thriller
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
The Wrong Chat
At 6:17 on a Wednesday afternoon, you are added to a WhatsApp group called Room 6 Pickup & Playdates. You are waiting in your car outside of your daughter's dance studio, where the windows are lightly fogged with the effort of eighteen tiny bodies giving their all in unison. You are watching your daughter, her black leotard hiding the sweat building on her skin. She focuses so intently, you can almost see the little vein that pops up on her forehead.
By Autumn Stewabout 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
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 man didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his canvas jacket and produced a small, handheld device that looked like a vintage radio tuner, though it lacked a speaker. He turned a dial with a slow, methodical precision, and the humming from the television shifted from a low drone to a piercing, high-frequency whine. Curtis felt the sound vibrate through his teeth, a digital needle stitching its way through his consciousness.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
"The diner," Curtis whispered. "Which one?" "The Rusty Spoon," the man replied, leaning back against the wall. "About two hundred yards from where you were lounging in the mud. You had a fever that would have melted a lead pipe, kid. I gave you some aspirin and a glass of water before you passed out. You’ve been out for two days."
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
