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Family Saga

Iron Taste on the Tongue

By Jamie F. Bell

The Silverwood estate lay under a thick, unyielding blanket of winter. The sky was a vast, bruised grey, threatening more snow. Wind whistled through the skeletal branches of ancient oaks, carrying the scent of pine and something else – something cold and metallic. Two teenagers, bundled against the unforgiving chill, navigated the frozen landscape, their boots leaving temporary indentations in the pristine white.

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Superhero

The Petal and the Resonant Frequency

By Leaf Richards

The plant was Linda’s greatest failure. For fifty years as a botanist, she had coaxed life from the most stubborn seeds and resurrected flora on the brink of extinction. But this thing… this thing was a silent, emerald insult. It had been a gift from a former colleague, discovered in a geological sample from a deep-ice core. It had leaves like polished jade and a stem like coiled wire, but in the five years she’d owned it, it had not grown, not wilted, not changed in any discernible way. It just sat in its pot in the corner of her coffee shop, radiating a profound and ancient indifference.

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Coming-of-Age

A Concession to Frost

By Jamie F. Bell

The wind, a raw edge against the skin, swept through Central Park, carrying with it the faint scent of woodsmoke and a crystalline silence. Fresh snow, too fine to hold a print for long, dusted the skeletal branches of elm trees and settled in drifts around the iron benches. The late afternoon light, a pale, anemic thing, struggled to push through the low, bruised sky, casting long, indistinct shadows that stretched across the frozen pathways. It was the kind of cold that seemed to seep into the bones, but also sharpened the senses, making every crunch of ice underfoot a declarative statement.

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Western Style BL

The Tarmac Shimmer

By Jamie F. Bell

The coffee cup rattled in its saucer as a heavy body slammed into the side of their booth. James flinched, sloshing the black, bitter liquid onto the formica tabletop. Two truckers, beefy men with anger-contorted faces, were shouting, their voices a raw counterpoint to the bland pop music leaking from the diner's speakers. One shoved the other, a clumsy, powerful movement that sent a rack of blueberry muffins scattering across the worn linoleum floor. This was not the quiet, anonymous stop he had been hoping for.

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