Series
Chapter 1: Dead Zone East
The wind was dry, but the ground still stank of gunpowder and blood. Not rain. Not life. Just the bitter memory of a war no one finished. A boy walked across the wreckage of what was once called District 9. Barefoot. Carrying a torn bag filled with nails, broken batteries, and silence. He looked fifteen but something in his eyes felt much older. Like he had already buried time. Behind him, a dark sunrise painted the sky the color of rusted metal. Ahead of him: the invisible border they called Dead Zone East. No gates. No warning signs. Just a long scar in the earth where the last bullet fell. The boy stopped near a collapsed transport truck, its wheels half-buried in red dust. He crouched down, pulled a sharp glass shard from his ankle. No sound. No cry. He’d learned early: pain was private, and silence kept you alive. The truck’s side door was marked with black spray paint: “Return means rot.” He didn’t flinch. He’d seen worse carved into people’s skin. A long whistle echoed from the ridge above: One long, two short. He answered back by tapping a broken metal rod three sharp strikes against the truck. Seconds passed. Then three shadows moved from behind the rocks. They came fast and low, like they’d done this before. The first was a girl with thick braids and bare feet. Maybe ten years old. She carried a slingshot and a pocket full of marbles that weren’t marbles they were tiny shrapnel bombs made from glass and wire. The second was a thin boy with burnt sleeves and a plastic bottle of gasoline. His eyes twitched every few seconds, like he’d seen too much smoke and never recovered. The third was the smallest just a kid. But his hands were bandaged, wrapped in cloth, and he held something sharp in each palm. They didn’t greet the older boy. Just stood there, silent, like pieces of something broken that still fit together. The boy stepped forward, unslinging the black bag from his shoulder. He emptied it slowly. Nails. Wires. Two matchboxes. And a piece of torn cloth with red lines drawn across it like a map someone wanted to forget. The little girl whispered, voice shaking just slightly: “Is this it? The place?” The boy didn’t answer. He reached into the bag again, pulling out a tiny folded note. He read it twice. Then dropped it into the dust. It burned quickly when the match hit it like someone had soaked it in gasoline. Then came the sound. A thud. Heavy. Close. All four dropped low. The girl raised her slingshot, trembling. It was a sack. Thrown from the ridge. The boy approached it slowly. Opened it. Inside: half a loaf of bread, six 9mm bullets, and a crumpled polaroid photo a man’s face, scratched out with red ink. The twitchy boy stepped forward. “What does it mean?” The older boy stared at the scratched face. Then turned to the others. “It means someone wants us to find him.” “And kill him?” the girl asked. He didn’t answer. He just looked toward the smoky skyline, where the old buildings leaned like drunks in the wind. The youngest asked, voice flat: “Do we even know his name?” The older boy stood tall. “Names don’t matter now. Not here.” “They lit the fire first.” “We just finish what they started.” The others said nothing. But their silence agreed. They picked up the gear. Loaded their pockets. Wiped dirt from their faces. And then, like ghosts, they disappeared into the smoke toward a city that erased their past but would never forget their return.
By Hazrat Usman Usmanabout a year ago in Fiction
Tick. Content Warning.
She’s lucky. I stayed. Through the ambulance, the coroner, the silence that settled like fog. Twice. I kept the freezer stocked. I filled in paperwork so all she had to do was sign it. I filled the gaps. I never asked for praise. That’s not what good men do. You show up. You keep showing up. Even when they forget to thank you. Maybe especially then. Maybe definitely. The daughter is thin-lipped. Sarcastic. Sharp. Mind and tongue. A little shrew, I think. The puppy fat that pads her hardly-there curves doesn't fool me. For a while I saw her eyes on me, and I thought she'd been the easiest to deal with. A look, a smile, and she'd be putty in my hands. Apparently not. The days of boldly coming to breakfast in thin pyjamas, and then, when challenged, sashaying back upstairs with a smirk... Those days are gone. Her eyes are cold now. Like a fish.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Heavenly Seas - Chapter Eleven
“This is your deputy captain speaking. Due to unforeseen incidents involving the disappearance of our Captain, Heavenly Seas will not be calling in Honolulu today. Heavenly Seas would like to assure passengers there are no strange creatures or illegal substances on the boat. But threat not, we will call in tomorrow and have another sea day. All excursions have been rearranged. Thank you for your understanding.”
By Chloe Gilholyabout a year ago in Fiction
Hearts against the Storm
Two weeks later, the world had changed — or maybe we had changed enough to see it clearly. The headlines were still buzzing. Investigations were underway. Arrests had been made in the land fraud case tied to my uncle’s death. My father's political allies had started to disappear like shadows under sunlight.
By Mehmood Niazabout a year ago in Fiction
Hearts against the Storm
The night was colder than usual, with a restless wind scraping across the empty roads as I rode toward the old farmhouse. I had no backup. No phone. Just the folded copy of the evidence Hamza had given me, tucked in my inner coat pocket. And a flicker of hope that somehow, this meeting — this trap — might be the end of it all.
By Mehmood Niazabout a year ago in Fiction
Hearts against the Storm
The sun had barely risen over the horizon when I opened my eyes in Hamza’s small apartment. The air was still, heavy with tension. Alya lay beside me on the mattress, curled up, clutching the shawl Hamza had given her the night before. I could see the bruise on her arm — Azeel’s mark. My blood boiled at the sight.
By Mehmood Niazabout a year ago in Fiction
Hearts against the Storm
The SUV disappeared into the dust of the road before I could even take a step. I stood there frozen, the world spinning around me. Alya had been crying. Her eyes had locked with mine. She wanted me to stop him. To save her. But I was too slow.
By Mehmood Niazabout a year ago in Fiction
Hearts Against the Storm
The first time I saw Alya, she was standing beneath the old mulberry tree in our school’s back garden, sunlight tangled in her hair, her scarf fluttering like a silent rebellion against the breeze. She was humming to herself — unaware, I think, that someone was falling in love with her from across the corridor.
By Mehmood Niazabout a year ago in Fiction
Punk Tactics
That night, everyone was in their own world. While Bob considered the new business venture, Louise was searching for a pair of party planners. She decided that like most modern teens, she would search online, scouring social media for any clue as to where they could be working for places they frequented. The search hadn’t gone so well, knowing much about those twins seemed like asking an impossible question. These twins are masters of staying under the radar, they were known for throwing wild parties, it makes sense and yet, they’ve managed to stay out of pictures, not even making it into the background of others’ posts. This search has been nothing but exhausting but mostly because Louise had spent the entire night stalking Tammy’s online accounts from her last year of high school. All the parties she’s weaseled her way in, all the obnoxious duck lips selfies, like, how outdated. Louise almost throws up just thinking about that. The generic teenage exposure felt like it was infecting her ever so slightly. A terrifying though, indeed. Gene sat in his room, sprawled across his bed with his trusted songbook in hand, going over past unfinished works and taking notes on new ideas. With the upcoming event he’s planning for, he found himself very self-conscious about his music, the lyrics, and whether he’s even good enough. Meanwhile Bob sits in the kitchen with Linda, he moans as he ponders all the unlikely scenarios of agreeing to franchise the restaurant.
By Dylan-Quinn Harrisabout a year ago in Fiction
Cub. Content Warning.
A lion doesn't want to raise cubs that aren't his, so when a new lion joins a pride, he kills all the cubs to bring the lionesses into oestrus. + The teachers say, You've been through a lot. And, Do you want to talk about it? I don't want to talk about it. Dad wants me to go and live with him, he says, I don't want to lose you, too, son. His eyes look red. But I want to stay with Ma. And Isaiah. Liza tries to boss me around, just because she's a bit older, and Ma stays in bed a lot, but apart from that it's ok at home. Kind of empty, I guess. Okay. Real empty. But sometimes, if I'm thinking about something else for a bit, I can nearly forget. It's like they're in another room. Not really gone. Not completely. I do like Isaiah. It's not like having Da around still. Although, he does sit in his chair. And sometimes he comes out of Ma's room in the mornings. Probably trying to persuade her to have breakfast. It's more like having an older brother. One who's alright. Decent. Mostly I stay because I can't leave Ma. She's been so sad since Loretta got ki- Since she died. And then. No. I said I don't want to talk about it, and I won't. Only. When I think about her. Ma. Kneeling by the cot and wailing like that. Like an animal or something. It feels like... I don't know. I can't explain it. Like the world is breaking apart inside my chest. I can't leave her, and nor can Liza. We talked about it and we agreed we have to stay. Please, Ellison, Da says. You'll be safer with me. I promise. I don't know what he means. We're safe enough. Aren't we? Liza and me. What happened to Loretta was an accident. And cot death can just happen, that's what they said.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
