Fiction
The Seventh Hour
The Seventh Hour The town of Eldergrove was known for its silence—a kind of stillness that hung over it like an unspoken rule. The townsfolk spoke in hushed voices, moved with purpose, and never lingered outside after sunset. It was a place where secrets nested in every shadow and every clock seemed to tick just a bit slower. But the most unsettling thing about Eldergrove was the ancient clock tower that loomed over the town square. Its hands had been frozen at seven o'clock for as long as anyone could remember.
By Himansu Kumar Routrayabout a year ago in Chapters
Neverchangeable | Chapter 3
<< Click to read from the beginning (Chapter 0) < Click to read Chapter 2 On the security camera app installed on my cell phone, I watch the nothingness on the screen. In front of me, Farley walks across the bridge. It’s the same easy walk he’s had from since when we were kids. He doesn’t look back which makes it easy to take a moment and dip into my pixelated reverie. The cabin is black and grey except for the clump of dim white glow near the bottom corner of the screen. No sound comes from the room, no footsteps or crackling of a wood-burning fire from when Farley and I were kids. Even in the middle of the day, the room on the screen is midnight dark.
By sleepy draftsabout a year ago in Chapters
Neverchangeable | Chapter 2
<< Click to read from the beginning (Chapter 0) < Click to read Chapter 1 I look to you, slumped in the corner, as if awaiting your approval. My one remaining eye has adjusted more now. I can see more than just your rubbery skin, neon with death in front of me, and the single, shiny eye of the camera. I can make out the moose head I know is there, the overstuffed loveseat, the long, leather sofa under Auntie Rachel’s watercolour paintings. The ones she made when she got brain cancer. I can see the radiation on those paintings, green and luminescent, sparkling like the snowy landscapes they depict. The radiation poured from her pupils as she transferred the images from her mind to the coarse paper. Snowy hills, like clean, fresh starts, the radiation underneath only visible to me. Like two weeks from now, when the tourism season will officially be over, when winter will come, and here you and I will be. The two of us, alone, at last. Like it should have always been.
By sleepy draftsabout a year ago in Chapters
Neverchangeable | Chapter 1
< Click to read Chapter 0 Farley won't stop fucking around with his hunting knife. The sound sets my teeth on edge. The bridge has transformed over the two years since I sold it, most of the change happening within the last one. The limestone has been reinforced, no longer crumbling at random intervals, and signs have been put up at both ends with detailed directions on how to get through the forest safely and with ease. Different trails are marked with either green, orange, or red lines to allow tourists to select their difficulty. None of the trails are truly difficult anymore, though. None, except the unmarked ones. Farley’s face twists in disdain when he sees the sign, wide and dummy-proof.
By sleepy draftsabout a year ago in Chapters
Neverchangeable | Chapter 0
I smile up at the camera. A past version of me, a ghost version, sits hunched over a laptop in a dark room and watches the grainy, bluelight images move across his screen. I picture being that other version of me right now, the one that doesn’t exist, staring blankly, hungrily at the scene. Finally, I hear him think, something different. He hasn’t realized it’s us yet – me, him – and so he laps up the image. Two slumped over figures, one barely human anymore, the other a black-and-white night vision phantom of a man, smiling at the camera. His one eye glows, a white ring of two-dimensional fire that burns into the lens. The other eye is a wet slit, open, gooey, dripping, the membrane now a soft, stretched sock drooping over the eyelid, the kind of sock Farley and I used to hit each other with, with tennis balls dropped down in to the toes, the kind you used to hate. I shudder, look sideways with my one eye at the barely human figure slumped beside me, at once the man in the night vision scene again. You would not have approved of this. Not one bit. I look back at the camera, attached to the nose of the moose Farley had killed when we were fourteen, the camera I put up after Dad died. You would have been mortified. Would have called me indecent. I would have told you, it’s called being smart. You and I both know, you would have seen through that.
By sleepy draftsabout a year ago in Chapters
From Prosperity to Ashes: The Middle-Class Homeowners Facing an Uncertain Future
Sylvia Sweeney and her husband, Bob Honeychurch, were living the American Dream. In 2009, they purchased a charming three-bedroom home in the picturesque foothills of the San Gabriel Valley for $780,000. Over the years, as property values in Los Angeles soared, their home became more than a sanctuary—it turned into a significant investment, with an estimated worth of $1.6 million at the start of 2024.
By mureed hussainabout a year ago in Chapters
The Orphans in the Woods
After Rohan filled the bag with all the batteries, flashlights, and candles he could find he zipped it closed. Then he walked around the house again feeling a combination of tired, stressed, and worried. His thoughts were racing. He peeked from behind the curtain out of the living room window and saw the darkness of the night. Mom's 65 Mustang was parked in the driveway. He hadn't even noticed that the car was there when he and Gertrude got home from school. He saw the full moon and the light beam glaring from it. He remembered his mother talking about the names of faces of the moon. He remembered his sister talking about werewolves who go crazy when the moon is full. Then he started thinking about the money they had put together so far. He sat back down on the couch and re-counted.
By Shanon Angermeyer Normanabout a year ago in Chapters
Glass Winter | Ch. II
Sevt heard a stream in his sleep. He smelled grass. The trees rustled. A memory came into focus of a long log cabin against a verdant drape from somewhere high above, its door opening onto a small clearing and its creek. Birds flew overhead with their song, and a golden-haired woman watched the water. A child in her arms shared her blue eyes.
By Andrei Babaninabout a year ago in Chapters
The Orphans in the Woods
While Rohan was in the living room sorting through various supplies in the wheelbarrow, Gertrude was in the kitchen straining spaghetti noodles. She opened a can of tomato sauce and found a jar of parmesan cheese in the refrigerator. She set the table for her and her brother the way she had always done every night for her mother. They had chores. Her chores included setting the table, clearing the table of the dishes, putting the clean dry dishes back in the cabinet, and sweeping. Her brothers chores included taking the garbage out, helping Mom bring groceries in and put them away, cleaning the bathroom, and general maintenance when Dad wasn't around like changing light bulbs or making sure the grass or snow wasn't blocking the driveway. They were good obedient children. They believed in God and they loved their parents. They had been taught well at home and in school even though Rohan had only begun 4th grade and Gertrude had just started 2nd grade. They were intelligent children, excelling in their school studies without complaining about the various disciplines they were being taught.
By Shanon Angermeyer Normanabout a year ago in Chapters
The Orphans in the Woods
Rohan was 9 and his sister Gertrude was 7 when they lost their parents. The year was 1970 when the tragedy happened and the siblings became orphans on the run. They had been living in Branchville, New Jersey in a lovely 3-bedroom house with their parents - Stefan and Gretchen Hamberg. They were a happy family. Everything seemed just right. Stefan had a good job as a trucker. Gretchen took care of the home and children. Rohan and Gertrude rode the bus to school Monday through Friday. On Sundays, Stefan was always home for morning church and evening dinner. Life was good. Until the dreadful August day. It was the last date that Rohan would remember for any significant reason. August 18th, 1970. That was the day when Stefan and Gretchen were murdered.
By Shanon Angermeyer Normanabout a year ago in Chapters
The Shadow Wolf - Part 9
Racing through the tunnels, his feet pounded on the stone floors as he followed her scent. Desperation filled him, fearing for her safety. Suddenly, it hit him like the proverbial lead balloon. The minute he rescued her, he’d be part of the resistance. Was he ready to be a traitor?
By KA Stefana about a year ago in Chapters
