Psychological
Mobius Stripper
I wanted it, and I got it. There were always things about The Prism that bothered me, but those thoughts were unspoken, unwritten and hopefully - this is where I got into trouble - unheard. A bit of a tough time with that last one. We, of course, were on a psychic feed with each other, and you knew the business of people you did not even want to have a meal with; it was up to you to shut certain things out.
By Kendall Defoe 3 days ago in Fiction
The Story Beneath The Story
People call me Bigfoot and other names and say that I smell horribly. They are afraid of me because I’m not human and have fur. I live where few people do, and the scent I give off is from my rich diet. We live in the wilderness, hiding from humans, and smell like the earth and trees. We rub the raw elk onto our fur and sometimes have nests with carcasses and excrement. Humans don’t find traces of our bodies because, when near death, our fur sheds and eagles take it away. We only die in the spring when wolf and bear cubs are emerging, and our bodies feed their young, while their parents consume our bones. There aren’t many of us left. We think humans stink, and we know when they are near. Human females smell better than males, but sometimes their acrid odor makes me sneeze; it seems to happen once every moon.
By Andrea Corwin 3 days ago in Fiction
Seeking The Facts Behind a Myth
Each individual alone judges what they have faith in from what life has taught them. Faith arrives when there is an interplay between mind and body, that forms a strong framework laid on strong foundations. Faith that information, from something larger that can transcend to the depth of the heart and enhance a spirit with confidence in a soul that sees past blindly believing in the causes of wars fought in the name of religious idealism or a way of life that imposes restrictions based on race, caste or the gender one is born into, often stems from the dignity of science, church and community. Through the nature of alchemy, astrology and theory, the brain sorts through what is repressed, unknown or ignored then disassociates preconceived ideas to bring honor and respect to the dead.
By Katherine D. Graham3 days ago in Fiction
The Morning My Reflection Disappeared
I thought it was just another Saturday. Alarm at 7:00 a.m., the tail end of some weird dream I’d already forgotten, and that familiar battle between “I could sleep more” and “I’ll hate Monday if I do.” I stuck to the plan, got up, stretched, and let the sunlight hit my face like it always does on weekends.
By abualyaanart3 days ago in Fiction
Who's Gage
The cereal went soggy faster than I liked, but I still ate it that way. The house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking clock in the hallway. Morning light stretched across the kitchen table and stopped just short of the bowl.
By Tifani Power 4 days ago in Fiction
Moby Dee
We all think we know the story of Moby Dick, a tale of human courage, obsession, and revenge against a monstrous white whale, a creature of evil nature. We also remember that in the end nature cannot be tamed or defeated: Moby Dick kills his obsessed hunter and leaves. This has become such a recognizable myth that the name itself -- Moby Dick -- evokes powerful feelings of fear and anxiety about the untamed monster whale in the vast ocean.
By Lana V Lynx4 days ago in Fiction
Someone Keeps Swiping Right on My Dating Profile
I downloaded the dating app two weeks after Valentine’s Day. Not because I was ready to date again. Mostly because my friends wouldn’t stop telling me to “get back out there.” My last relationship ended badly, and February had been miserable enough already.
By V-Ink Stories4 days ago in Fiction
My Girlfriend Wants My Heart for Valentine’s Day
When my girlfriend first said she wanted my heart forever, I laughed. It was Valentine’s season, and she’d been in that overly romantic mood all week—pink candles, heart-shaped cookies, cheesy love songs playing in the apartment while she cooked dinner.
By V-Ink Stories4 days ago in Fiction
The One's Who Come Back
The Therapist’s Room: The Ones Who Come Back Everyone knew the old story. When someone dies badly, they linger. That was the version passed around in whispers and television specials and badly printed paperbacks sold beside incense and dreamcatchers. A spirit with unfinished business. A presence in the hallway. Cold spots, flickering lights, footsteps overhead. The dead, apparently, became poets the moment their heart stopped. They floated about in old houses wearing sorrow and purpose, waiting to deliver messages in riddles to whichever woman in a linen blouse happened to be spiritually available.
By Teena Quinn 4 days ago in Fiction
Before Anyone Says So...
The Therapist’s Room: Before Anyone Says So The first sign of it was not dramatic. That is important. People always think beginnings arrive with cymbals. A speech. A slammed door. A woman standing in the rain with mascara on her chin and a suitcase she packed with furious clarity, as if life had waited politely for her to become cinematic.
By Teena Quinn 4 days ago in Fiction
