Psychological
Seven O'Clock
Finally! Fucking finally! He'd been waiting for the day. The day he could finally leave. And now that the time had come, he planned to do just that. For the past four years, it had been the only thing on his mind. He'd been preparing. He'd been imagining...
By Cristal S.17 days ago in Fiction
Non-Binary Future
Everything seems normal, but I wonder why everything is so perfect? There must be something wrong. The people in this city are looking good and there is energy. But they are hiding something. For the looming threat of nuclear war that will see sweep over us all. The climate threat, the rise of neo-Nazism. There is a sinister secret about alms I must know. Why does everyone in this city spend their nights indoors.
By Karl McBeath17 days ago in Fiction
Free Loveseat
Every other night, I notice the variation of kipple that loiters—the many monuments littering the city—of every single different kind of leather chair, plush recliner, and loveseat, and Art Deco sofa, many of which end up abandoned, deteriorating the crumbling, and most definitely paper-thin, sidewalks of the street. They rest discarded, like departed souls, or perhaps, the poor souls of Black folk, neglected by the bluest of eyes. Of all of the rubbish, chairs are my fancy. There’s a lot of character in the shape of a chair; the subtle curves especially remind me of the night women who stand on the curb.
By Thomas Bryant17 days ago in Fiction
The Room Holds
They always get one detail wrong. Sometimes it’s the color of your coat, sometimes the way you used to say my name, sometimes the order of events. I correct them gently, the way you would correct a child or a stranger, without urgency. It matters that I do it immediately. If I hesitate–if I allow the mistake to stand–something thins. The room, the air, you. I have learned not to wait.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales17 days ago in Fiction
Doing the Right Thing Poorly. Winner in Mismatch Challenge. Content Warning.
Get tae fuck outta mah face. That’s what ah said tae him. Ah suppose yer probably wondering why ah’m writing this. Well, without sounding all philosophical and all that pish — why does anyone dae anything? Anyone write anything?
By Paul Stewart19 days ago in Fiction
What Remains
“The marriage of reason and nightmare.” — J. G. Ballard The sun pierced through the gaps in the bamboo blinds across our bedroom window. Though I was already on the precipice between the waking and the sleeping world, I allowed myself the leisured pleasure of basking in the quiet contemplation that came only from lying alongside the slight but warm curves of my dear Marguerite.
By Paul Stewart19 days ago in Fiction
