Series
Scalpel, Stat
The siren rises and falls, at exactly the right pitch to set my hairs on end, and pit my teeth against each other. It feels claustrophobic back here, as if the walls of the ambulance are closing in on me. Beads of sweat break out on my face, and I can feel my breath coming quick and ragged.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Stabbed
Here I am bleeding out on to the pretty redbricks of the High Street, when a familiar face looms into view above me. It's pale, almost luminous, and framed by very sleek black hair. Her lips are dark, and her eyes glitter. Questions spool through my mind in quick succession, but none of them get snagged on my tongue. Is it bad? Am I going to die? How long have you had a face? I don't have to ask who she is, of course. I'd recognise her anywhere. It's so rare that characters arrive in my head so fully formed, with such clear features. She really does have clear features, too. Like porcelain. She's not in her scrubs right now. I wonder if I'm going to make her late for work. She's wadding up some kind of material and holding it against the wound. It hurts, quite a lot actually, but it's a relief to have someone helping me, even if it's a... Well. "You might be lucky," she is saying, "It looks like your jacket was thick enough to take the worst of it... I can't guarantee that the knife didn't hit any organs though..." Her eyes are glittering more than ever and her teeth are lengthening. "Why don't you just leave me here. Ring an ambulance and go?" I press hard against the pad of fabric. "See, I'm keeping the pressure on it. I've seen enough movies. Go on. You need to go. Before..." She's going to lose it any moment. Maybe it's already too late. The way that smile is blooming over her face like that, those white, white teeth... "You wouldn't," I tell her, but lacking any conviction. "You can't. I didn't write you that way." "Shhhhhh," she hisses, and there's nothing soothing about it. Since when have any of my characters done what I wanted them to do? I'm a goner. The wail of the siren and the wash of blue light bring a wave of relief. My toothy rescuer has already melted away. I'm loaded into the vehicle by more people without faces. I'm almost used to it now. It maybe it's the hole in my side taking up all my concern. Faceless they may be, but they are efficient to a fault. Where are they taking me? Any chance they will take me home? My real home, I mean. There's a hospital not far from there. My heart sinks. I realise where they must be taking me. I think I'd rather have taken my chances with the vampire.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Dodge and the Elemental Water Ale
All feeling in Dodge’s legs vanished as he, with a full body shiver, stepped forth into the suddenly shockingly frigid waters of the Serpent's Teeth, sinking up to his knee before he whimpered in a manly fashion as his teeth tried to escape his jaws and chatter their way to shore. Cold? Arctic? Glacial? He'd been warned that the water temperatures here were unusually cold. And he'd prepared accordingly, or so he thought. But even after having downed a potion of Warmth, the freezing waters still leached his bodyheat in a fraction of a second.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
Nyx Sweetveil - The Shadowed Justice
The city of Cradlebrook breathed under the moonlight, a sprawling labyrinth of alleys, hidden corridors, and towering spires where power exchanged hands not by sword or spell, but through veiled whispers and unseen dealings. The monsters hunted and terrorized within the kingdom’s borders, clawing at its lands, but within the walls and halls of the capital, it was corruption that threatened to unravel the throne.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
Dodge Tanner and the Heated Hand
In the blaze-washed heart of Cinderhold, where tempers burn hotter than the black-glass forges and grudges are carried like treasured heirlooms passed down from generation to generation, there are things you just don’t do: insult someone’s lineage, complain about the incessant heat, or, gods help you, cheat at their favored game of cards, Red Rock Flow.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar: A Sacred, Surreal Quest for Belonging
What does it mean to live a life worth dying for? This haunting question echoes through every page of Kaveh Akbar’s debut novel, Martyr!—a work that defies easy categorization. At once a lyrical meditation on identity and a surreal odyssey through grief, addiction, and faith, Martyr! is a novel that dares to stare into the divine. It’s bold, wildly original, and brimming with emotional intelligence.
By Hamad Haiderabout a year ago in Fiction
The Faceless Ones
Something else is unsettling me, besides the people around me who act so normal considering they lack faces. It takes me a long time to figure out it's because they look familiar. Why? Where have I seen them before? No. That's stupid. I've never seen a single faceless person before in my life. How could any of them seem familiar? Maybe it's the clothes, then. The further go from the flat the more it seems that nobody appears to agree on what century it is, let alone what year. It's stupid, but I mentally latch on to a man dressed in a grand but dated blue tunic. He has a sword belted at his waist, and he walks with an arrogant swagger. He doesn't seem to attract any stares, but it's tricky to tell when you can't see anyone's eyes. He stands out for more than the bizarre costume. There's the hint of cheekbones there, and while it's still blurry, he's got a dimpled chin you could break rocks on. I can't see how he doesn't attract more attention, to be honest. He looks absurd walking into a tiny coffee shop. When he shifts his weight in the queue, the sword clanks. He catches sight of me out of the corner of his eye, and startles, recognition in every line of his stance. He bows, and moves aside, urging me to go in front of him. How does he know me? Or maybe he doesn't. Could be people with actual faces get treated better than royalty? l order a flat white, and the barista stammers, and refuses my money. Perplexed, but quite enjoying my near celebrity status, I find a table that gives me a good view of the place. l enjoy people watching anyway, but I think I'll enjoy it even more when the people I'm watching are watching me, with something like naked admiration the fuzzy blobs they have instead of faces. There are some real characters. A dashing gentleman in an expensive looking suit is reading a newspaper. A woman in a crisp police officer's uniform orders an artisanal sausage roll. A dark-haired kid walks past the window who looks a bit like me... Hey! That kid has a face! He's gone. A couple of young women dressed like nuns are sharing a croissant and sipping hot chocolate. They both look pretty clearly defined, as well. Not just for royalty then. I shouldn't stare, but there's something about them. Dragging my eyes away, I glance at others waiting in the queue, or sipping their drinks. It feels like there's an answer here, and I've almost got it. A jigsaw puzzle is going to start making sense any moment now, if I can just turn this piece to fit... I know these people. All of them. They're mine. I wrote them. + Thank you for reading 😁
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Selis Weaver - The Threadkeeper
The town of Haverford thrived in the quiet spaces between fortune and hardship. The wind carried the scents of fresh bread and tilled earth through the streets of Haverford, weaving between market stalls and bustling townsfolk. To most, the town was a simple place, hardworking, unremarkable, shaped by the ebb and flow of fortune. But one among them saw beyond the surface, beyond chance, beyond the unpredictable turns of life. Selis Weaver saw deeper. She did not believe in luck, nor chance, nor randomness. She believed in the weave, the intricate pattern of fate that bound every soul together. And she was its keeper.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
The Village That Answered No One
THE VILLAGE THAT ANSWERED NO ONE Written by Haroon Bahramzai Somewhere in the fog-soaked valleys of northern Europe, tucked between two forested hills where GPS signals fade and birds fly cautiously, there once stood a village called Eld hollow.
By Haroon Bahramzaiabout a year ago in Fiction
The Garden of Mirrors: A Tale of Two Thrones
Part I: The Echoes of the Orchard In an ancient land where rivers whispered secrets and mountains bore silent witness to time, there existed two mighty kingdoms, separated by a sea of sand and centuries of silence. One was Zahran, a land veiled in mist, where the people believed that dreams were fragments of lost truths. The other was Elburz, whose people trusted only what the eye could see and the hand could hold.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Fiction
