Doyle glanced around and nudged the fishmonger.
“Do you have the… goods?”
The fishmonger nodded. “Aye.” He slipped Doyle a parcel wrapped crudely in brown paper. “And, there’s a fine whiting,” he bellowed, pointing to a large, white fish lying on the table.
Did the man have to be so obvious?
The thick liquid coated Violet’s tongue.
They say that when a person loses one sense, the rest compensate. Although she never did figure out why her sense of taste exploded—figuratively speaking—after a bomb destroyed her hearing, killed Silas, and nearly killed her.
A small vibration tickled her fingers when Felix tapped the table.
The crunchy bitterness of the riptalion leaf takes a slight edge off my craving. Grasping my swollen stomach, shoulders hunched, I glance back toward the castle, pushing strands of golden hair out of my face. Here in our private garden, my husband and I grow the dark green, large-leafed lettuce
Read it now
Remy gagged as soon as the first spoonful touched her tongue. “You call this food?”
What should have been delicious soup was mildly acidic, flavorless, and the wilted airi leaves squelched in bitter bursts. She should’ve known how bad it would be by the scent, but she’d given Axel the benefit of the doubt. Wrongly.
Pale dawn light slanted through the windows when I arrived at the Full Moon Diner. Even this early, the place smelled like stale grease and burnt coffee.
Only four tables were occupied. An old man sitting in one corner, his face haggard. A young couple holding hands. A neat-haired man reading a thick book
The tears arrive in a vial of see-through metal foam: 100 ml, 800 Alu-dollars, and very hard to come by. Unless you know Miso. Miso knows the black market like no other.
“Whatta ya want ‘em for, anyway?” he says, scratching his artificial eyelid.
“Brecca. I miss him.”
What I keep to myself is that,
“Final meal choice, Dunbar. What do you want?”
Vic Dunbar lifted his head. He’d thought long and hard, trying to decide between steak and spaghetti. “Got anyone who can cook a good steak?” Nothing beat Lady Love’s cooking, but beggars couldn’t be too picky.
Kate, his prison guard, narrowed her eyes at him.
Havok Story Podcast, Episode 12: “Oath” By Nidheesh Samant
Read it now
Cool water rushed down Prince Edward Mackivoy’s throat, instantly reviving his parched mouth and spirits. It had taken him a week to cross the desert, and he had run out of water two days ago.
Grit still clung to the roof of his mouth, so Edward stuck his face back in the meadow stream
Apparently, poison tasted like cake. The M.A’s—aka Master Assassin’s—butler hovered over my shoulder as I stared down at the remaining crumbs. After I enjoyed every bite of the slice of cake, the butler victoriously announced he’d poisoned it.
What an idiot, a shrill airy voice whispered straight into my mind.
There’s always my reflection in the red puddle.
But tonight, there’s more. Tonight, there’s a man standing over my best friend’s dead body, and the barrel of his gun swallows me up.
He pulls the trigger, and I scream.
My eyes fly open, and the first thing I register is the rain plopping softly into the pot by my bed.
“I’m going to be eaten!”
A frenzied shoulder shake jolted me from sleep. I sat up suddenly, wincing as the baby in my belly gave a swift, protesting kick. My niece, Cha-mi, stared at me with wide eyes.
“Eaten?” I sputtered. “What are you talking about?”
Her eyes welled.
Recent Comments