Adventure
Are You Listening
“Sam. Are you listening? We don’t have much…” Bryan Egar King was born on June 5, 1912. He was the oldest son of Melvin and Margaret Towns. Although the family name was Towns, his parents gave their firstborn son the last name King, hoping that he would amount to great things. Four more children followed, each carrying the family name Towns.
By David E. Perry28 days ago in Fiction
WINTERGLOOM: HOLLOWSGROVE COVEN
The rusting iron gears of the town square clock tower ground together, striking fifteen minutes to four. In Wallowshill, four o'clock wasn’t just for tea time; it signaled the start of twilight in the mainland—a warning Lindsay Newell had never once seen enacted before this year. In fact, it was a tradition she had mostly done in private, in the walls of her own home. Casting spells over fault-lines so witches could more easily traverse the Witching Worlds between Covens and veiled cities—cloaking cities, like this one.
By K.H. Obergfoll29 days ago in Fiction
WINTERGLOOM
Christmas lights hung on the porch as most houses did in December—but, it was late August. The thick black wires were tacked gently onto my copper gutters. I didn’t mind the slight intrusion, they went well with the wind chimes and glass bottle suncatchers. Of course, other houses on the block look pristine with their manicured lawns and freshly painted siding, but they were empty shells. Cold, sterile frames made from generic wood and drywall. I was different. I breathed. I felt. I saw. I knew.
By K.H. Obergfoll29 days ago in Fiction
Aurelius Ascends (part 2)
Geneva, Earth The arcane bunker, which, for secrecy and privacy, could be accessed only via sublevel two of the local hospital's main electrical backup department, was currently housed there for clandestine reasons. It had previously been accessible only via a series of 320 abruptly descending stone steps to reach the 192-foot sheer depth (58.5 meters), and was originally fitted with cheap wooden railings on both sides for stability, alongside electrically powered bulbs for lighting; those had failed over the years, making the trip down increasingly unreliable when making the descent to the bunker, particularly as the deeper down someone went, the more the stone walls and steps had been damaged by natural surface water seeping in through the rock face.
By Jonathan Townend29 days ago in Fiction
Stitch: The Flash-Freeze of '96
While the rest of the riders at the Orlando regional track were choking on dust and chasing brackets, Bane was trying to drown out the oppressive, ninety-two-degree Florida heat. It was late October of 1996, and the air behind the staging lanes smelled heavily of sunbaked asphalt, race fuel, and hot metal. He leaned his shoulder against the rusted frame of a tool trailer, spinning a pedal with the toe of his skate shoe. To everyone else, he was just another local kid killing time before the next moto. In reality, he was completely detached, exhaustion pulling at his eyes.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
Stitch: The Scent of Rain
You smell jasmine first. Not the soft, powdery kind that blows through open lace curtains in the spring. This jasmine is sharp, almost bitter, tangled with the thick, oily perfume of crushed neroli and the heavy, metallic scent of rain. It is the exact sensory loop that has haunted your sleep since childhood, a phantom aroma that always wakes you up with your pulse hammering against your throat. It is the only warning you get before you step into the clearing.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
Stitch: The Wire Song.. Content Warning.
The winter hunger isn't a rumble in your belly; it is a hollow, driving madness that consumes your entire mind. For six grueling months, you haven't been a girl named Sara. You haven't worn your heavy hiking boots or thought about a home back in Maine. Something deep and unexplainable broke inside your psyche under the weight of everything that you carry, and you fled, trapped entirely inside the thick, striking coat of a fox.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
Stitch:The Alpine Crimson
The biting, sub‑zero wind howling across the Swiss Alps didn’t just freeze the skin; it carved straight into the bone. For miles in every direction, the landscape was a blinding, desolate canvas of white and jagged grey peak. The winter air was so thin it felt like breathing shattered glass, carrying nothing but the lonely roar of the wind and the constant threat of an avalanche.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
Stitch: Winter Freeze of '96
The regional BMX track outside of Orlando was a chaotic, dust-choked ring of adrenaline and family friction in late October of 1996. The heat was sitting at a sweltering ninety-two degrees, the thick Florida air smelling heavily of fried concessions, melting tire rubber, and copper-rich dirt. Ted sat on a folding lawn chair near the starting gate, a pair of dark aviators hiding his critical gaze as he watched the brackets warm up. Next to him, Lisa was meticulously organizing the cooler, ensuring the sports drinks were perfectly packed in ice.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
Stitch. Out of Season
After four weeks of trying to stitch herself back into a life she barely remembered, Sara Foxgrave starts to realize that whatever followed her home isn’t done with her. Maine is supposed to be safe. Normal. Predictable. But when a summer flower blooms in the dead of October, Sara learns that reality has no intention of staying in its lane.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
Nothing To Lose Part 8
Unable to find their second victim, Jonas and Danny split their focus, and Jonas ends up in a dangerous situation. Part 8 Footsteps echoed through the building, bouncing against the vaulted ceilings as the sounds rose from the marble floors. There was only one person sitting in a pew. An older woman, come to pray for her ailing husband. The priest was at his altar, working on a sermon and barely acknowledging the door to the church opening. He looked up, just long enough, that he could see that it was Michael. Father Michael had returned.
By Jason Mortonabout a month ago in Fiction
