Series
Stitch: The Wire Song.. Content Warning.
The winter hunger isn't a rumble in your belly; it is a hollow, driving madness that consumes your entire mind. For six grueling months, you haven't been a girl named Sara. You haven't worn your heavy hiking boots or thought about a home back in Maine. Something deep and unexplainable broke inside your psyche under the weight of everything that you carry, and you fled, trapped entirely inside the thick, striking coat of a fox.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
Stitch:The Alpine Crimson
The biting, sub‑zero wind howling across the Swiss Alps didn’t just freeze the skin; it carved straight into the bone. For miles in every direction, the landscape was a blinding, desolate canvas of white and jagged grey peak. The winter air was so thin it felt like breathing shattered glass, carrying nothing but the lonely roar of the wind and the constant threat of an avalanche.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
Stitch: Winter Freeze of '96
The regional BMX track outside of Orlando was a chaotic, dust-choked ring of adrenaline and family friction in late October of 1996. The heat was sitting at a sweltering ninety-two degrees, the thick Florida air smelling heavily of fried concessions, melting tire rubber, and copper-rich dirt. Ted sat on a folding lawn chair near the starting gate, a pair of dark aviators hiding his critical gaze as he watched the brackets warm up. Next to him, Lisa was meticulously organizing the cooler, ensuring the sports drinks were perfectly packed in ice.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
Stitch. Out of Season
After four weeks of trying to stitch herself back into a life she barely remembered, Sara Foxgrave starts to realize that whatever followed her home isn’t done with her. Maine is supposed to be safe. Normal. Predictable. But when a summer flower blooms in the dead of October, Sara learns that reality has no intention of staying in its lane.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
Nothing To Lose Part 8
Unable to find their second victim, Jonas and Danny split their focus, and Jonas ends up in a dangerous situation. Part 8 Footsteps echoed through the building, bouncing against the vaulted ceilings as the sounds rose from the marble floors. There was only one person sitting in a pew. An older woman, come to pray for her ailing husband. The priest was at his altar, working on a sermon and barely acknowledging the door to the church opening. He looked up, just long enough, that he could see that it was Michael. Father Michael had returned.
By Jason Mortonabout a month ago in Fiction
Just a Taste Part 14. Content Warning.
Ch 14: Reward Dylan December 20th, 2024- Woodside Motel- 9:20 PM Isabella awoke, although barely, from her hypothermic slumber. Her eyes were glassy; partially unfocused like an exhausted child, or maybe a human-like doll. A startling appearance to behold, but at least she's alive.
By Rain Dayzeabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
Curtis slowed to a crouch, his processors analyzing the terrain. The obsidian ridge acted as a natural Faraday cage, a jagged spine of volcanic glass that could mask his signal if he could reach the base of the cliffs. But between him and the ridge lay the Salt Flats—a blindingly white expanse of alkaline crust where there was nowhere to hide. To a thermal drone, he would be a black inkblot on a white canvas.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
Curtis didn't waste the second of disorientation. He rolled off the bed, his servos screaming as they fought the lingering effects of the dampening field. The room was suddenly plunged into a dim, flickering twilight, the only light coming from the dying embers of the television and the bruised purple glow of the Oakhaven evening filtering through the grime-streaked window.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
He hit the asphalt in a roll, his palms scraping raw against the grit. Behind him, the window of Room 12 glowed with a flickering, sickly orange light as the electrical fire he'd ignited began to feast on the moth-eaten curtains. He didn't look back. He knew the geometry of the parking lot by heart now—the oil-stained patches, the leaning telephone pole, the way the gravel transitioned into a soft, treacherous silt near the tree line.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
The afternoon sun beat down warmly against the fine, white grains of sand as Curtis sat cross-legged near the shoreline, the rhythmic crashing of the turquoise waves providing a soothing, hypnotic soundtrack to his thoughts. A gentle ocean breeze rustled his hair, carrying with it the salty tang of the sea and the distant cries of circling gulls. He looked down at the two plastic cards resting in the palm of his calloused hand, catching the glare of the sunlight reflecting off their glossy surfaces.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
The exodus began as the first light of a bruised dawn touched the rim of the plateau. They moved in a long, silent line, a procession of the broken and the beautiful, carrying their salvaged treasures and their youngest children. Soren led the way, his limp more pronounced but his head held high. He didn't look back at Anchorage, the cliffside sanctuary that had been their only home for a generation. To look back was to invite the longing that the facility used as a hook.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
