Psychological
The night everything changed. Content Warning.
As soon as I saw it, I knew what needed to be done. I left without a second thought. I ran straight into the pouring rain and was soaked within seconds. I shivered and pulled my cloak tighter, but the buttons were broken and I couldn’t close it properly. One was missing, and the rest hung from loose threads. A cold draft slipped through, the wind flowing freely.
By Minou J. Lindeabout 4 hours ago in Fiction
Love as Consumption
I could feel it in the pit of my stomach. That inevitable crush. I knew as soon as I walked through the door, we’d have words — stern, unproductive words. The atmosphere choked me, the scent of Bolognese burned into the bottom of the pan reminding me why it’s best I do the cooking, and of the air of unfiltered bitterness that had been present for years.
By Paul Stewartabout 7 hours ago in Fiction
Performative Ritual
He has certain expectations for the women in his life. Her closet represents many of them; only whores show their shoulders or their knees. Skirts must be long. Tank tops are simply for other people. People who aren’t them. People who aren’t decent like they are.
By Leigh Victoria Phan, MS, MFAabout 8 hours ago in Fiction
Four
… After kissing Victoire goodbye and leaving her in the middle of the night street, Romain and I enter his building and climb up to the fourth floor. Incidentally, I live on the fourth floor too. So does Victoire. As it happens, most of my friends have ended up on this floor, without meaning to. Is there something magical about this even natural number? One, two, three, four.
By Anastasia Tsarkovaabout 14 hours ago in Fiction
Emergency Services
Emergency Services They made six calls that night. Six false emergencies, spaced just far enough apart to feel clever. Laughter pressed into sleeves, invented panic, then the click of disconnection. The operator stayed calm every time. Calm made it feel harmless. He went home believing the night had been wasted on nothing.
By Marie381Uk a day ago in Fiction
The Passenger
The one unspoken rule: don't let the driver be held responsible for the crash. Shoved into a car with them as you are only allowed to have relationships if you stay in their car and never leave. The insult looming of having to become resilient when jumping out of the car to get through being independent and those copying you choose alone and brag about being able to choose it. It is a sick mockery that is allowed to go on. These people taking from you while not asking for it and you adapting way better than most while surviving. Now there is insult to injury of those pretending they don't have people or making alone time a "silly little fun thing" to be up to after they destroyed someone's life.
By Seashell Harpspring a day ago in Fiction
The Question of Breakfast . Content Warning.
The Question of Breakfast The kettle whistled, the low, polite sound it made every time the cycle completed. Tea was every afternoon at four. George didn’t have to look at the clock. The television paced their days. The advert breaks gave him just enough time to put the kettle on. The steam hitting the tile was his reminder, like a trusty timepiece.
By Claire McAllen3 days ago in Fiction
The Clitoral Myth
“Welcome everyone, have a seat, have a seat. This is Introduction to Women’s Studies, if you are here for any other class you are in the wrong room. I am,” the professor paused and picked up a piece of chalk. He turned his back to the class and wrote his name in big block letters across the chalkboard.
By Amos Glade3 days ago in Fiction
The Last Chair
Every evening, after the house goes quiet, I return the chairs to their places. It doesn’t matter how late the session ends, or whether the power’s been out, or whether my body has already started bargaining with sleep. The chairs must go back. Two of them, mostly. Sometimes three. Occasionally more, depending on the day and the stories it brought with it.
By Teena Quinn 3 days ago in Fiction
The Reigning Champ
With every drop of savings in his account, Renlo Corrington purchased a first class ticket from Wilmington, Delaware. He clutched in his hand his mobile device which he only found the window in which to use it enticing. He reclined, his sixteen-year-old legs stretched out before him. Flight attendants offered him champagne and spirits and then their glare changed. They noticed he had been lanky but that baby face spelled the fact that he would not imbibe.
By Skyler Saunders3 days ago in Fiction
