Excerpt
The Meadow and Garden
Do not plant the seeds of violence in your home, for they will never grow into the blossoms you desire. I walked with the Lord, and as I looked about me, I found myself in a meadow. He was no longer beside me. I had forgotten Him for a moment, and no more than a moment. I looked up.
By Chase McQuadea day ago in Fiction
May God Have Mercy On Your Soul
His breath was a steady rhythm of in and out as he stared intently at the high-definition screen sitting on the desk in front of him. His right finger tightened on the cold, metallic trigger slowly, he could feel a low hum in the air. She was just sitting there on her couch reading a book. Digital scopes on screen showed him that the weapon was aimed directly at her heart. His finger paused, readings said the weapon wasn't at 100% capacity yet. Heat waves began to show clearly in the air around her. It was even visible on his screen, but she only turned a page in her book and continued reading.
By Lolly Vieira4 days ago in Fiction
The Hotel That Remembered Everyone
The hotel had been closed for twenty-three years. So why did someone keep leaving fresh flowers outside my room? I first noticed them on a Tuesday morning, three days after checking into the Blackwood Hotel. A dozen white roses rested against my door, their petals glistening with water. Beneath them lay a small envelope bearing my name.
By Behind the Curtain4 days ago in Fiction
The 80s and 90s were crazy, dude!
Hello and welcome to the “I don’t know what to write about?” Corner. I think you call it writer’s block. Yeah, many writers get this annoying thing; you're not alone. That’s why you are here. I bet you are sitting in your favorite spot, laptop open, staring at your screen, trying to figure out what the hell you should write about.
By stephanie borges6 days ago in Fiction
Stitch. The lore of Sara Foxgrave.
The neon glare of the diner vanished in a flash of black and chrome as Sara throttled the Triumph out onto the main road. The storm wasn't letting up. It slammed straight into her chest—a wall of freezing water and biting wind that would have forced most riders to pull over. But Sara just tucked her chin lower into the collar of her heavy leather jacket, her boots locked tight against the pegs. Letting her helmet take the blasts.
By Syl De'Vil6 days ago in Fiction
Stitch. The lore of Sara Foxgrave
The night thinned out fast after the rush. A few regulars left early, muttering about the storm rolling in. Bane was one of them. He slipped out without fanfare, without lingering, just a nod toward Josh and a last glance at Sara that she pretended not to notice.
By Syl De'Vil6 days ago in Fiction
The Quiet Below
Niko dreamed of the cliff first, like always. — the same sheer drop of stone beneath his boots, the same clean horizon, the same measured wind brushing past him in steady intervals. He stood at the edge, hands in his pockets, looking down at the ocean far below.
By Syl De'Vil9 days ago in Fiction
Beneath the Wake
Bane dreamed of the ocean often, though his version was never gentle. It came to him in jagged pieces — cliffs carved by storms, waves that struck like fists, a horizon that never stayed still. The water was darker in his dreams, almost metallic, reflecting nothing but the faint shimmer of his own eyes.
By Syl De'Vil9 days ago in Fiction
