Extensions Of The Conscious Mind
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MaduroEm andamento47m
Última atualização qui, dez 8, 2016
Dreams, Such a simplistically quaint concept. Now however imagine for a moment that perhaps they were not, that the lives of individuals long before your time had now become your own. the countless physical scars once belonging to what are now nothing more then rotting corpses deep in the Earth, melded to your flesh, the pain of lifetimes seared into your mind. "But such things are impossible" i can already hear you telling yourself, perhaps if you knew what i know now you wouldn't be so quick to hold on to such dismissive notions. I have experienced things that perhaps no man ever should have, seen sights not meant for mortal eyes, and by the end of it all with the odds stacked against me survived indefinitely. This is my story, centuries of knowledge culminating in a single moment that inevitably will be forgotten amongst the swirling sea of time, ironic really if you think about it, though i take a perverse solace in that fact.
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❝𝓣𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓴 𝔂𝓸𝓾❞
When two parents in Russia begin to worry about their quiet son, they tell themselves it is nothing. Boys speak late sometimes. Some children are simply shy. But in the late 1940s, silence feels heavier than it should. Though he was not quiet by choice, perhaps it was safer that way. In a time when neighbors listened through walls and governments listened through wires, many preferred silence over sound. So when they hear of a man, a "miracle doctor," they call him one who specializes in children who are "lacking," and they allow themselves hope. Five months later, hope returned, with a black case delivered to their door. It is filled with money. Their son is gone And on top rests a single note. "Thank you."
NOCTUARY: A journal of my dreams
What if your dreams weren't just dreams, but a second life you live every night? Be warned: what you read here could change the way you sleep forever. NOCTUARY is the logbook of that parallel life. It is not a collection of fantasies, but the raw-and at times terrifying-narrative of a soul that leaves its body each night to venture into the world. These are inexplicable chronicles of dreams: experiences in real places, with real people, and the strange ability to return to bed at will. But the return is never complete. The border between worlds is permeable, and something always seeps through. Each awakening is a race against forgetting: to decipher the last night's revelation or warning, to understand how it's possible to return not just with memories, but with proof. Sometimes, it's with a bit of real dust on your feet. These stories immerse you in a reality where the rules are broken and the questions become unsettling: What is consciousness when it can leave the body? And what is the real world when you can bring back fragments from another? After reading this, you will never sleep the same way again.
That October Night
"Maybe dreams do come true after all. Even dreams we chase at midnight hours, Shorts." At least Ray had dreams to chase because I ran away from mine. My dreams aren't the kinda dreams I could just wake up at midnight and chase 'em. I have nightmares. The kinda nightmares that don't only occur when my eyes are closed. I have the kinda nightmares where my ex-boyfriend is the ghost. Even states away his actions still haunts me whenever it desires. Both day and night. I don't chase my dreams. My dreams chase me. ❣️❣️ 📌 📌Originally called Actions Speaks Louder Than Words 📌Completed September 19th 2020Concluída
The Backrooms: Essence of Desolation
Once, the world still meant something. People weren't hollow strangers, trust wasn't a cruel illusion, and freedom flowed as freely as water. Now drinkable water is scarce-and freedom even scarcer. Every step forward costs more than I can give, yet I keep moving, even when surrendering to the endless night would be easier. Why do I keep pressing on through these familiar alleys and shadowed corridors, where only death or desolation waits? Why am I carving these words into the crumbling face of an old concrete wall? When did my hand turn black? And how long ago did it become too late to turn back? ---------------------------- Yoooooo! What's up liminal lovers and clinical schizos! This is a rewrite of a story I made in the past that will likely have a different plot and generally be a thousand times better! Thanks to @_pepperleaf for being my amazing editor! Anyway enjoy the story, Love you guys! -LiminalOne
Hotter Than Love
Fushimi dreams of the past. Of days filled with a light even brighter than the sun. Why he'd taken it for granted then, he didn't know. But it was what it was and time travel had yet to exist, a least for people like him. Sleep was the only escape to the past, to any illusion of happiness he had left. The same could not be said of Yata, the star of his subconscious plays. But he could fix that, couldn't he? He was the only one who knew Misaki enough to get under his skin. And under he would crawl, until his black infection ran through Yata's veins thicker than blood. He would not let him forget. Hate burned hotter than love, right?Concluída
Thin Skin
I am someone who wakes up afraid to cleanse her scars in the warm rain of a pouring shower. A heart anxious the steam hugging the bathroom mirror might just wipe away her camouflage. I am someone who becomes no one as the drain between my feet drinks the last of my alter ego. I am a woman with skin drenched with hues of angry tones, and fingers shaking to perfect the truth. Pretty, nude powders I pat myself dry with in hopes of painting the beauty I once saw. That flawless sanctuary however, never found in the foundation. I used to fantasize that, if I was good enough, the man I had made to fall madly in love with me would keep me forever. Protect me from everything. Die if it meant I lived. Chase me even as I woke up older. For I had the alluring talent to make my lovers stay. A caramel look full of mystery, passion, and wit. I had the consuming ability to pull on eager souls because I wore humanity's standards and for that, I was brave in the idea of unconditional love. Until there came a day I no longer loved myself.
Nightmare
"Dreams. Everyone human has them. Some believe in them. Some think it's a pigment of their own imaginations. It's soothing to see yourself in a beautiful world. And it leaves you full of hope when you wake up. But there are days when you won't have these sweet dreams. No more beautiful worlds with bright sunsets, sweet flowers and rainbow bridges. Instead, you see pain, horror, gore and darkness. They wake you with a fright and leave your bed wet with sweat. And these are known..........as nightmares. But this is not a nightmare you wake up from. This is everlasting torment. This is my story............... my nightmare." Candace once beautiful world is turned into an everlasting doomsday as bio-hazardous gasses are released into the atmosphere, Turning all mankind into walkers. Undead man-like creatures that now roam the earth. A single bite from a walker and you join the parade. With her parents now walkers, Candace remains earth's last hope for survival.Concluída
The Revelation
In the beginning, there was death. The darkness flows from hues of purple and orange, the moon rising to kiss the sun's rays one last time as the darkest cloud of night I've ever seen falls over our tiny haven. I catch Will's face from the side of my vision and my heart tightens slightly. The tick of his jaw wouldn't be noticeable for anyone but me. His best friend, his lifeline. A solemn tear forms in my eye as he wipes his face, another tear falling for the family he lost. I love him. Utterly and desperately so, but, there's nothing I can do about that. The ultimate forbidden fruit, if you will. I reach to comfort him and he doesn't respond. I open my mouth to speak and he looks my way, but the gleam in his dark brown eyes hits the moonlight just right and I fall. My voice escapes my throat and I can't do it. I've tried for years to tell him. 10 years, actually. All this time, I hopelessly remained devoted to a ghost who had given the best of himself to a fiery red-head with a sassy personality and the body of a supermodel. For 10 years, I held to the desperate thought that maybe, just maybe, he'd be someone I could count on. Instead, I watched him marry my best friend, smiled as they welcomed their son. Stood, holding that beautiful boy as his mother was in the first round of executions after the beginning of the Revelation. Helped heal Will's wounds in the aftermath. Cried, clutching the tear-stained shirt of my best friend as his son took his last staggering breath in that first harsh winter. The guilt of my emotions crawl through me. My heart twisting in regret, guilt, desperation, and grief. I loved my best friend. She was so much more than that; she was my family. In this dystopian quick read, join a group of people desperate to recapture their freedom and end a tyrant's reign.Concluída
When two parents in Russia begin to worry about their quiet son, they tell themselves it is nothing. Boys speak late sometimes. Some children are simply shy. But in the late 1940s, silence feels heavier than it should. Though he was not quiet by choice, perhaps it was safer that way. In a time when neighbors listened through walls and governments listened through wires, many preferred silence over sound. So when they hear of a man, a "miracle doctor," they call him one who specializes in children who are "lacking," and they allow themselves hope. Five months later, hope returned, with a black case delivered to their door. It is filled with money. Their son is gone And on top rests a single note. "Thank you."
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