Tag "Psychology" - Works and Original stories

On the slope of life, under the boundless sky canvas, the apiary is spread out, like a forgotten memory in the heart of an old garden. Here, among the golden meadows, every morning ray of the sun gently awakens thousands of little workers, shrouded in honey mystery and the breath of blooming fields.

In a valley where the grasses bent under the wind like the sea under the caress of the moon, there lived a shepherd named Elias. His life was like a song, slowly flowing through time, filled with quiet iridescences of light and shadows.

In the ancient hall, lost among the shadows, there was a single candle. Her flame fluttered like the last breath of the autumn wind. She was the guardian of time, shining in a corner of forgotten memory.

The heart stops at the moment of touching, Eva shrinks even more, pulls in, tries her best not to cry; not now, not in front of her; and pounding furiously when the door of the Commander's room knocks. — The project that you have been told so much about on your favorite CCTV is not at all what it seems. If it's very rude," the Fifth says, thrusting her hands into the pockets of her hoodie, still trying to drive away the inner trembling, the frightened eared hare that has settled inside.

The majestic figure of the Oracle towers over the self-proclaimed God. Two pairs of black eyes were looking at him, piercing with their gaze. Frei smiles, seeing C's confusion, and says with obvious arrogance: «Miss Wiltshire said that you could handle this role.»

"Are you sure you're the alpha? I won't hurt you... honestly, I won't," Harry said in a low voice, hardly believing his own words. He reached for the blond's neck as if enchanted. Draco froze, slumped against the wall, unable to move. His consciousness screamed to run, but his body stretched to meet the lips of the strong alpha. "I'll just... listen to your scent," Harry whispered, "please don't be afraid "....

The scientist prefers not to confuse spirituality and science, making them the truth. He will not understand why artists try to draw with metaphors, and he will never understand why these stupid scandals and quarrels have more meaning than just an outburst of emotions.

It's told very little about Alastor Rushal. Where did he come from to Sevatar, why was left without tongue, why his lips is cuted up by a Sevatar's knife? Why is he so faithful to Sevatar, and why Sevatar so trusts him? We tried to eliminate that white spot.

!I'm from Russia! I translate my fan fiction from Russian. The translation may be inaccurate! Another rebirth in another world. The main character is not ordinary, but with oddities, in the form of a skeleton in the closet.

What should you do if the person you were emotionally attached to dies? What if this person was the only one who supported you in difficult times and even saved your life? Rengoku Kyojuro was not only Valerie’s mentor, he replaced her father, and became a ray of hope for her, in the darkness. But what if he died? Maybe find a new ray of hope?

n shadows deep, where echoes sigh, Life's hollow dance, devoid of why. A spectral waltz, in muted tones, A purpose lost, in silent moans.

There is a type of people who want to live without adventure, “there aren’t enough stars in the sky,” that’s what they say about them, and our hero is one of them, but at one moment everything changes, and your quiet and calm life turns into a series of events, which you wouldn’t wish even your enemy to visit.

- Just remember about me, - his phrase will quietly burst into her consciousness before Sylvie opens her eyes the next morning, and all their touches, dance and tender kiss will turn out to be just a sweet dream... - That's all you can do now.

In a quiet town, lost among the green hills, there was an old wooden church. With a firmament covered with streaks of time, it towered over the surrounding terrain, like an archaic guardian of centuries-old history. The roof, covered with moss and streaks, bent thoughtfully over the gray earthquake felt in the depths of the soul. This church was like an immortal metaphor for the loss to which the village was subjected.

The endless sea, broken into small drops, pours over my face. I feel every drop enveloping me like a gentle ghost, plunging into my madness. My thoughts are a bizarre dance of whirlwinds that never subside.

The city of chrome and glass woke up when the sun surrendered its superiority over the sky, and a dark veil rose above the horizon. The futuristic chatterbox known as Aura has begun its evening mood dressing. As a magical being, she did this every night -turning blocked audacious images into endless shadows and shades. The moonlight shone clear and pale, as if it were the last spark of hope in this abyss of an industrial monster.

Each of us has his own unique world, where the personality unfolds like a gallery of works of art. But not all the paintings are on public display. There are corners shaded by a veil of mystery, where the most personal, intimate part of the soul is hidden.

In the shadow of the backstage, where darkness dances in embraces with light, an amazing performance called "Buffoonery" unfolds. This is the theater of moments, where every actor — disguised by cunning and brilliance — plays his role in a magnificent symphony of pranks.

Darkness enveloped the room like a damp cloak that you carry through the night forest, blotting out the stars with your darkness. Only the faint light of the monthly radiance penetrated through the fabric of the curtains, spreading across the floor in quiet spots.

In the city of shadows, where echoes linger, Whispers of time, a mournful singer. Streets paved with dreams, now shrouded in gray, A symphony of silence, where memories decay.