Classical
Guard Your Battery, Lose Your Humanity
I used to think my phone was my lifeline. In Amsterdam, where rain slicks the cobblestones and bikes fly by like they're late for something important, my screen was the one constant: notifications buzzing through tram rides, endless scrolls while waiting for koffie at a brown café, quick checks at red lights on the Keizersgracht. It felt safe. Controlled. Connected. Until it didn't. By early 2026, I was exhausted in a way sleep couldn't fix. My anxiety had crept up quietly — heart racing in crowds, that low hum of dread when the battery dipped below 20%. I blamed the city, the weather, work. But deep down, I knew the truth: I'd outsourced my presence to a rectangle in my pocket. I was here, but never really here. So on a drizzly February morning, I made a rule that felt ridiculous: no phone in public for 30 days. Pocket, bag, or leave it at home — but never in hand when outside my apartment. If I needed directions or music, tough. The goal wasn't total detox; it was forcing myself to look up, be bored, and — if the moment felt right — talk to someone. One stranger conversation a day if it happened naturally. No forcing, just availability. What broke first was the fidgeting. Days 1–10: The Withdrawal Hits Hard The first week was brutal. At the Albert Cuyp Market, my hand kept reaching for my pocket like a phantom limb. Without the screen to hide behind, every line felt exposed. I noticed things I'd ignored for years: the way an old man feeds pigeons near the Nieuwmarkt, the precise rhythm of bike bells, the smell of fresh stroopwafels mixing with canal water. I also noticed people. Everyone else was doing what I'd been doing — heads down, thumbs moving. On the 2 tram toward Centraal, a carriage full of silent faces lit by blue light. No one spoke. No one looked up. It hit me: we're all in our own little bubbles, floating through the same beautiful city. By day 5, boredom turned into restlessness. Waiting for coffee at a spot on the Prinsengracht, I had nothing to do but watch. A woman in a red coat struggled with her umbrella in the wind. Our eyes met. She laughed first. "This weather," she said. I replied, "It builds character, right?" We chatted for two minutes about nothing — the rain, the best waterproof jackets. It felt awkward, electric, alive. That tiny exchange cracked something open. My anxiety didn't vanish, but it lost its grip for a moment. Days 11–20: The City Starts Talking Back Halfway through, the experiment shifted from punishment to curiosity.
By Shoaib Afridi7 days ago in Fiction
In Like A Lion
The murder of crows circled above, dread harbingers of his army’s advance. Pasha gazed at the hill before them taking in every curve as though it were a beautiful woman lounging on a chaise. Atop the promontory sat a squat square keep, its angles jarring against the rolling cliff. It was many generations older than Pasha dared hope to recite, the head and seat of some trumped up local lordling. All Pasha knew was that he lay in their way.
By Matthew J. Fromm8 days ago in Fiction
My Pen is
My Peace is My Pen Arguing happens again, the police at the door making reports of domestic abuse. Screams can be heard down the alley from my bedroom window. Gunshots ricochet from the bricks of my home, on the floor we sleep. We wake to see the damage, blood spilled in the streets where we played. Let’s see who can catch this football in the vacant lot of a church that supplied the neighborhood with supplies such as clothing and food. The neighbors running trap houses as kids wait for seven o’clock to hear Mr. Frostee tunes blaring from around the corner. I can remember begging for dollars from the locals just for a vanilla soft served cone. My mother always liked hers dipped. We get ready for dinner, another soulful meal prepared by the man and woman that loved us.
By Charelle Landers9 days ago in Fiction
One Table With The Wifem One Bar With Lads
One Table With The Wifem One Bar With Lads They sat across from each other in the low gold light of a Thursday evening. Two men who had known each other since their voices were breaking and their chins were bare. The pub was loud but not wild yet. The kind of noise that carries laughter and old stories without asking for trouble. Tom lifted his pint and said, answer me straight. If you had one free night, no work tomorrow, no excuses, would you book a quiet dinner with your lady, candlelight, clean shirt, proper conversation, or would you come here, shoulder to shoulder with the lads, and drink until the stories turn reckless. No middle ground.
By George’s Girl 2026 9 days ago in Fiction
