Kara knelt beside the cracked soil, the late sun turning her field notes into an off-white color. Her seismograph had recorded another tremor. It was the twelfth one in three days. Not enough to warrant headlines, but enough to make her neighbors joke about the earth’s “mood swings.”
The data didn’t amuse her. The readout showed a rhythmic pulse, not random but consistent every 26.8 seconds. She ran the numbers again. That same interval had been recorded deep under the Gulf of Guinea. It was...
The townspeople said the storm was the worst in twenty years, but my mother said it wasn’t a storm at all. It was a reckoning.
Lightning cracked the church steeple the moment her water broke. My father, Nathan, tried to floor the old pickup through sheets of rain, but the road was a river, swallowing the tires whole. She screamed through the wind that bent the cornfields flat, whispered a prayer between contractions, and then cursed whatever god refused to answer.
By the time they reached the...
The morning coffee was burnt. Grace didn’t think much of it until she opened her banking app and saw a 47.92 charge to something called “Aurum Bridge LLC.” She didn’t recognize the name. She didn’t shop much online and hadn’t even ordered takeout this week.
At first, she assumed fraud. She called the number listed but got only static, then a single tone. It sounded like the hum between TV channels. The voicemail kicked in: “This line has been disconnected.”
Her eyes drifted to the transaction...
At the edge of Sycamore Bend, Avery sat on a moss-covered rock and waited for the first flicker of light. It came slowly. One firefly, then a hundred, their glow pulsing like a quiet heartbeat through the trees.
She’d heard stories from her grandmother about this place, how wishfire gathered here every midsummer’s eve. Make your wish before midnight, Gran used to say, but only if your heart’s clean enough to see the truth. Avery never believed it until tonight.
The air rippled. The fireflies...
Characters:
Setting:
A small radio booth on the edge of town. The ON AIR light burns red through the dark.
A low electrical buzz fills the silence between raindrops.
[Lights up.]
LEANN sits alone, rubbing her throat before pressing the mic button. The storm outside has grown heavy.
LEANN: You’re tuned to Station 9. Might be our last night on the air, the generator’s coughing again. So,...
Clara stood in the doorway, the headlights disappearing into the rain. The silence left behind felt cleaner than forgiveness. She didn’t cry this time. The photograph in her hand sagged from the damp, and Daniel’s smile melted into a blur she could no longer touch. August was over, and everything worth saving had gone with it.
Two hours earlier, he had asked her not to follow him. His voice held no anger, only exhaustion. “We’ve been pretending for too long,” he said. She opened her mouth,...
Ellen’s cappuccino machine sputtered a warning hiss, the kind it gave before surrendering to rust or resignation. She ignored it, as always, pressing the steam wand like the outcome still depended on faith.
Outside the café window, Main Street blinked awake with joggers in their sweat suits, dog-walkers dressed in winter clothing, and a man whose breath rose to the sky was stapling flyers about a missing cat named Buttons. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of burnt espresso and second...
The hum of voices never filled the cafeteria at noon, yet today it pulsed with a strange life. Mary sat at the long table closest to the windows, tracing circles on her tray with a cracked plastic spoon. Sunlight streamed through the tall glass panes, throwing sharp geometric shadows across the floor and lighting sparks against the chrome fixtures.
She had lingered after study hall, gathering her thoughts while the room echoed hollow. The serving line gleamed, trays stacked in perfect...
When Aunt Calitha announced she was bringing her “special gravy,” the family grew quiet. The last time she’d cooked, Uncle Norven’s eyebrows had vanished in a mysterious beet flambé incident. Still, no one dared to stop her. Family tradition demanded that everyone bring a dish, and Calitha’s confidence was unstoppable.
She arrived two hours later, wearing gardening gloves and carrying a pot that hissed. “It’s alive with flavor,” she declared. The lid rattled. Cousin Brindle swore it growled....
The cabin’s walls glowed with a pale, honeyed hue, that strange in-between color the old woman once called Blonde Wood. Drysla traced her fingers along the grain where sunlight seeped through cracks like a memory, warm but unwelcoming. She had built this place herself decades ago, though she could barely recall the rhythm of the hammer or the smell of the fresh sap in the icy air.
Now the boards whispered each night. They spoke in the dry rasp of bare feet brushing sawdust, the brevity of...
The clock on the dashboard blinked 2:14 am. And the highway stretched ahead in a straight silver line, vanishing into the dark. The world felt stripped of sound except for the hum of the tires and the soft rattle of the air vents.
Fog rolled in from the cornfields. It gathered around the car like smoke, swallowing the moonlight. The headlights caught something up ahead. A road sign, half tilted, its letters swallowed by rust. Then, a shape flickered behind it.
You slow down. The fog thickens...
Every night, the walls shifted a little more. Ysolde marked the changes with charcoal, tracing new cracks and the gentle curling of plaster like the opening of pale blossoms. The air had grown warm and damp, smelling faintly of moss and running fresh water, though the city outside knew nothing of either.
At first, she thought the loneliness was playing tricks on her. But then a pulse came, steady and low. It was a subtle vibration felt underfoot, like a heartbeat. Then the wallpaper rippled....
Fourteen years ago, Sophrona waited by the boundary stone as dusk crept through the hollow. In autumn, the sumac glowed crimson, and her laughter once rode the wind like birdsong. Now, the air shivered cold, and the leaves scattered, leaving the woods bare and honest.
Every year since, she returned to the same spot with a bouquet of faded wildflowers, uncertain if she did out of love or memory’s stubborn ache. The stone still bore the initials she’d carved as a child. Hers, and another she...