#psychological

'Love.' They say it's the purest form of giving without expecting anything in return. To be unconditional, understanding, and patient. Love can be the sweetest thing of all, but it can also be the most dangerous weapon in the world.

​Lisa was an ordinary teenager who loved going for walks and hanging out with her friends. She was helpful and kind-hearted toward everyone. Her parents were teachers; her mother was French and her father was German. Lately, however, misunderstandings between them had become more frequent. They couldn't find a common language anymore, and the air between them was thick with the threat of divorce.

There is nothing beyond our simple lives. This is what I'm told by mama and papa but I don't agree with them- they don't know this but I've already learned about the "Great Big Ones". Who are the Great Big Ones you might ask? well they call themselves "Humans" whatever that means... but to us they are akin to gods. Our lives revolve around them as much as it does food or water because they provide many things: shelter, food, water, and even protection against other bugs but with that comes a…

it starts with the reporter Dan come to ask my story, a no name reporter who wanted fame for himself but nobody, even police believe him enough to give him my story, so he secretly came into my room in the asylum, pretending to be my relative Dan:*coming to the cell* hey, your the guy named Alex, the white haired with red scarf you always hold like a lifeline? I heard you were hard to the staff I was barely awake in my white room y-yes?

College was supposed to be more fun. Especially considering how lame high school was for a quiet geek like me. These were supposed to be the best years of my life but so far, they'd been far from it. It was more of the same alienation I’d felt in high school. I don’t know, I guess I could only hope grad school would be better. Maybe if I went to a bigger university or moved to an actual college town with lots of culture, things would be different.

I’ve been thinking about that ever since. Weekend census was low. That’s the whole context you need. Mostly post-op and trauma overflow, half the lights dimmed in the corridors, the particular quiet of a floor that’s running on minimum staff. I was doing mobility checks alone, which is normal on a slow weekend. You develop a rhythm. Room to room, clipboard, chart check, get them moving if they can move, document, next one.

Why does conflict happen most often with those we’re the closest with? You would think that because we love our family, friends, and colleagues so much that we’d understand each other enough that conflict wouldn’t be necessary. But now I realize that because we show each other our vulnerabilities and flaws is why most major conflict occurs. With strangers, people are reluctant to open up to them and try to actively avoid conflict constantly, unlike with those we know all too well. When I was…

I used to walk with her, now I walk alone. We used to marvel at the beautiful houses together, now I look down at my feet. Each home we pass, a grain of salt in the wound, each house a reminder of what I lost. Even though it hurts, I still find myself continuing our walks. Sometimes pain is good. It reminds us that we are still living. I’d rather feel the pain of her passing, than not feel her at all.

“How the hell am I supposed to memorize all of this?” I texted my girlfriend. Century-old floorboards creaked beneath me as I paced back and forth nervously. “It’s gonna be fine,” she responded. “You got this.”

The moment the air dropped, everything went haywire. It felt like the room got smaller by the second as people dragged in empty breaths. A woman in diamonds tried to fan herself with a napkin and started crying when it ripped. The man beside her, in a bright velvet suit, clawed at his shirt until all the buttons flew off.

Part I

I actually liked Albany. Sure, the town was far from Georgia’s finest. Far from having any recognizable achievements other than rampant poverty and an exaggerated crime rate. But hey, it beat Bainbridge. At least, there was shit to do here, you know. And Alicia and I were never bored.

Feedback "This, too, shall pass." — Persian Proverb . . I woke up lying on the cold floor, my cheek pressed against splinters. No wind. No storm. No voices. Just quiet. Dry, suffocating quiet. Dust drifted in the shafts of pale light like falling ash. My mouth tasted like old rust. I stood slowly, my footfalls creaked loud in the emptiness, and wandered into the bedroom. There, resting on the bed, was my notebook.

Lucas Thorne gulped as he turned the corner and saw the rotting corpse of a house that sat at the edge of town. The house seemed twisted as its warped wooden frame sagged under its weight. Grime smeared the windows, reflecting only the fading light of dusk. As his eyes darted around, he confirmed one thing: he was alone. He reconsidered his choice to volunteer for the cleanup.

In the early morning my liquored mind found sleep. It wasn’t restful, but drowning and cruel, as if my own body resented me for finding a moment of respite. I woke after what felt like hours, but found it to be only a few minutes since sprawling across the old, stained couch. I sat upright, and felt my legs protest to yet stand. I thought it better to find the Marlboro man tucked inside the pocket of my pearl snap shirt- the pack crumpled from my restless crash. My hands shakily flicked the…

Call me tasteless but I enjoyed running Southern Fried Murder. Growing up, I loved horror movies, especially slashers, but as I got older I became more drawn to true crime… To the real life monsters walking among us. Like most people, I was initially drawn to the sensationalized Bundys and Dahmers of the world but the local cases scared me more. I became more intrigued by the murders and vicious crimes that happened in my neck of the woods here in the American South. These were also the crimes…

[This is not a story about objects] It's that time again. The time to clean up unwanted, unneeded things. It's not always fun, but not always that bad either. With each object there are memories. Those can be difficult to get rid of, though there are some simpler cases. For example, simple candy wrappers are easily thrown away, while something like stuffed animals that have known and given warmth are more difficult. I don't like to admit it, but it does get easier eventually.

“Where do you live, man?” I asked, reaching out to grab the Skol can left by the window. “Cuiabá.” “Man… that’s a beautiful city.” “You’ve been there?” “Yeah. Made a lot of deliveries in the capital.” “So why do you want to go to Nova Esperança?” “For my grandmother’s wake…” “I’m sorry, kid. Losing a relative right at the start of the year…” The young man lowered his head.

As darkness fell and the researchers at the Michigan laboratory finished their work and prepared to leave, something was happening that none of them were aware of. In one of the electric crucible furnaces, where they had been experimenting with creating new, extraordinary substances, something was bubbling restlessly. It seemed to have spiraled out of control, yet no one noticed. Almost all the staff had already gone home, leaving only Mike, who was notoriously slow and phlegmatic.

I was 32 when I married Ashley, the love of my life. The daughter of two wildly successful divorce lawyers, she carried her wit as well as she carried her elegance. Taking after her mother, she was blessed with strikingly Baltic features, and taking after her father, she was perhaps the sweetest and most genuine soul I had ever met. In other words, she was perfect.