Love
Time In between Time
It was never something that Terrance had wanted to do, not really. All his life he had wanted to be a civil servant, to aid, protect people because he genuinely craved connection and to feel as if he truly belonged somewhere. Only after he had spent years struggling to find himself and his meaning in life did he agree to join the scientific research team travelling to the north pole. It was stupid, he thought. Not the research team as a whole, but him being there. It didn't help that he was dealing with a terrible case of imposter syndrome in his daily life, but he knew he was only joining the crew because of his uncle browbeating him into being a part of the expedition. Even though Terrance was having a lot of internal doubts, he valued and respected the other members on the research team. Howard Menelaus, while not what one would call sociable was an incredibly intelligent man, and one hell of a cook. Terrance never knew how you could make simple canned foods taste so good. Elena Harding was incredibly funny, which helped make the expedition more palatable for everyone involved. Terrance only wished that he could return the favour and help her laugh the way she did for others. She also had a keen eye, and would make casual connections that the rest of the team missed. Last but not least were the siblings, Lenny and Georgia Sloan. Lenny and Georgia were the type of siblings that butted heads often, but always managed to be professional when it came down to what mattered most. It was nice that they could co-operate at least some of the time, because Terrance was getting sick of hearing them bicker about which movie in the Star Wars saga so many times before he completely snapped. Despite his annoyance at them, he couldn't deny their brilliance in the slightest, and whenever the team worked together, they always performed excellently.
By Noah Feanny5 days ago in Fiction
Feed my Petals of Allure
Unwind the depths of my liquid heat of burn. A soul abandoned recently, I am at merge with the flow of a lane way that ever folds and turns. Memories a replay: a montage of love’s residual bleak. Jyr’s absent steps trample tirelessly across our lost love’s memory.
By Susan L. Marshall6 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'Vil6 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'Vil6 days ago in Fiction
Into the Void
Sara dreamed of the ocean the way she remembered it as a kid — cold, gray, endless, the kind of water that didn’t sparkle so much as brood. In the dream, she stood at the shoreline with her boots sinking slowly into wet sand, the tide tugging at her laces like it wanted her to step closer.
By Syl De'Vil6 days ago in Fiction
Three Hours Behind You
You aren't supposed to be here. That thought follows you through the glass doors before they close behind you. The lock clicks. There should probably be something dramatic about the sound, something final and cinematic, but there isn't. Just a tiny mechanical click separating the sidewalk from the apartment lobby and turning a questionable decision into trespassing. Technically, you didn't break in. The woman carrying groceries held the door open. You thanked her. She smiled. Apparently, crimes of the heart begin with good manners.
By The Kind Quill6 days ago in Fiction
"You Are Here...?"
"The roar of the twin V-twin engines isn’t just something you hear; it is a violent, rhythmic thumping vibrating directly inside your ribcage. Your fingers are white-knuckled, cramping as you clutch the cold metal frame of the choppers. Your boots are wedged precariously between two massive Harley-Davidsons flying down a deserted desert highway in a terrifyingly tight formation under a surreal full moon.
By Vicky 'A' Blevins Reavis7 days ago in Fiction
The Wrong Room at the Right Time
You don’t know how you ended up in this room. You weren’t looking for it. You weren’t even looking for him. You were just walking — down a hallway, through a door, across a threshold — and suddenly you’re somewhere you’ve never been before, somewhere that feels private in a way that makes your skin prickle.
By Syl De'Vil7 days ago in Fiction
Stitch: The lore of Sara Foxgrave.
Sara didn’t even know why she went out there that morning. She told herself it was just curiosity, just wanting to see how far the construction crew had gotten on the new house, but really it was because she hadn’t come back here since she returned. Not once. The old willow tree still hunched over the hill like it was guarding Lake Downing, its branches rattling in the cold wind, whispering the same secrets they used to whisper when she and Birdi climbed it and pretended they were queens of the whole damn world. The lake hadn’t changed at all. But she had. It felt smaller now, or maybe she did.
By Syl De'Vil8 days ago in Fiction
" Dead Air...? ". AI-Generated.
The Frequency of Flesh The dashboard clock of Big Moma 109 blinked midnight, casting a sickly green glow over Duke’s knuckles as he gripped the steering wheel. Outside, the Texas blacktop was swallowed by a torrential downpour, the headlights barely cutting through the sheets of rain.
By Vicky 'A' Blevins Reavis9 days ago in Fiction
