Psychlcyan

Thomas gazed over the landscape from his vantage point: the maintenance door of an old clock tower standing tall over the city. The hands of the tower pointed to the time of quarter past eleven in the flashing light of the eternal storm. The city itself was a dark, Victorian metropolis that stretched as far as the eye could see with modified Tesla towers, looking like thorns growing from tree bark scattered across the landscape. Above, the sky was filled with black clouds and lightning: a side effect of the wireless electricity the towers produced. Thomas hadn't been in the clock tower for the view though. He was searching for his target, a

I seek to dream, to control my mind, yet when I dream I drift along. I begin to question the reality around me, and wonder if my mind's my own. Am I hallucinating, but unable to tell, because the only confirmations are those around me? Are those I speak with real themselves? Am I just dreaming my whole life? I say I feel helpless because I have no control, but in reality, I fear making all the wrong moves. If life is a dream, why doesn't it do what I wish? Or does it exist because I dream pain, and the pain sews the edges of reality together to keep the madman's mask from revealing his face, and like the mask, becomes the new face. I want to

There was a young man who feared the darkness. Every night, he would look in the darkness, and see horrors in every area he couldn't see: behind doors, beyond the window, inside the closet. The beasts he saw would appear no matter what time of day, it was always where he knew the darkest darkness was. Every day got worse, and it mattered not if he was with others or not. One day, he met a friend, one who could see spirits. What she saw wasn't a simple ghost following him. The thing following him only barely looked human; it was made of blackness, and had red eyes. It was never human though, it was a demon. It had been following him for his en

I look out, and see the sky, turning grey as the sun sets, sinking into the perfect black waters in the distance. Below my feet is ice, ranging from midnight blues, to pure white, making up the iceberg in the ocean I am drifting in. I stare at the glossy surface of the water, but it is too dark to even reflect my image. What I do see are shapes, the silhouettes of beasts. They never break the perfect still of the surface, but they continue to rise and fall, teasing the imagination with their enormous frames, inciting fear at the glimpses of their fangs and tentacles before drifting back into the darkness, where the light cannot reach them. I

I wake in the night, the once colorful walls now a dark grey and shadows of the darkest black looking like holes in reality itself. In this monochrome box that is my room, I feel terrified. I can feel something in the gloom, something that moves freely from shadow to shadow, something horrifying. I am unable to see it, but I know it is there, watching me, smiling at my fear. It stops, a few feet short of my bed; I cannot close my eyes, fearing it will attack the second I look away from the darkness. I know not what it is, or what it wants. I only know it is something that makes beasts scurry away in fear, and monsters slink to their burrows.

I drive along the midnight highway, my headlights the only ones I see. I drive alone, but the seat beside me has another soul I feel. It does not speak, but waits in silence, content with just my company. The road is black, but it is not pure, as bloodstains become more frequent. I ponder what has bled and when, with deer being the easy answer, but still I wonder if all these stains are not from something different. I start to think that the one beside me knows if that's my destiny. As I glance to my side, I fear that a mistake's been made, and sure enough, in the darkness, the answer has abandoned me.

I wander a strange landscape, monsters wandering in the distant nightfall. I choose to hide in an enormous, derelict tube, certain that it is safer than the dark wasteland. I am unable to rest, knowing what is outside, and I feel that something else hides with me, deep in the perfect blackness of the tube, and I wonder if I have merely traded one horrid fate for another. I hear dripping, but more than that, I hear breathing, barely audible. As it gets closer, my heart beats faster, I can't move, or even breath, paralyzed with fear. I make out movement in the darkness, and I want to run. As I see the vague outline of something beyond imaginati

I approach the basement door, knowing that all that lies below are discarded objects and emptiness. However, what I see in my mind is a face. The ceramic face of a child, staring at me with empty eye sockets from the bottom of the stairwell, in the center of the blackness. What I sense behind the door in the darkness, is a monster, wearing the mask, a beast of claws and malice, one that knows only how to hunt and kill. It is a being of darkness, one that wants only to rend flesh and drink blood. I have yet to open the door, my heart telling me to stop. I finally ignore the warning, and twist the knob. I see no face, but I feel the beast. Near

None of us are better than anybody else. Some of us are raised to think that there is somebody or something better than us, someone or something that did everything that we owe our existence to. But what makes such a thing better than us? If you are about to fall off a building, and somebody saves you, is that person automatically better than you? Many believe that a "God" is perfect, and that makes him better than us. If god is perfect, than how come his most famous creation, life, is so flawed? The train of thought that led to it most likely went something like this: "I'll create plants! They won't fight and won't hate! It'll be perfect!