Series
Dodge and the Elemental Fire Ale
With an audible ‘Snap-Crackle-Ouch!’, Dodge’s worn boots skidded across the scorched rock beneath him, leaving behind the distinct scent of singed leather and nearly sending him sliding into the worst bath of his life in a pool of lava. He landed in a crouch, panting, the merciless heat of the cavern clawing at his lungs like an overeager blacksmith testing his forge.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
The Writing on the Firewall. Content Warning.
The first one - three days before - mene mene ~ "I don't give a shit! Get fucking rid of them! Have they all signed NDAs? Make sure they have, and then I want them gone!" Spittle flew. His bathrobe flaps, as if joining in with his rage. Martin snatched at the garment, and fastened it properly at his waist. "Sir, I don't think-" "Don't make me repeat myself," Martin snarled. It wasn't a good snarl, either. A snarl never is, but in this case it was because he isn't the type of man who could pull it off. He's a weedy person, awkward, and something unlikeable about him besides. Even all the work he's had done has failed to make him handsome. It's only given his skin a stretched, shiny, quality. Like a balloon. Apart from anything else, a snarl just looks out of place on his odd, porcelain-looking face. It hardly matters. His main feature, the thing he's really known for, is his obscene wealth, accrued as head of a tech giant company. That's not to say he can't do anger convincingly. Combined with his personal brand of weird, it lacks a rounded, healthy quality, and comes off sinister. Brittle. He blinked at last. "Just get them all out! I'll find out who it was from security footage." The thought, unspoken, but heard loud and clear: and I'll make them pay. "Shall I call the cleaning team, as well?" "Of course you fucking should! I don't want to have to look at that all day do I?" He gestured with one rubbery arm at the mess on the wall. Someone had painted a blue hand with one digit extended. Next to it, in the same colour, the words: your days are NUMBERED Martin seethed. How dare they! He was never hosting a party in his actual home ever again. + Martin wondered whether he should tell the police. This was a brief thought, and squashed fast. He had little more than contempt for law enforcement. Or laws, truth be told. Laws were for other people. Normal people. No, the party just got out of hand, that's all. And okay, it sounded a bit threatening, but it could have been aimed at someone else. In any case, he had security, didn't he? The cleaning crew had done their usual stellar job of cleaning up, except for the one thing he'd wanted scrubbed away more than anything. The words still sniggered at him every time he was anywhere near them. The head of the team looked like he was bracing himself when he broke the news to Martin that the paint simply wouldn't come off without damaging the wall. "Then damage it!" Martin hissed, barely holding his temper. "It'll cause a lot more mess, then you'll have to paint over it anyway," the man explained, braver than most. "It might be better to just paint over it." Some part of Martin wanted to grab the fussy little man by the collar of his overall and wail I just want it gone! but this time, he held it together. Instead he growled "Fine!" The crew left. Martin didn't thank them. He called Stuart. Stuart was a handyman. He was competent and reliable, the sort to suck air in between his teeth to make you think the job was impossible, or expensive, or both. Then he'd get on and get it done.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
The Underground.
This happened back when I was working as an investigative journalist. I was assigned on a project, but the site we were supposed to investigate was far from where I lived. Like, really far. A village way out in the hills. Isolated. No cameras, no networks. Just people and land.
By Ruth Girma about a year ago in Fiction
Easily Spooked. Top Story - June 2025.
Here I am again, surrounded by chintz, faced with tea and watery eyes, the bloody dog staring at me. What was it Mickey said? I ask the wrong questions. Could be he's right. Well, it's hard to ask the right ones when your stumbling in the dark. I'm on surer footing today. Literally. My shoes are new, a little stiff, but comfortable and dry. My mam always said you could tell a man by the shine of his shoes. "Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Jeffers," I say, pleased with how gravely professional I sound, despite the absurdity of the situation. Of course, Gail doesn't find it odd, not in the same way I do. It's got to be strange, being without your spouse after nearly thirty years. Not one half so weird, I'd argue, as knowing the dead man we'll be discussing will be waiting for me outside. "You said you used to work for the police," she said, "That's right, isn't it?" "That's right," I say, stirring sugar into my tea, "I left to work as a private detective." Her mouth is a thin line. She's sitting ramrod straight, and peering at me carefully. I'm not sure what she's looking for, but I try to display it. Between her and that huge hairy dog, I feel like there are eyes drilling into me from all over. Maybe Mickey's as well. I shift in my seat. "You don't look like a private detective," she says. "But it's good that you don't work for the police anymore. I don't trust them." She sits up even straighter at that, squinting at me as if daring me to react. "Well," I sip my tea, "Lots of people don't." There's a pause. Damn. I was too heavy-handed with the sugar. "Mrs Jeffers..." Is it Mrs? For a widow? Ah hell, what do I care... "Are you planning to make use of my services?" "I'm not sure. Could you help me, d'you think?" "I may be able to-" especially if your dead husband will be a bit more co-operative. "It would be useful if I could take notes. Is that OK?" She nods. It'd be easier to concentrate if your dog wasn't gawping at me. I turn to a clean page. "Just tell me about what happened. Take your time." "Well, I went into Mickey's study last night. I don't know why. It... It feels like he's in there." Her chin juts upward. "I understand," I try to inject warmth into my voice. I really do understand...better than she realises. "There was something he was working on... a case he never let go. He was working on it the night he... Anyway. It was gone. Someone had been in the filing cabinet and taken out papers and folders and spread them over the desk." "How did you spot that?" "I'm not sure... It just looked off." Okay. "If I work for you, Mrs Jeffers, what would l be investigating? Would I be looking into the disappearance of those files, or would I be taking on the case your husband was working on?" "They're the same thing aren't they?" "They could be. Wouldn't like to assume, though." "And what about my Michael?" she says, hardly above a whisper. Here it comes... "Could you confirm that he... I mean, was it really...." "I have some contacts. I could look into that for you." Her shoulders sag and wobble. "Mrs Jeffers, when you say you don't trust police... Who else had access to your husband's office?" "A lot of folks came by the same day you did. All old friends of my Michael, from his days on the force. Any of them could have gone in his office. I was hosting, you see. Going to the kitchen, you know. For hot drinks and whatnot." "I see." So what made me so special? What made you decide to trust me? She reads the question on my face. "You're the only one who couldn't have gone in that room," she says. "Why is that?" I'm genuinely curious how she's reached that conclusion. "Honestly? You had wet feet, and you left footprints everywhere you went." Oh, Mickey would have loved that. I sip on my lukewarm tea. "I'd be happy to help you Mrs Jeffers. I'll send you a copy of my rates, and a contract. I don't want to be pushy, but the sooner I can act the better." "I understand. You need payment from me so you can, oh I don't know, bribe people for information." "That doesn't sound like me, Mrs. Jeffers." I am all innocence. It sounds exactly like me. I write down her contact details and she sees me out. The dog still doesn't take his eyes off me. If I were easily spooked it would give me the heebie jeebies.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Dodge Tanner & the Lesson of the Lake
Dodge should have known better. Was there ever a better epitaph for his tombstone? Dodge was not a man easily deterred. Years of stubborn resilience had served him well—whether in navigating the treacherous cliffs of Lysia or fending off Tamsin's incessant boasting about her precious Dragonettes.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
After The Sunset The Stars As My Witness. Content Warning.
She loved how the sunset tainted the sky but not as much as the sunrise brought the earth to life. She hated what came after the beautiful sunset, the moon. The moon always forced her to brisk down nightmare lane. It had been many years since the incident and it always felt like she was going through it over and over again once the moon rose bringing the wicked to life. She was tired of the way she had been living, making men pay for a sin they didn't commit or know of but could you blame her they felt the closest to him she’d ever get to and she always thought she would feel better this way but lying to yourself can only take you so far, for her not so far. Even if she tried to avenge her innocence she would lose and no one would help her because she had become a monster like him feared by all the men and women in the neighbouring kingdoms. That was the closest thing to respect and power she had gotten to, fear. Meanwhile, in a kingdom that was oceans and lands away, her death was being plotted by a brave young man who wanted to make a name for himself since he couldn't do so with wealth. He had made empty brags of how he would kill her and bring her head as a gift instead of horses everyone was going to give to the King, the king of the kingdom that had welcomed him and his mother with open arms but closed hearts years ago. He didn't think anyone would dare him to because it was a dangerous journey and no one had lived to tell the tale, but that was exactly what the king wanted, her head or him dead. The king didn't care what would've happened, all he wanted was the young man’s mother as his wife and the only way was to cut the man out of the picture even if it meant death. If he went on the journey he was dead either way. It was either her wrath would kill him or the King’s betrayal using the gift to kill him. He didn't know this but he knew he wasn't going to die. Little did he know when his path finally collided with hers their lives wouldn't be the same and the sunset would be a reminder. She knew her days were numbered and that one day the sunset might set on her existence. Would anyone miss me or feel pain? She always wondered. She wanted to be accepted by more than just her family but no one dared to get to know her, unfortunately, her curse did not allow anyone the opportunity even if they wanted to or were daring. At least the curse is protecting me from the wicked men that roam this land, She would often console herself when she ran into her shadow on the walls of her cave or her reflection in ponds, or the ground that felt like it trebled as she walked because the animals and creatures would scatter when they sensed or saw her close. “Don't worry” The voices from her hair would hiss “They would have scattered before this” and they were right. Even before the curse when she was as beautiful as the nymphs and looked like the gods all came together to carve every inch of her with beauty and perfection, the animals would still scatter. However, as the animals scattered all the dangerous animals and creatures she would have scattered from before the curse bowed to her presence as Pegasus and Chrysaor followed behind her. She was Medusa, the gorgon, Athena’s once most valued priestess and He was Perseus, the demigod, son of Zeus.
By Ropafadzo Thokozani Zinyuke (Fadzo) about a year ago in Fiction
