearance of Avril Lynch!" A photo is also below the headline. It is of a shiny black 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air. She carefully unfolds the corners of the newspaper to peek inside. Her big brown eyes widen. Inside are stacks of twenty dollar bills, hundreds of them, thousands, each sealed in a plastic lining. The thoughts race through her mind. Her brother had never been in trouble a day in his life. What could he possibly be into, is he hurt or in danger? She shakes the unnerving thoughts away. Her fingers shaking, she folds the newspaper back into place. Now, her attention is focused on the notebook. The home feels quite damp. Picking up the the notebook, she wraps her hands around her shoulders and shrugs from the cold. She climbs the stairs to her room and sits on the bed.
By Paul Sauvola5 years ago in Psyche
20 Life Lessons Learned From One Hour of Silence
For over two years, I spent one evening a week in silence. I was studying the different religions of the world at the time, and every month I would take a day to reflect and chronicle my learnings from this self-imposed silence. This was part of how I believe that the Universe was gently guiding me out of a very long dark night of the soul—that would last until I was 37.
By Aurora Eliam5 years ago in Psyche
Healing is Selfish
Healing is selfish. It has to be. I would also argue that suffering is selfish, and if you believe in the law of polarity you’d probably agree. This idea, that healing is selfish, began with a term I discovered a few years ago when starting my healing journey that I now identify with. The term is codependency.
By Jessica Jones5 years ago in Psyche
The Gift
“You aren’t a frequent flyer are you huh?” The words startled Alec out of his fear-induced reverie. He whipped his head around and looked over at the person sitting beside him who had spoken the words. These were the first words that the girl had spoken to him the entire flight. She was a girl. She could not be older than nineteen. Probably off to do a gap year. If I had to do it again, I would have done mine in Munich too. She was cute as a button, she reminded him of his daughter Charlotte. Except for the pink hair. Kids these days and their teenage rebellion. She smiled at him, a sad rueful thing.
By Immanuel Coke5 years ago in Psyche
Lucid
She longed for sleep but achieving it was rarely an easy endeavor. Something so natural and so necessary had become an exertion. As soon as her head hit the pillow, neurons started firing in protest, sparking her left hemisphere into overdrive. Thoughts flooded her brain. Every night the same, a body worn from the day versus a mind that was waking up. The descent through the three stages of NREM was far from smooth. The initial production of alpha and theta waves was lengthened from the average seven minutes to an anxiety-filled twenty to thirty. Did I pay that bill? Could I have phrased that differently? Trivialities morphed into potential catastrophes.
By Alexi Hastings 5 years ago in Psyche
Dysmorphia
I used to love science fiction until I realized I was living in a reality stranger than fiction. It was on a mediocre Wednesday morning that my world was turned upside down and sideways - literally. On a typical foggy autumn morning in San Francisco, I took the ill fated decision to get a start on my 10,000 steps that day and walk the 7 blocks to work from BART. I heard the nagging words of my Nana commenting on the freshman 15 I never lost after quitting college 2 years ago. She never let it go that my grandpa lent me 20k for my education after he died just to let myself go. I lived in a tiny studio apartment above a coffee shop off of Shattuck in Berkeley. It was always smelling of burnt coffee grounds and stale scones that regularly churned my stomach to the point of never wanting breakfast nonetheless coffee or tea. Less calories in my life anyway. So when I was on my walk, it was odd that a café would entice me enough to distract me from my route to work. The smell was-forgive me for being punny-otherworldly. Transcendent if a smell ever was. I walked into the café, bewildered with a sudden hunger. I found myself pulled to a small table next to an even smaller shelf of books. A shapely young woman sauntered over to me, eyes locked with a certain intensity that made me blush. She had what seemed to be a blue hue to her skin. Translucent almost. Intoxicating definitely.
By Lindsay Lutomski5 years ago in Psyche
Le Attaché
It’s 6am at a poignant little coffee shop that makes legit coffee shipped from Ethiopia. The clanking and the steam from the fancy vintage La Marzocco espresso machine conceals details of small talks and chatters. The room filled with masked people walking in and out picking up their orders. I know I’m practically invisible, grazing my peek and taking small sips of my cappuccino, while the person sits down one table from me. My eyes were locked on the right hand that grips tightly around the bindings of a classic black notebook, about 5x8inches, fixating on the thumb that circles back and forth anxiously and flipping the corner of the notebook like a deck of cards. Pausing and jotting something feverishly, then shutting the notebook again. Is it important information written in those pages, thoughts, words, or chain of events that could never be said aloud? My eyes darted trying not to get caught staring. It would be rude.
By Vinnie Quan5 years ago in Psyche
Black Note Blues
Katherine Severn’s soft footsteps were drowned by the sound of rainfall, which was itself so common in Portland the sound of it against her umbrella went unnoticed. As she walked under the ivy-draped walkways of her friend’s apartment, she retracted her umbrella and shook it off before leaning it by the door and knocking.
By Ellis William Reed5 years ago in Psyche
