A presence that has never spoken finds a way to press meaning directly into the narrator’s mind — not words, not sound, but something far more intimate. By the time the clock trembles again, the narrator realizes the truth: They’re no longer just being watched. They’re being answered.

After the clock reached 3:12, the world began to answer in ways that were almost polite — a series of small, deliberate replies that felt like someone learning how to speak through objects.

Keep going, keep pushing, you have to do more. To be the best means you never rest until death.. Enjoy!

A serialized descent into the spaces between thought and ritual. Part occult notebook, part stream‑of‑consciousness confession, this story follows a narrator who begins noticing patterns in their own mind — symbols, whispers, and intrusions that feel too deliberate to ignore. Each entry is a fragment, a clue, a moment of unraveling.

The engine died,leaving only waves and breath.Star slid into the cold water first,rifle sealed to tight, eyes locked on the dark shoreline ahead. The island felt alive—watching, waiting Each stroke seemed slower than the last , distance stretching unnaturally. Behind her the team followed in silence. No powers. No safety net. Just training. Just will. Star touched the sand and froze. The air shifted. Someone else was already there. And they'd been expecting them.

Why do certain thoughts only appear when it’s dark and quiet? In this note, I’m sharing the honest, unfiltered feelings that hit me when everyone else is asleep.

Dystopian! For all those who love to see a dark world but a spark of hope arise. A Prologue for a story that I'm beginning to write. Enjoy. 😉

Into the voice of nothingness. This is where souls meet when greeted by spirits/souls when we collide with love, passion, or death.

SECOND WAVE The second incident started on a screen, not in a freezer. Agent Erin Sato watched it unfold in a clipped video that looked like a thousand other clips. A shaky camera. A breathless voice. A man in a hoodie walking fast through a parking garage, carrying a hard-sided cooler with a biohazard sticker that filled the frame. The caption did the work the video didn’t.

The first alert came in as a nuisance. A single red square on a dashboard nobody checked after midnight. At 02:13, the sensor in Corridor C of the Huxley Biomedical Annex flagged a pressure drift. Not a full failure. Not a screaming alarm. Just a quiet deviation from baseline that lasted thirty seconds and corrected itself. Thirty seconds was enough.

The first packet left the building dressed as a safety report. It rode an encrypted tunnel that had existed for years, approved by lawyers, blessed by auditors, and ignored by everyone who trusted paperwork more than physics. At 02:21, the Huxley Biomedical Annex sent a file to a “secure partner repository.” It looked like a routine compliance upload. It even carried the right keywords. Incident. Containment. Exposure. The words that made people flinch.

The first alarm sounded like a mistake. It came through as a soft chime on the night shift consoles, then a flashing yellow box that no one trusted at 02:17. The lab ran alarms all the time. Doors. Freezers. Humidity. Pressure. A sealed building was a living thing. It complained when the wind shifted. But this one wasn’t wind. Mara Vance stared at the screen until her eyes focused. She wore a gray lab coat over a hoodie, hair pinned back, face washed pale by fluorescent light. She worked in the containment wing because she didn’t like surprises. Containment reduced chaos to numbers. Pressure. Flow. Temperature. Time.

This is a short poem about a discovery I made in the woods when I was young. It was frightening and stuck with me. I remember it as clear as the afternoon I came upon it. Not knowing what to do with the memory, I decided to turn it into a poem. To this day, I think about going back to find it again. Although that is many miles from where I live now.

The town of Maplewood sat nestled between rolling hills, where the sun kissed the earth with golden light each morning. To an outsider, it seemed like a place where dreams could bloom and where the air carried the scent of wildflowers.

“The Memoirs of Levy”, A series of parts I, II and III. The series is a collection of fictional poetry that consists of poems, narratives and daydreams of the life and experiences of Ms. Daila Brie Levy. The collection relays fictional aspects with some collaboration of the real life non-fiction stories of the writer. A mix of fiction, non-fiction, love, and fantasy.

The most dangerous people don’t look dangerous at all. The writer who blends comfort with dread. Soft aesthetics + psychological danger. Stories that feel safe… until they don’t.

The house that prayed in silence Chapter one, The Belles at morn This is the first chapter. Please give your thoughts

This is a short story on why the smallest decisions in your life could change them substantially. think before you act.

The sandstorm swallowed the sky whole. Dust rolled through Washington like a living thing, howling down empty streets, erasing the world in brown and gold. Then she fell from it. Star struck the pavement, and the street shattered outward in a violent ring. Smoke climbed like a curtain as she rose, untouched, black samurai armor drinking the light. One eye burned gold, the other glowed pink. Behind her, soldiers snapped to attention in perfect unison. Ahead, through thinning dust, the White House waited—already condemned.

Some call it art. Dear Diary. This is based on true life events. The older I get the less I know.