Psychological
Craftation in the Garden of Literary Delights
In the garden of earthly delights where beauty meets debauchery. That’s where we sit and discuss it all. Craft without catharsis. Our protagonist thought long and hard about the prospect. I imagine them — or us, if you envision yourself as one of them — waiting like those in that play of waiting and existentialism. We’re always waiting, and even when waiting doesn’t explicitly carry emotion, it’s there. How do you remove the release necessary to create something others will connect with?
By Paul Stewart3 days ago in Fiction
Silent Fight
The palm of her hand connected with his cheek, the sound reverberating across the popular five star restaurant silencing the hectic bustling of the servers fluttering between patrons. All eyes turned to the fighting couple, but their eyes were locked on each other. Danson pulled out a chair, the twitch in his clenched jaw the only sign of fury, but his black eyes danced with a promise, 'wait till we get home'.
By Susan Loblaw3 days ago in Fiction
Boons and Curses
Before him lay his doom. Exasperated, Imperator Valatious collapsed into his chair. Beyond the hide walls of his tent, the evening air hung disquietingly still. He ran his weathered hands through a grease-stained mane of brown hair, uncut since the campaign began.
By Matthew J. Fromm3 days ago in Fiction
The Ghost Telegrams
The excerpt below was discovered in the case files of Doctor Apis Tahuti, psychoanalyst, paranormal investigator, and head of the Department of Psychic Research at Miskatonic University. It is the final entry in a much larger file on The Carrington Event.
By C. Rommial Butler3 days ago in Fiction
Ascension Day . Content Warning.
Welcome, everyone, to our coverage of one of the most important days in our calendar. Ascension Day. Stay tuned for a brief history lesson into when and why Ascension Day became so important, interviews with members of The Ascended, and all you could ever want to know about the Intake of 2086. We will speak to the individuals shaping our future and the families they will be assigned to life with.
By Paul Stewart4 days ago in Fiction
Seven Days a Week, I Return to Her
I usually wake up before my alarm sounds off because she hums before dawn, not audibly, but in the way a thought hums when it has been rehearsed so often it no longer needs sound. The apartment is dim, the city is still deciding whether it will wake me or leave me alone, and I pad across the floor to where she waits. She is matte black and silver, unassuming in profile, yet somehow radiant when the light hits the curve of her handles. I place my hand on her console the way some people touch a pulse point, and the day aligns itself. Seven days a week, without fail, I climb aboard and let the rhythm find me. This is not an exercise. This is a return.
By Anthony Chan4 days ago in Fiction
