Series
The Riverside Road — Part Three
I awoke in bed, gasping for breath, drenched in sweat. Darkness still blanketed my room. No birdsong, no sunlight—just silence. Sleep was out of the question after that nightmare. I lit my lamp and reached for a book, trying to distract my mind.
By Matthew Yuabout a year ago in Fiction
Wasp
Isaiah had spent five years doused in that dusty archive perfume. Chasing whispers of rumours. Shadows of blood. It had been years of repetitive form-filling, phone calls, and formal FOI requests. At every turn: clerical errors, half-redacted reports, vanished case numbers. Not forgetting the perennial "Not At This Address". Why did he keep doing it? Why did he keep doing it to himself? Sunk cost fallacy? Also known as, "I've come this far" syndrome? How far have I come, though, really? The long-stale government trails had led to little. Adoption services gave polite refusals, and care records mentioned names he’d never heard, faces that didn’t match. He found out his mother was dead, and it was suicide. Pills. His heart clenched tight. The search almost ended right then, but he wasn't ready to admit defeat. He wasn't some moon-faced kid who thought he and his Da and his baby brother could be together like a Real Family, but maybe a conversation would be good. Maybe talking to his father could help him find his brother. Okay, maybe he did hope he could be a real big brother after all this lost time. A guy can dream, right? He visited libraries for newspaper archives, hovered near staff rooms in council buildings. Once, a woman slipped him a number on a napkin. "Try this," she said. "But don’t say I told you." It didn't come to anything, but it was wicked little moments of Hope like that, that's what kept him going. Like a gambler to the fruit machine, or the junkie to his fix. His laptop was bursting with dozens of tabs. Registry listings, alumni notes, and property records that hadn’t shifted in years. Every tip dissolved, but he kept going. One address he followed in the search for his father took him to Wolverhampton of all places. It turned out to be a man named John. John, not Joe. Wrong age, wrong eyes. John had been alright. Shook his hand. Called him "kid", but it didn't sound condescending the way he said it. "I hope you find him, kid." Like that. Isaiah's heart lifted a little inside his chest, made him walk a little taller. "Yessir," he said, holding out his hand to shake. "Thank you, sir."
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Chapter 6: DEAD ZONE EAST
Zair stood frozen, eyes locked on Aya’s pale face. Her breathing was shallow. The wires wrapped around her head pulsed slowly blue, then red. The machine had accepted her. But would it give her back? The boy clenched his fists. “I'll go in after her.” One of the masked men grabbed his shoulder. “You’re too young. The device won’t bind with your system. It needs full neural maturity.” “I don’t care,” the boy snapped. “She saved my life!” Zair pulled him aside. “This isn’t a place for bravery. It’s a place for loss.” His voice was low. Strained. “There are ways to wake her… but every path here costs something.” The taller masked man stepped forward. “There is another way. But it’s not for children.” “What way?” Zair asked. They turned down a hallway darker than the rest. The walls dripped condensation. Symbols were etched into the stone. Symbols from before the First Grid War. They stopped before a heavy, rusted vault door. The masked man tapped it twice, then once. It creaked open, groaning like something alive. Inside was a metal chair bolted to the floor. Cables dangled from above. Screens flickered, showing broken code. “This is the Trade Seat,” the masked man whispered. “Here… one life can be exchanged for another.” Zair narrowed his eyes. “You mean a sacrifice?” “No,” the man answered. “Something worse. You give up your truth your memory, your identity and she may wake. But if you’re rejected… both of you disappear.” The boy stepped toward it. But Zair held him back again. “No. If anyone does this… it’s me.” Before he could sit, the lights shut off. The walls buzzed. A humming tone echoed through the underground. The Spiral Door. It was unlocking. The masked men drew their weapons. “We’ve been tracked,” one whispered. A voice boomed from the hall: “Hand over the girl and the boy. The map is no longer yours.” Then a black cylinder flew through the doorway stuck to the ceiling. Boom. The explosion sent them flying. Smoke poured in like floodwater. In the chaos, Zair grabbed Aya. The boy followed. They escaped down the back tunnels. From the smoke emerged polished black boots. Seven men. No names. No faces. Each holding a glowing red card. Their leader, tall and cloaked in metal armor, spoke: “The Final Weapon is awake. Dead Zone East is ours.” He stepped toward the broken Trade Seat, then crushed it under his boot. The past had ended. Now began the war of memory, betrayal, and blood.
By Hazrat Usman Usmanabout a year ago in Fiction
Before I Knew His Name. Content Warning.
Rebecca sat on the nice, dark leather couch. It looked almost Victorian style but still had that modernized feel to it. She scrolled through Facebook as she waited for him. The man who would supposedly ‘change her life.’
By Mak Wintersabout a year ago in Fiction
Purpose Beach Part 1:
It is a well known fact that despite the vastness of the cosmos, finding a planet able to support life is not an easy task. Because of this, planets such as Earth are often viewed as places one could go if one wished to start a new life.
By Noah Motechinabout a year ago in Fiction
