Series
Wrong Identity
"Why the gap?" Jake asked, his voice steady. "The memory loss. The motel. Why let me forget?" "The 'Jake' persona is the camouflage, Curtis. You can't move through a coastal town for three days looking like a Chief Logistics Officer for a shadow agency. You’d stick out like a sore thumb. We needed you relaxed, untethered—essentially a tourist in your own skin. It lowers the heart rate, keeps the subconscious from flagging the surveillance."
By Forest Green2 months ago in Fiction
Stitch: The October Vortex. Content Warning.
Dreams are doorways, and tonight one opens in the middle of Beaver Pond. October shouldn’t have sounded like this. Beaver Pond buzzed with cicadas — that thick, electric hum that only happened on the hottest days of summer. Crickets layered beneath them, frantic and constant, like the forest was vibrating. The air hung heavy, wet, pressing against Sara’s skin like a fever.
By Syl De'Vil2 months ago in Fiction
Stitch: The Lore of Sara Foxgrave.
Rubbing her eyes as she wakes, sitting in the corner of the hissing shipping vessel as it settled against the dock at Bath Iron Works, steam rising from its rust‑bitten hull like the ship itself was exhaling. Sara Foxgrave stepped off the gangway with her duffel slung over one shoulder, boots hitting the wet pavement with a dull thud. The rain was already coming down hard, soaking through her clothes in seconds.
By Syl De'Vil2 months ago in Fiction
Fill the Belly 🐺. Content Warning.
It's nice here. I guess. Clean anyhow. Not like that hostel. Got no weirdos tryina climb in my bed or put hands on me. That's good. There's food. Can be a bit dull and stodgy-like sometimes. The old lady doesn't know what spices are, I don't think. I've gone hungry enough times not to mind that so much. Food's food.
By L.C. Schäfer2 months ago in Fiction
Day 22
Although this is over a day and a half later, I stayed in the cavern for 30 fucking hours; the last seven were me sleeping, so I'm showing up now. Keep in mind that’s what I was told, as feeling well rested is not an experience I’m familiar with, now or ever. I woke alone on one of those cots in that eight-by-ten-foot bedroom/workshop. A light shone from the ladder hole, one that fucked with my migraine personally; it must be hell. The feeling that I could piss a new waste system in this cavern, outside of the hole I watered the first tree that was remotely at the top of a slope to get the least as possible on my bare feet. The sun was attacking me with solar lemon juice, so that was more out of my piss-outside-etiquette than I could concern myself with. Not that I could see at the start of my eyes adjusting, but this was a jaw-dropping sight to behold of the swamp glowing to life in a flurry of insects and birds bursting into the sky for the hunt. My frontal male nudity may or may not have been part of the shock for the others. However, once I regained my vision, my quest for the missing 30 hours began, not due to the nudity but— “What the shit happened to my god damn arm?! Bandaged like my stroking out trigger their stroking.”
By Willem Indigo2 months ago in Fiction
