Stream of Consciousness
Dreams That Decode
Jack sat at his cluttered desk, his tired face shadowed by the dim monitor light. He was a seasoned programmer who was well-known for his unwavering work ethic and unrivaled ability to solve problems. With disheveled hair and glasses roosted problematically on his nose, he was the quintessential coder, lost in the maze of his own creation. In spite of his standing for figuring out the hardest code, this evening he ended up at a stalemate. The lines of code before him obscured into a unintelligible wreck, a glaring difference to the unmistakable rationale that typically directed his psyche. Each tick of the clock felt like a thunderclap in his ears as the project deadline loomed menacingly in just two days. He felt the unrelenting grip of stress, which got stronger with each passing hour. Jack's certainty faltered, an interesting event for somebody who flourished under tension. However, the heaviness of assumption and the apprehension about disappointment overwhelmed him, taking steps to smash his soul.
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Heavy the crown that wears the man. Weighty the responsibility that said man wields. Said man being me. There is nothing throwaway or even remotely slight and insignificant about what I do. A well-timed comment and a like from me can lead you onto great and wonderful things around these parts. Eclipsing my own success entirely. Just one first place and a plethora of Top Stories are all I have to my name. While those I paved the way for and who I helped encourage and inspire, have overshadowed me.
Paul StewartPublished about 22 hours ago in FictionSeasons
I shiver as I pull open the heavy glass door and step out onto the frost-riddled porch. My breath rises like smoke in the cold, and the rushing of the creek fills my ears. Nearby, as I walk toward the gate, I hear the beavers splash in alarm as they sense my presence. I bury my hands deep in the pockets of my thin hoodie, and hunch my shoulders up protectively against my ears. The cold air bites at my cheeks and nose, and the tips of my ears already hurt. It’s barely 30° out, and beneath my foolishly bare toes, the dead brown grass twinkles with frost. The sky is too overcast to see the stars there, but with so many ice-stars beneath my feet, I am satisfied.
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In the famous game and television series, The Last of Us, humanity is on the verge of ruin from a fungal infection that turns people into zombie-like creatures. This situation might appear to be from science fiction, but it has frightening beginnings in the real world. The real-world fungus Ophiocordyceps unilateralis, which is also called the zombie-ant fungus, demonstrates the scary abilities that foreshadow a possible future danger to humans.
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Face wrinkled like rags, the little grey haired old man who once stood tree-length tall, now hunched over as if carrying a backpack of decade old bricks was bending his spine. Reminds me of how inevitably life passes.
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Antarctica, the southernmost land on earth, together with its icy character, is a possible cause of the most unimaginable catastrophe. The idea of its ice melting all at once at the same time makes one shiver, and that is the very reason. The outcome of such an occurrence would be nothing but apocalyptic, altering the shores, flooding the whole cities, and initiating chaos on a global scale.
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Picture yourself travelling through time, your destination a billion years in the past. The time machine sputters and howls, but then it stops working all together. Engaging emergence procedures sees the fearless traveler prepare for an unforeseen landing. It's not a matter of where they'll land, but when. Therefore, when they find themselves in the process of survival, setting up priorities for their existence becomes a crucial issue.
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On the morning of his thirteenth birthday, when his parents woke him up, he asked them to stop. "I don't need to wake up yet," said the boy. "I have my alarm. It will tell me when I'm supposed to wake up. And I'm too old for you to wake me."