Series
LHS Origins
In the summer of 1988, Montreal was alive with color and sound. The air was thick with the scent of fresh bagels from St. Viateur, mingling with the sweet aroma of maple syrup wafting through the open windows. Megan darted down Rue Saint-Denis like a firefly caught in a warm breeze, her laughter echoing off cobblestones that had seen generations walk by.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
LHS Origins
In the summer of 1988, five-year-old Megan sat crammed between her older brother, Jake, and their mother in the backseat of their blue Chevy station wagon. The engine hummed steadily as they drove through the lush landscapes of Vermont, heading toward Montreal. Outside the window, fields of corn swayed like a golden ocean beneath a cloud-dappled sky. It was a world alive with possibilities.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Just a Taste Part 16. Content Warning.
Ch 16: Just a Taste Dylan December 21st, 2024- Woodside Motel- 7:22 AM The two of us ate in silence. An undercurrent of tension and uncertainty filled the air. My hands trembled as I finished the tasteless eggs and slightly overcooked toast.
By Rain Dayzeabout a month ago in Fiction
WINTERGLOOM: HOLLOWSGROVE COVEN
The rusting iron gears of the town square clock tower ground together, striking fifteen minutes to four. In Wallowshill, four o'clock wasn’t just for tea time; it signaled the start of twilight in the mainland—a warning Lindsay Newell had never once seen enacted before this year. In fact, it was a tradition she had mostly done in private, in the walls of her own home. Casting spells over fault-lines so witches could more easily traverse the Witching Worlds between Covens and veiled cities—cloaking cities, like this one.
By K.H. Obergfollabout a month ago in Fiction
WINTERGLOOM
Christmas lights hung on the porch as most houses did in December—but, it was late August. The thick black wires were tacked gently onto my copper gutters. I didn’t mind the slight intrusion, they went well with the wind chimes and glass bottle suncatchers. Of course, other houses on the block look pristine with their manicured lawns and freshly painted siding, but they were empty shells. Cold, sterile frames made from generic wood and drywall. I was different. I breathed. I felt. I saw. I knew.
By K.H. Obergfollabout a month ago in Fiction
Aurelius Ascends (part 2)
Geneva, Earth The arcane bunker, which, for secrecy and privacy, could be accessed only via sublevel two of the local hospital's main electrical backup department, was currently housed there for clandestine reasons. It had previously been accessible only via a series of 320 abruptly descending stone steps to reach the 192-foot sheer depth (58.5 meters), and was originally fitted with cheap wooden railings on both sides for stability, alongside electrically powered bulbs for lighting; those had failed over the years, making the trip down increasingly unreliable when making the descent to the bunker, particularly as the deeper down someone went, the more the stone walls and steps had been damaged by natural surface water seeping in through the rock face.
By Jonathan Townendabout a month ago in Fiction
Stitch: The Flash-Freeze of '96
While the rest of the riders at the Orlando regional track were choking on dust and chasing brackets, Bane was trying to drown out the oppressive, ninety-two-degree Florida heat. It was late October of 1996, and the air behind the staging lanes smelled heavily of sunbaked asphalt, race fuel, and hot metal. He leaned his shoulder against the rusted frame of a tool trailer, spinning a pedal with the toe of his skate shoe. To everyone else, he was just another local kid killing time before the next moto. In reality, he was completely detached, exhaustion pulling at his eyes.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
Stitch: The Scent of Rain
You smell jasmine first. Not the soft, powdery kind that blows through open lace curtains in the spring. This jasmine is sharp, almost bitter, tangled with the thick, oily perfume of crushed neroli and the heavy, metallic scent of rain. It is the exact sensory loop that has haunted your sleep since childhood, a phantom aroma that always wakes you up with your pulse hammering against your throat. It is the only warning you get before you step into the clearing.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
