Stream of Consciousness

The Shifting Current
There’s a particular kind of ghost that haunts us, not of the dead, but of the almost-was. The following story tries to sit with that feeling, not of loss, but of the nebulous space just before it’s clear what’s even being lost. It’s about the edge of a choice, a turning point that might never fully turn, and the quiet, almost imperceptible vibrations of a connection that simply… wasn't ready.
By The Night Writer 🌙 a day ago in Fiction
Finding My Familiar ...
Soul's heart beats flicker across the dappled white moonlight. Etches of a familiar in the fog of time, reverberate across the vast, expansive earth. My hands are scratched and brown, streaked with the marks of dirt I have dug with my thin, exhausted fingers.
By Susan L. Marshalla day ago in Fiction
Miracle In The Andes Survivors
On October 13, 1972, a chartered plane carrying a Uruguayan rugby team known around the world as the Miracle in the Andes. The aircraft, operated by the Uruguayan Air Force, was transporting members of the Old Christians Club rugby team from Montevideo to Santiago. On board were 45 people, including players, friends, and family members. As the plane crossed the Andes, turbulent weather and navigational errors led the pilot to misjudge his position. Believing he had cleared the mountains, he began descending—directly into the snow-covered peaks.
By Ibrahim Shah 3 days ago in Fiction
The Left Side at 7:42
Every morning at 7:42, the bell at Saint Alder’s rang once. It did not signal the start of school. Classes began at eight. It did not warn of danger. It was not loud enough for that.
By Lori A. A.4 days ago in Fiction
Dust, Rust, & the Sifting Sand Blues
Dust, Rust, & the Sifting Sand Blues "It’s not about losing; it’s about the sovereign act of starting again." This visual album is a 26-year "blues scheme" finally brought to life. I first built these dreams in a sandbox back in 2000, but it took two decades of sifting through the dust of the river and the rust of the city to truly hear the melody.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 5 days ago in Fiction
The Proposal . Content Warning.
“There’s something I’ve been w-w-wanting to ask you for a v-very long time.” He drops to one knee and gazes up at her— the crack of half-smile on his lips and the threat of a tear in his eye.
By Sam Spinelli6 days ago in Fiction
Relic
Every Saturday morning I write her a letter in place of a cup of coffee. The kettle can wait. The stove can click itself awake without me. What matters is the scrape of the chair across the tile and the pen uncapping with that soft, hungry pop, like the day taking its first breath.
By SUEDE the poet6 days ago in Fiction
Sumimasen, Silent Rules
In Japan, unspoken rules guide every action. No one explains them, but everyone instinctively follows. "Sumimasen" is a Japanese word often used to say “excuse me,” “sorry,” or to politely get someone’s attention. It hints at the Japanese cultural focus on politeness and consideration for others.
By Lori A. A.6 days ago in Fiction
When Hurt Changes Hands
The first time she said it, he believed her. They were at the kitchen table. Late. The overhead light was too bright, the kind that exposes flaws. She had just finished telling him that he was exhausting to be around, that his sensitivity made everything heavier than it needed to be.
By Jesse Lee6 days ago in Fiction
"Denial Is Not A River In Egypt"
Stanley and Robin were on the verge of divorce, so Stanley suggested they see a marriage counselor. Robin made the arrangement. She called the office, and there was an opening for the next day. It was meant to be.
By Denise E Lindquist7 days ago in Fiction
The Steep
"Is the water boiling?" "Not yet. You always ask too early." I prefer the sound of it beginning. The low hum before the rattle. It is as though the house were waking up.
By Edward Smith7 days ago in Fiction
Terms and Conditions Apply
The first time it happened, Mara was cutting limes. She was in the kitchen at work, the small one behind the café where the air always smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and burnt milk. Her phone lay face-down on the counter beside her apron, silent. She hadn’t touched it in ten minutes, which already felt rebellious.
By Jesse Lee8 days ago in Fiction