Whispers Through the Veil by Olivia Salter / Drabble / Supernatural

 

Whispers Through the Veil

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 387

The first time I dreamed of Kenny, it was raining. I stood in the middle of a street that looked like our old neighborhood, except the houses were faded, like a painting left too long in the sun. The air smelled of wet asphalt and magnolias—his favorite scent.

Then, I saw him.

Kenny stood a few feet away, dressed in the same hunter green hoodie he wore the last time I saw him alive. His dark skin glowed under the flickering streetlamp, and his eyes—those deep, knowing eyes—held something unreadable.

"Kenny?" My voice was small, uncertain.

He smiled, the same slow grin that used to make my heart skip. "You remember me, baby?"

A shudder ran through me. Of course, I remembered. I had spent years trying to forget the way he left this world. The way the news of his death had shattered me. But here he was, standing in front of me as if time had folded in on itself.

"I miss you," I whispered.

He stepped closer, his movements fluid but otherworldly, like he was walking on air. "I came back for you," he said, his voice rich with something heavier than longing. "I had to tell you—I never stopped loving you."

My breath caught. "But you're..." I couldn't say it.

"I know." His hand lifted as if to touch my face, but he hesitated. "I should have told you before. Should have fought harder for us."

The dream shifted. The street blurred, melting into a memory—a night years ago, Kenny standing outside my window, begging me to believe in us. I had turned away, scared of the future, scared of how much I loved him.

Tears burned my eyes. "I loved you, too. I still do."

His smile turned sad. "Then let me go."

A cold wind swept through me, and I realized what this was. Not just a dream. A goodbye.

"But—" My voice cracked.

He shook his head, the streetlamp flickering wildly behind him. "It's time, baby. You have to wake up."

I reached for him, but my hands met only air.

Then, I woke up.

The room was silent except for the distant hum of the city. My cheeks were damp. My hands trembled.

But for the first time in years, my heart felt light.

Flawless by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Science Fiction / Supernatural

 

Flawless

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 600

Jade knew Malik was obsessed with perfection, but she never thought he’d turn that obsession on her. His voice was smooth, practiced, but there was something unsettling in the way his eyes lingered on her face. “You know, babe,” he said as they lounged in their sleek, glass-walled apartment overlooking Atlanta, “I’ve been working on a new serum. It could smooth out that little mark on your face. Make your skin absolutely flawless.”

Jade’s fingers brushed the coffee-colored crescent beneath her left eye, a mark her mother once called a kiss from God. A faint chuckle left her lips, but unease curled in her stomach. “I don’t need to be flawless, Mal. I like my birthmark.”

He sighed, tilting his head as if analyzing a scientific anomaly. “But imagine how much more beautiful you’d be without it.”

Her smile faltered. “I’m already beautiful.”

Malik kissed her forehead. “Of course you are. But perfection is power.”

That night, Jade lay awake, staring at the city lights flickering through the window. She had spent years loving herself exactly as she was. Why couldn’t Malik?

As weeks passed, his obsession deepened. He gifted her expensive serums, subtly left articles about laser treatments on her nightstand, and even edited pictures of her, erasing the mark so she could see how ‘perfect’ she’d look. Each time, Jade refused. But the way Malik looked at her birthmark—like it was a stain on an otherwise pristine canvas—began to chip away at her confidence.

One evening, Malik handed her a cup of chamomile tea. She took a sip, not knowing he had slipped a few drops of an experimental formula into it. “Trust me,” he murmured as she drifted into sleep.

Jade woke up light-headed. Stumbling into the bathroom, she gasped. The birthmark was gone. Her skin was eerily smooth—flawless, just like Malik wanted. But something was off. Her reflection looked... hollow. A perfect image of herself, but missing something vital.

Malik stood behind her, smiling, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “You’re perfect now.”

Jade touched her cheek, expecting relief, maybe even joy. Instead, a slow, creeping dread spread through her, sinking into her bones. It was as if a part of her had been stripped away, leaving nothing but a beautiful shell. Her mother’s words echoed in her head: A kiss from God. Her fingers lingered on the spot where it used to be, and for the first time in her life, she felt incomplete.

A week later, the side effects began. Her skin became eerily pale, then translucent. Dark veins webbed beneath the surface. Her body ached. Malik worked tirelessly to reverse the effects, but the damage was done. The woman who once radiated warmth now looked cold, artificial. Flawless.

One evening, as she lay in bed, weak and fading, she whispered, “You stole something from me, Malik.”

Tears welled in his eyes. “I was only trying to make you perfect.”

Jade smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I was perfect.”

The next morning, she was gone—vanished like mist, like she had never been there at all. But Malik would never forget the way she looked that last night, a ghost of the woman he once loved, destroyed in his pursuit of perfection.

And in the mirror, just beneath his own eye, a faint mark began to form—a coffee-colored crescent, shaped like a kiss from God. Malik’s breath hitched. His fingers trembled as they traced the mark, a curse etched into his skin. A deep, bone-chilling realization settled over him; perfection had demanded a price, and it had come to collect.

Blood in the Soil by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Literary Fiction

  

Blood in the Soil

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 596

The Alabama red clay clung to John Johnson’s boots, thick and heavy, like it was trying to pull him down. Rain had turned the dirt into something alive, something that swallowed footprints whole. He kept walking, steady and slow, his shoulders squared. The land stretched out before him, dark and wet, and it was watching.

Ruby leaned against the porch railing, arms crossed tight over her chest. The early light caught the sharp edge of her jaw, the same one their mother had when she was angry.

“That man ain’t gonna stop,” she said, voice flat. “He’s already decided it belongs to him.”

John kept his eyes on the fields, the pecan trees standing tall in the distance. A breeze rustled through the branches, but the air felt too still, like the land was holding its breath.

“He thinks wrong,” John muttered.

Ruby huffed. “And what if we don’t have a choice? What if the bank takes it first?”

John finally turned to her. His voice came low, steady. “The land don’t belong to us. We belong to it.”

Ruby stared at him, something unreadable in her eyes.

The banker showed up just before noon, the sun high, heat curling off the dirt road.

Mr. Whitmore stepped out of his shiny white sedan, his suit too clean for the land he stood on. He moved slow, deliberate, like a man who’d already won.

“Mr. Johnson,” he greeted, his smile thin, forced. “I was hoping we could have a little chat.”

John wiped his hands on his jeans and said nothing.

Whitmore sighed, shaking his head like he pitied them. “You’ve had time to think. We both know how this ends. If you sell now, you leave with something. Otherwise…” He spread his hands. “Well. The bank doesn’t do favors.”

Ruby’s nails dug into her arms. “We ain’t done fighting.”

Whitmore chuckled, like he found that funny. His gaze settled on John. “Pride’s a dangerous thing, Mr. Johnson. You don’t want to let it bury you.”

John didn’t flinch, but something in his jaw ticked. The shovel in his hand felt heavier.

Whitmore turned, stepping back toward his car. His polished shoes left shallow imprints in the mud. The ground clung to him, like it had a mind of its own.

John watched him go, eyes dark.

Ruby exhaled. “We can’t let him win.”

John nodded once. “We won’t.”

The storm rolled in after midnight. Thunder rumbled low and long, like something waking up.

John stood on the porch, bottle in hand, watching the rain hammer the fields. The pecan trees swayed, their branches groaning, whispering.

“You sure?” Ruby’s voice came soft behind him.

John didn’t answer. Just tipped back the bottle, the whiskey burning its way down.

Ruby lingered a moment, then nodded to herself.

She stepped off the porch, into the dark.

By morning, the story had already started to spread.

Whitmore’s car sat abandoned at the edge of town, door hanging open, keys still in the ignition. His footprints trailed into the woods—deep at first, then shallow, then gone.

Folks whispered.

Some said he ran, spooked by something only he saw. Others said the land had taken him, just like it had taken before.

John and Ruby didn’t say a word. They paid the bank, kept their land.

That night, John sat on the porch, watching the wind move through the pecan trees. The branches swayed, their leaves rustling, and for a moment—just a moment—he swore he heard something else.

A voice. Soft. Desperate.

A single muddy handprint smudged the bottom step.

Begging.

The 50th Gateway by Olivia Salter / Short Story / Science Fiction

 

The 50th Gateway

By Olivia Salter 

Word Count: 3,829

Darius Holt had always been drawn to the unexplained. For years, he had dug through UFO sightings, electromagnetic anomalies, and cryptic reports from long-forgotten locales. With his research partner Simone Harris, he’d come close to the edge of discovery but never fully crossed it. Most of the time, it seemed like the world of the supernatural was a game of smoke and mirrors—pushing you to the brink of understanding, only to leave you empty-handed.

But this time was different.

The Alabama woods stretched out before them, dense and wild, a place where even sunlight seemed hesitant to fall. They had come here searching for something. No one knew exactly where, but both of them felt it—the pull of a story left untold. They had been led by an anonymous source, one that claimed to know of a hidden place, a gateway—one of the 50 rumored dimensional portals scattered across the world.

Darius checked his compass. It pointed north, but he’d stopped trusting it a while ago. The needle fluctuated in a way that felt wrong. They were on the right path, but the air felt heavier now, as if the forest itself were pressing against them.

“Darius, look,” Simone’s voice cut through the growing tension.

She pointed ahead, where the trees parted to reveal a strange clearing bathed in an unnatural light. Darius squinted, trying to make sense of the scene. The air seemed to warp, as though a heatwave were rising from the ground. But it wasn’t the heat that made him uneasy.

It was the hum.

Faint, but there. It echoed through his chest like the sound of a distant engine, vibrating his bones. The closer they got, the more intense the sound became, until it was a full-body sensation. Darius felt his heart race, and for the first time in his life, he wondered if he was standing on the edge of something far beyond human understanding.

Simone stepped forward, EMF reader in hand. Her eyes widened as the needle shot off the scale, a confirmation of their unspoken thoughts.

“This is it,” she said quietly, almost admiringly.

Darius turned on his camera, the lens focusing shakily as the clearing in front of them shifted. The air bent as if space itself was liquefying.

Then, without warning, the ground below their feet rumbled, and the shimmer in the air became something more—something real. A tear in the very fabric of reality opened wide, jagged and alive, stretching and folding into itself as though trying to breathe. A flash of dark, incomprehensible shapes twisted beyond the threshold, and for a fleeting moment, Darius saw them—a collection of eyes, ancient and infinite, staring back at him.

And then a figure stepped through.

It was tall, its form shifting, flickering between shapes as if it had no true shape at all. The air seemed to bend around it, warping the space like a broken mirror. Its presence was a vacuum, pulling everything into itself. Its eyes—black as the void—locked onto Darius, and a coldness gripped his heart.

The figure spoke, though no lips moved.

"You are not meant to see."

The world around them snapped. The portal collapsed inward, and everything went silent. The hum ceased, and the air returned to normal—eerily still.

Simone took a cautious step back. “Darius—what the hell just happened?”

Darius stood frozen, his camera still running, but when he checked the footage, his stomach turned. The screen was blank. The recording was gone. His hands trembled as he lowered the camera. What was that thing? And why had it… disappeared?

“Did you see it?” Simone’s voice broke through his dazed state. “What was that?”

“I… I don’t know,” he muttered, his pulse still racing. “But I think it saw us.”

They returned to Birmingham, the memory of the portal still hanging between them like a thick fog. Darius tried to write it off as a trick of the mind, a shared hallucination induced by the oppressive atmosphere of the woods. But no amount of rationalization could quiet the sense that something had followed them. Something had changed.

For days after their return, strange things began to happen.

At first, it was subtle. Darius would look into the mirror, and for a fraction of a second, his reflection would lag—his movements slightly delayed, his expression twisted in a way that didn’t match his own. He would blink, and it would be gone. He chalked it up to fatigue.

But the glitches didn’t stop. They got worse.

One night, after he switched off the light in his bedroom, the shadows didn’t quite vanish. They lingered, stretching across the walls like dark fingers. His own shadow didn’t move when he did. He turned around, his heart racing, but there was nothing behind him. His reflection, however, seemed to twist, shifting slightly before returning to its original position.

Simone called the next day, her voice tight. “Darius… I don’t know what’s going on, but something’s happening to me.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, his pulse quickening.

“The lights. They flicker every time I look at them. And my phone’s acting strange—it won’t let me call anyone who wasn’t there that night. And last night… I saw a shadow at the foot of my bed. I turned the light on, but when I looked again, nothing was there.”

Darius felt his stomach drop. He wanted to reassure her that it was just stress, that they’d both imagined things—but he couldn’t. He had seen it, too.

“I see it too,” he said. “It’s like—something is following us.”

Simone’s voice was barely above a whisper. “We shouldn’t have gone there.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then, Simone broke the silence. “We need to go back. Whatever that thing was, it’s not done with us. And we need answers.”

Darius swallowed. “You’re right. We have to know what we’re dealing with.”

The woods felt wrong when they returned. They had done this journey together before, but now, everything felt… distorted. The path was the same, but it was as though they were walking through a place that had already been altered.

Simone’s hand gripped Darius’s as they neared the clearing, the air thick with anticipation. The EMF reader whined in her hand, a sharp signal that the portal was near.

“There’s something here,” she said. “I can feel it.”

The clearing was exactly as they had left it—the same shimmering, warped air—but now there was a new presence. A chill settled in their chests, deeper than any cold the night could bring.

Then the air parted, and the figure stepped through again.

It wasn’t the same as before. This time, the shape seemed clearer, more defined. It didn’t flicker—it hovered in the space between worlds, its vast, incomprehensible form a constant, gnawing pressure. The black eyes locked onto them again.

"You returned," it said, the words woven into the fabric of the air itself.

Simone gripped Darius’s arm tighter. “What do you want from us?”

The figure tilted its head as if considering her question. "You crossed the threshold. You are now between."

Darius's breath caught in his throat. "Between what?"

"Understanding," it chant. "And forgetting."

The words were a riddle, but they hit him with a profound weight. He had the sense that the thing was offering them an impossible choice—one that could unravel everything they thought they knew.

Simone looked at him, her eyes wide with panic. “Darius, we don’t have to do this. Whatever this is… we don’t need it.”

But it was too late.

The figure reached out with a long, skeletal hand, a silent command that felt more like a certainty. As its fingers brushed against the air, the clearing shifted again, the ground beneath them humming. Everything blurred, bending like a broken frame, as though the world itself had been skewed.

“Leave, or stay,” the figure said, its voice growing distant, as if it were already slipping away into the ether.

Darius’s heart pounded. Simone’s face was pale, but he could see the decision in her eyes.

“We leave,” Darius said, though part of him wasn’t sure they ever truly would.

The figure hesitated, then vanished into the void. The clearing, once again, became still.

Simone let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. "Did we… did we really leave?"

“I don’t know,” Darius whispered.

When they emerged from the woods, the world felt almost too quiet. The sky was a dull gray, the air still. They reached Darius’s car, but the moment he touched the door handle, something inside him twisted—a hollow ache, a sense that something was missing.

Simone climbed into the passenger seat, her gaze unfocused. "What just happened?"

“I don’t know. But it doesn’t feel over. Like we’re still… between.”

Darius started the engine, but the feeling didn’t go away. The trees blurred past them, and he couldn’t shake the sensation that someone—or something—was watching them from the shadows, from just beyond the veil of what they could see. The road stretched out in front of them, but it felt endless, as if the lines between one place and another were dissolving around them. The hum in the air was faint at first, a low vibration under the sound of the engine, but it was growing, building in the pit of his stomach.

Simone looked at him, her expression a mix of exhaustion and fear. "Do you hear it?"

He nodded, the hum now a steady, vibrating pulse beneath everything—beneath the car, beneath the world itself. It wasn’t just in their ears anymore; it was in their bones. The space inside the car seemed to warp as though reality was slipping through their fingers, and for a moment, the familiar landscape outside the window twisted into something foreign, something alien.

"Darius..." Simone’s voice cracked. "I don’t think we can go back."

He glanced at her, a pang of dread rising in his chest. "What do you mean?"

Her hands gripped the armrest, her knuckles white. "I don’t think we can ever leave. That thing… that portal… it’s still with us. I can feel it. I can see it in the reflection. The mirrors, Darius—they’re all wrong."

Darius turned his head sharply, his eyes drawn to the rearview mirror. It took a moment for him to register, but then he saw it. Behind them, in the reflection, the road wasn’t just dark—it was… distorted. The trees bent unnaturally, the headlights of their car flickering like distant stars. The reflection of the car itself seemed to pulse with the strange energy that had followed them from the woods.

Simone gasped, her breath shallow. "It’s like we’re still there. In the woods. Like we never left."

Darius slammed his foot on the gas, urging the car forward, but the road before them didn’t seem to lengthen as it should. The landscape stayed the same—stuck, a mirror of the other side, where time had broken. And behind them, in the rearview mirror, the figure—its eyes black as ink—was slowly emerging, flickering between the reflections of the trees.

"Stop looking at it!" Simone shouted, but it was too late.

Darius felt himself pulled, not physically, but mentally, as if the car had ceased to be a vessel of escape. The edges of his mind frayed, the strange sensation that he was both here and somewhere else took root in his consciousness. His heart beat erratically, not because of fear, but because he was no longer sure if his heart belonged to this world.

In the mirror, the figure stared, its face devoid of expression, its eyes vast pools of darkness.

Simone screamed, and the car swerved violently as Darius reached for the wheel. The world outside the car spun, and for a brief, terrifying moment, the fabric of reality itself seemed to unravel. The trees disappeared into an endless void, and the road twisted upon itself like a serpent devouring its own tail.

The car lurched, the tires screeching against asphalt that was no longer familiar. The air inside the car was thick, pulsing with static as if the very atmosphere was turning into something alien. In an instant, the road disappeared entirely. They were no longer driving through Alabama. The world outside the car was now a vast expanse of dark, swirling shapes—cosmic, distant, and unknowable.

Simone was gasping, her hands pressed against the windows, her face pale with terror. "Darius! We’re not in the world anymore! We’ve crossed over, haven’t we? We left!"

Before he could respond, the hum intensified. The car, the world, and everything in it collapsed into a single point, and the sensation of being outside of time—and perhaps outside of existence—consumed them.

---

XXX Part 5: Between Worlds

Darius awoke to a crushing silence. He opened his eyes, but nothing was familiar. The car was gone. The road was gone. There was nothing but endless dark, an oppressive void stretching in all directions.

His breath caught in his throat as he pushed himself up from the ground, the air heavy with an unsettling chill. He was no longer on Earth—he was in a place outside of time, a place where laws of reality had no power.

"Simone?" His voice echoed into the void, but there was no response. Panic surged in his chest.

Then, a movement caught his eye.

Simone stood a few feet away, her eyes wide, staring into the distance. Her body was rigid, unmoving, as though she were trapped in some unseen force. Slowly, Darius approached her, but the closer he got, the more the air around them seemed to distort, as if it was fighting his presence.

“Simone!” Darius called again, but this time, his voice was muffled, as if the very atmosphere had absorbed it. She turned to him slowly, but her expression was distant—almost… frozen.

Her lips parted, but instead of words, what came out was a distorted echo of the voice they had heard before—the figure from the portal.

"You are between," it said, not from Simone, but from the space between them. "You exist, yet you do not. You have crossed, and you will never return."

Darius’s heart clenched. "No. This isn’t real. We can’t be—"

Before he could finish, the ground beneath them began to tremble. The darkness around them began to crack, fissures appearing like broken glass. Out of those cracks poured more figures—tall, distorted shapes that flickered between dimensions. They moved with unnatural speed, their forms shifting like liquid.

One of them stepped forward, and Darius saw it clearly—a face, a mask of nothing, devoid of any recognizable features except for the endless abyss that filled its gaze.

"You have seen the truth," the figure intoned. "You were never meant to know."

In that instant, Darius felt the truth burn through him—the unsettling realization that they were no longer in the world they knew. They were in a place that existed beyond the human mind’s capacity for understanding—a place of no time, no space. A place where those who crossed the boundaries became lost forever, trapped between worlds that had no meaning.

Simone, her eyes wide with horror, reached for him. "Darius, we have to get out of here. Please, we have to—"

But before she could finish, the ground beneath their feet shattered entirely, and they were plunged into the void.

---

Part 6: The Truth of the Threshold

When Darius opened his eyes again, he was back in his apartment. The familiar hum of the refrigerator, the soft ticking of the clock, and the mundane noises of daily life greeted him. He sat up slowly, his head spinning. He looked around, searching for some sign that this was real.

But there was nothing.

He stumbled toward the mirror hanging on the wall, his breath shallow. He saw himself, but it wasn’t him. Not entirely.

His reflection was... wrong. His face was blurred, shifting, like the remnants of a dream struggling to hold its form.

And behind him, in the dim reflection, a pair of black, unblinking eyes watched.

Darius gasped, his heart sinking.

Somewhere, out there, Simone was still between—lost in the endless expanse where reality broke, where the rules of the world no longer applied.

And he would never be able to reach her.

The mirror flickered once more, and he realized the truth.

They weren’t just caught between dimensions.

They were trapped in one.

The reflection of Darius in the mirror shifted again, the blurry, inhuman face flickering like a malfunctioning image. His breath caught in his throat. He turned away from the mirror, a cold sweat breaking out on his skin. His pulse hammered in his ears as he staggered back, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The world around him felt off, like he was no longer truly part of it.

Darius stumbled to the window and looked outside, hoping to see something—anything—that felt like the world he knew. But the view was distorted, like looking through water, the streets below warped and the sky overcast with a strange, otherworldly gray. The faint hum from earlier returned, vibrating in his chest, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It was as if the very fabric of existence was unraveling, each thread hanging loose in the air.

His mind raced. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.

The memory of the forest, the portal, and the figures from that night flooded back in an overwhelming rush. He could still feel the pull of the void, the strange energy that had latched onto him and Simone. They had crossed into something far more dangerous than they had imagined. They had gone beyond the reach of Earth—and now, it seemed, they could never return.

There was a soft knock on the door, followed by a voice. "Darius?"

His heart skipped a beat. It was Simone.

He rushed to the door, flinging it open, half-expecting her to be standing there, her expression haunted but real. But no one was there. The hallway outside was empty.

"Darius?" The voice came again, but this time, it wasn’t from the hallway. It was a whisper in his ear, as if someone was standing directly behind him.

He spun around, but no one was there.

The hum in the air grew louder, filling his ears, thrumming with an energy he couldn’t understand. The apartment felt smaller, as though the walls were closing in, suffocating him. He had to escape—he had to get out of this space. But where could he go? Everywhere felt wrong now. He was already somewhere else, somewhere that shouldn’t exist.

The reflection in the mirror grew clearer, and this time, Darius didn’t look away. He stared into it, his own face now twisted and strange, no longer resembling the man he had been only hours ago. The figure that had followed him was there again, its black eyes fixated on him, and in its expressionless mask, he saw something—something more—something he couldn’t comprehend. It was like the figure was trying to communicate something, but the words twisted in his mind, an incomprehensible string of symbols and images, flashing in rapid succession.

It was as if the reflection was showing him the truth.

The truth of the dimensions.

The truth of the portals.

The truth of what they had unleashed.

"Darius," the voice whispered again, this time cold and full of malice. "You are no longer just a part of the world you knew. You are between. And you will never escape."

His hands gripped the sides of the mirror, his nails digging into the glass. The world around him swam, his vision blurring as the reflection warped again. The figure in the mirror twisted into a thousand different faces—human and not-human—its shifting form an endless parade of horrors. Each face screamed at him in silent agony, their mouths open but no sound escaping.

"Simone..." Darius breathed, his voice cracking. He couldn’t lose her. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

The hum grew louder, vibrating in his bones now, and suddenly the ground beneath him began to tremble again. The familiar sound of the refrigerator buzzing, the ticking of the clock—all of it vanished, leaving only the deafening silence. His feet lifted from the floor, his body weightless, suspended in an unknown space.

And then, just like that, he was falling.

He landed hard on the ground, his breath knocked from him. When he opened his eyes, he wasn’t in his apartment anymore. He was back in the woods. The same dense, dark forest where the portal had first opened.

Simone was standing in front of him.

Her face was pale, her eyes wide with terror. She looked as though she hadn’t aged a day, but her eyes—they were empty, hollow, as if something vital had been taken from her.

"Simone?" Darius choked out, scrambling to his feet. "Simone, we need to leave. We—"

But she didn’t respond. She stood motionless, staring ahead with a vacant gaze, as though she couldn’t see him at all. The same black eyes that had appeared in the reflection in the mirror stared back at him through her own, and in that moment, he understood.

She was gone.

No—she was never truly here, not anymore. The portal had taken her, consumed her in ways he couldn’t fully grasp. And now, the same force was coming for him.

The trees around them began to shift, their bark rippling like liquid. The air grew thick with an energy that made Darius’s skin crawl. Shadows gathered, forming shapes that didn’t belong in this world. Figures from beyond the dimensions circled them, their forms shifting, blurring with the darkness.

Darius backed away, his legs shaking. He wanted to run, to escape, but there was no escape. Not anymore.

The ground beneath him cracked open, revealing a gaping chasm of swirling, pulsating light. The portal—the same portal from before—was opening again, wider this time, drawing them in with an insidious pull.

Simone’s body remained frozen, her eyes still staring into the void, her lips moving as though whispering something Darius couldn’t hear.

A voice echoed in the distance, growing louder, its tone cold and distant. "The truth is not what you think. You are between. You will never be the same."

Darius turned, the world around him starting to collapse, the reality shattering like glass. The portal stretched wider, its edges bleeding into the night. The figures from beyond were closing in, their forms coalescing into something more tangible, more malevolent.

And then, without warning, the world collapsed entirely.

There was only darkness.

And the hum—the never-ending hum—filling every corner of his mind.

Until the Last Bloom by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Contemporary / Literary Fiction

 

Until the Last Bloom

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,301

Lena knew something was wrong when Eric stopped reaching for her in the mornings.

For years, she had woken to the comforting ritual of his warmth curling toward her, his arm draping lazily over her waist, his breath soft against her shoulder. Even when he was half-asleep, his touch had been instinctual—an unspoken promise that, no matter what, he was there. But lately, that quiet reassurance had faded.

At first, she convinced herself it was exhaustion. He was getting older. Everyone slowed down eventually. But she couldn’t ignore the other signs. The way he hesitated when buttoning his shirts, his fingers fumbling over the small plastic discs. How he paused before signing his name at the grocery store, his grip uncertain, letters wobbling. The way his hands sometimes shook when he reached for his coffee, as if the effort of holding on had suddenly become too much.

This morning, the change was even starker. He didn’t just move slowly—he didn’t move at all.

He lay still, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his chest rising and falling in a slow, deliberate rhythm, like he had to concentrate just to keep breathing.

“Lazy morning?” she teased, brushing a hand over his arm, hoping to stir some reaction, some flicker of the man she knew.

It took him a few seconds to respond. He blinked, as if surfacing from somewhere far away. “Guess so.”

The pause was long enough to make her heart clench.

She waited for him to stretch, to yawn, to throw the blankets off with his usual half-hearted grumble about getting old. But he didn’t move. His hands, usually restless in the mornings, remained still on the bedspread, fingers lightly curled.

A chill settled in her stomach.

She forced a smile. “I’ll make coffee.”

Usually, by the time she poured his cup, she would hear his slow, steady footsteps behind her. He’d come up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck—one of those soft, lingering kisses that made her forget, for just a moment, the creeping weight of time.

But this morning, the bed stayed full.

And the kitchen stayed quiet.

The doctor said the words gently, but they still landed like a stone in Lena’s chest.

Parkinson’s disease. Progressive.

She barely heard the rest—the explanations, the treatment plans, the slow unraveling of certainty. The room felt too small, the walls pressing in, the air thick with something unspoken.

Eric sat beside her, hands clasped in his lap, nodding like he had already made peace with it. As if this diagnosis was just another thing to endure, another battle to fight quietly. But Lena knew better. She had seen the way he hesitated before lifting his fork, how he’d flex his fingers under the table, frustration flickering across his face when they didn’t move the way he wanted. She had noticed how he no longer drove at night, how he gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly during the day.

He had known. He had known, and he hadn’t told her.

Because saying it out loud made it real.

She spent the rest of the appointment in a daze, nodding at the doctor’s words but barely processing them. By the time they got home, Eric looked exhausted. She should have told him to rest. Instead, she went straight to the kitchen and started cooking.

She made his favorite meal—pot roast, cornbread, sweet tea. The kind of food that had always made everything feel a little more bearable, like something warm and steady to hold onto.

But when she set the plate in front of him, he barely glanced at it.

“You should eat,” she said, trying to keep her voice even.

“I’m not hungry.”

The words came softly, but they might as well have been a slap.

Lena set her fork down with a sharp click against the plate. “Eric.”

He rubbed his temple, already looking exhausted by the conversation. “Lena, please.”

“Please what?”

“Don’t do this.”

She stiffened. “Do what?”

His sigh was deep and slow. “Look at me like I’m disappearing.”

Her throat tightened. She forced herself to meet his eyes, but she wasn’t sure what he wanted her to see.

She swallowed hard. “Aren’t you?”

The silence between them was heavy, stretching across the table, filling every space that used to be easy.

Then, finally, he moved. His hand slid across the table, slow and deliberate, until it rested over hers. His grip was weaker than before—less certainty, less weight—but he still held on.

“We have today,” he said quietly. “That’s enough.”

Lena turned her hand over, curling her fingers around his, squeezing just a little tighter.

As if holding on could keep time from moving forward.

Spring came hesitantly—buds pushing through the soil, cautious and unsure, as if afraid winter might change its mind. The air still carried a lingering chill, but the sunlight lingered a little longer each day, stretching golden fingers across their porch in the evenings.

Eric sat outside most afternoons, wrapped in a blanket despite the warming air. His movements had slowed, and his body betrayed him in small, quiet ways—shaking hands, stiff muscles, the effort it took just to stand. But he still came to the porch, still watched the world unfold around him.

Lena was in the garden, her hands buried in the cool, damp earth. She liked the feel of it, the way it anchored her, made her a part of something bigger. She worked in steady rhythms—dig, plant, press, water—breathing in the scent of fresh soil, new life. Here, in this space, things made sense. Seeds became sprouts, sprouts became blooms. There was no hesitation in nature, no fear of what came next.

Eric’s voice broke the quiet. “You think the flowers will bloom early this year?”

Lena sat back on her heels, wiping dirt on her jeans. “Depends.”

“On what?”

She finally looked at him, really looked. His face was thinner than it had been last spring, the sharp lines of age and illness more pronounced. But his eyes—the same soft blue they had always been—still held that familiar glint of mischief, of knowing her too well.

“On whether you plan on sticking around to see,” she said.

His lips quirked, slow and steady. “You think I’d miss it?”

The way he said it—so casual, so certain—made something inside her tighten. She wanted to believe him. Wanted to pretend that the tremor in his voice, the fatigue in his shoulders, meant nothing. That the seasons would stretch on indefinitely, bringing more springs, more blooms, more nights like this.

That evening, they stayed on the porch, watching the sky burn gold and violet before surrendering to darkness. The quiet between them wasn’t heavy—it was comfortable, lived-in, like an old favorite song played at just the right volume.

Lena reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. His grip was looser than before, the strength fading little by little. But he still held on.

She exhaled. “Do you remember the first time we sat on this porch?”

Eric hummed, thinking. “Yeah. You told me you didn’t think you belonged here.”

Lena smiled, the memory blooming in her mind. “And you told me I’d always belong, no matter what.”

His fingers twitched against hers, a whisper of a touch. “Still true.”

She looked down at their hands, tracing the lines of his palm, feeling the faint, uneven pulse beneath his skin. She knew the day would come when his hands wouldn’t reach for hers at all. When his body would betray him in ways neither of them were ready for.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he was still here.

And tonight, that was enough.

The Marriage That Wasn't by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Anti-Romance / Literary Fiction

 

The Marriage That Wasn't

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,208

It was 2:07 AM when Tamara lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, her breath coming slow and measured. The bedroom clock ticked—a sharp, rhythmic sound that drilled into the silence. Beside her, Greg’s back was turned, his breathing steady. Asleep. Or pretending.

She used to reach for him in the night, nestling into the warmth of his body. Now, the space between them stretched wide, a silent, invisible trench neither dared to cross.

A floorboard creaked somewhere in the house. Outside, the wind rattled the window, but Greg didn't stir. Tamara swallowed. Had it been this way for months? A year? She tried to remember the last time they had spoken about something real—something beyond schedules, bills, the weather. She turned her head slightly, watching the steady rise and fall of his shoulders.

"Greg?" Her voice barely broke the stillness.

No answer.

She exhaled, pressing her lips together, then turned onto her side, mirroring his position. They were two bodies lying inches apart, yet the distance between them was immeasurable.

Once, they had talked about everything—how he liked his coffee black but sometimes added cream when he wanted to feel indulgent, how she hated the way the city sounded at night but loved the smell of rain on pavement. Now, silence was their only routine.

A lump formed in her throat. She closed her eyes and listened to the tick of the clock.

2:08 AM.

The night stretched ahead, long and empty.

By morning, Greg was already in the kitchen, standing by the counter, pouring his coffee into the travel mug Tamara had given him two Christmases ago. The navy-blue ceramic had dulled with time, scratches along the handle, a faint chip near the rim. It used to be his favorite—he once said it felt "just right" in his hand. Now, he never acknowledged it. Just like her.

The coffee machine hissed as it dispensed the last drops, filling the silence. Tamara lingered in the doorway, watching him move with mechanical efficiency. No pause, no glance in her direction. He didn’t say good morning. Didn’t ask if she wanted any.

She rubbed her arms. "Don’t forget—the light bill's due tomorrow."

Greg zipped up his coat, eyes on his phone. "I won’t."

That was it. Their daily exchange. Factual. Transactional. Cold.

Tamara clenched her jaw, swallowing back the words that burned at her throat. Ask me how I slept. Tell me you love me. Say anything real. But she already knew how this would go. Every time she reached for more, Greg would stiffen, his face turning to stone, eyes flickering with impatience—like she was an obligation instead of a wife.

She had tried once. Sat across from him at the dinner table, hands curled around her untouched plate, voice shaking as she said, I miss you. Told him how the silence felt heavier than any fight, how she wanted to be more than two people coexisting under the same roof.

He nodded, distracted. Took a bite of his food. "I’ll try harder."

That was six months ago. Nothing changed. Nothing ever changed.

Tamara handled the groceries, the bills, the doctor’s appointments, the house repairs. Greg handled his job, his phone, and occasionally, when the overflowing trash became unbearable, he’d take out a bag—always with a heavy sigh, as if it were some grand sacrifice.

When her mother got sick, Tamara spent sleepless nights coordinating with doctors, filling out paperwork, and making sure her mother had everything she needed. Greg never asked how she was holding up. He never even offered to drive her to the hospital. But when his car broke down, his call came in the middle of her work meeting, urgent and impatient.

“I need you to pick me up.” No hello. No Are you busy?

She whispered an apology to her boss and grabbed her keys.

By the time she got there, he was pacing outside the auto shop, phone in hand, barely acknowledging her as he slid into the passenger seat.

“Gonna be expensive,” he grumbled. “They say the alternator’s shot.”

She waited for him to say something else. How was your day? Are you okay? Anything. But the silence stretched, thick and heavy.

Tamara used to believe love was about shared burdens—two people walking side by side, lifting together, making life easier for one another. But this? This wasn’t sharing.

This was her carrying everything while he walked ahead, hands free.

Tamara leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching Greg scroll through his phone. His face was bathed in the cold glow of the screen, eyes skimming whatever was more interesting than her.

“Greg,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Do you even like me anymore?”

His thumb paused mid-scroll. He looked up, blinking as if she had spoken in a language he no longer understood.

“Why would you ask that?”

She let out a breath, pressing her nails into her palm. “Because I feel invisible. Like I could disappear, and you wouldn’t notice.”

He sighed—deep and exasperated—rubbing his temples like she had handed him a chore. “Tam, I’m tired. Work is exhausting. Can we not do this tonight?”

She had heard that before. She would hear it again.

The silence settled, thick and unmoving.

That night, as Greg lay beside her, his back to her as always, Tamara stared at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the refrigerator down the hall. The bed beneath her felt like stone. The space between them, an ever-expanding abyss.

Once, marriage had felt like an unspoken promise—of warmth, of partnership, of carrying the weight of life together. Now, it was a contract, binding her to a role that had lost all meaning. 

She turned on her side, staring at his unmoving silhouette. The man who had once memorized the way she took her tea now barely registered her presence.

As the clock struck 2:07 AM again, the truth settled in her bones.

She wasn’t in a marriage. She was in servitude.

And as she whispered, “I can’t do this anymore,” the only response was the sound of Greg’s steady, oblivious breathing.

Maybe that was answer enough.

The morning after Tamara whispered her truth into the dark, something in her shifted. Not all at once, but like the first crack in a dam.

Greg went through his usual motions—shower, coffee, keys jingling in his palm—without noticing the packed suitcase by the door. Without seeing her sitting at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a coffee mug she didn’t bother to sip from.

"I paid the light bill," he muttered, glancing at his phone.

She exhaled, more tired than angry now. "That’s not enough, Greg. It never was."

He looked up then, his brow creasing. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Tamara pushed the mug away, stood, and grabbed the handle of her suitcase. "It means I’m done carrying this marriage alone."

For the first time in years, his mask of indifference faltered. But it was too late. Tamara had already walked to the door, already felt the relief blooming in her chest.

She stepped outside into the crisp morning air. And for the first time in a long time, she felt weightless.

The Last Call by Olivia Salter / Shor Story / Mystery

  

The Last Call

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 3,811

Birmingham, Aabama—where steel and history collide, where the past lingers in the bones of the city. It was a chilly October night when Detective Kamari Graves got the call. A body had been found outside The Blue Orchid, a dimly lit jazz lounge on 4th Avenue.

The victim was a man in his early 40s, well-dressed, a Rolex still on his wrist. No wallet, no phone. Shot once in the chest. A single .38 caliber shell casing glinted under the neon glow of the club's sign.

Kamari surveyed the scene, her partner, Detective Malik Carter, flipping through his notepad.

“Witnesses?” Kamari asked.

“The bartender, some musicians, a couple of regulars. But no one saw the actual shooting.”

Kamari glanced at the club’s flickering security camera. “And let me guess—footage is conveniently missing?”

“Bingo,” Malik sighed.

Inside, The Blue Orchid smelled of whiskey and regret. The bartender, a broad-shouldered man named Jermaine, wiped down a glass with practiced indifference.

“You see him before tonight?” Kamari asked, showing the victim’s picture.

Jermaine hesitated. “Yeah. Name’s Darnell Briggs. Came in around nine. Ordered a whiskey, neat. Looked nervous, kept checking his phone.”

“Who was he waiting for?”

“Not sure. But about an hour later, he got up, said something to a woman in a red dress. Then he stepped outside. Next thing, I hear a shot.”

Kamari’s pulse quickened. “Describe her.”

“Tall, dark skin, short curls. Looked expensive—like the kind of woman who makes a man forget his common sense.”

Kamari exchanged a look with Malik. “Got cameras inside?”

Jermaine nodded, leading them to the back office. The grainy footage showed Darnell at the bar, drumming his fingers against the wood. Then, the woman in the red dress entered, sliding into the seat beside him. They exchanged hushed words. A minute later, he followed her outside.

But the woman never came back in.

Back at the precinct, Kamari ran a search. The only recent Darnell Briggs in the system was an accountant for a construction company. No criminal record. But his phone records told a different story—several calls to a burner number. Malik traced it to Serena Tate.

Kamari’s stomach tightened. Serena Tate was no ordinary woman. She was the widow of Marcel Tate, a notorious loan shark who was murdered last year—shot with a .38 caliber. His killer was never found.

Kamari and Malik pulled up to Serena’s condo in Highland Park. She opened the door in silk loungewear, her eyes cool and unreadable.

“You should’ve called first,” she said, sipping red wine.

Kamari held up a photo of Darnell. “You met him tonight.”

Serena smirked. “Is that a crime?”

“He’s dead.”

Her smile didn’t waver, but something flickered behind her eyes. “I had nothing to do with that.”

Malik leaned in. “Funny. He was shot with the same caliber that killed your husband.”

Serena set down her glass. “Darnell was a client of my husband’s. He owed money. After Marcel died, he thought the debt disappeared. But business doesn’t work like that.”

Kamari crossed her arms. “So you lured him out, killed him?”

Serena laughed softly. “Detective, if I wanted Darnell dead, why would I meet him at a public bar?”

Kamari glanced at Malik. She had a point.

“Then who wanted him dead?” Kamari asked.

Serena leaned against the doorway. “You’re looking in the wrong direction. Maybe ask who benefits from tying this to me.”

The door shut in their faces.

---

Back at the precinct, Kamari couldn’t shake the feeling that Serena was telling the truth. Then, Malik’s phone buzzed.

“Ballistics just came in. The bullet that killed Darnell doesn’t match the gun that killed Marcel Tate.”

Kamari frowned. “Then who set this up?”

Malik exhaled. “Someone who wanted us looking at Serena instead of them.”

Kamari’s gut twisted. There was another player in the game. Someone with a deeper grudge. And they were still out there.

Waiting.

Kamari sat at her desk, the weight of the case pressing down on her. Serena Tate might have had motive, but the evidence wasn’t lining up. If she didn’t kill Darnell Briggs, then who did? And why stage it to make her look guilty?

“Alright,” Kamari said, rubbing her temples. “Let’s retrace Darnell’s steps.”

Malik tapped at his keyboard. “We pulled his financials, right? Let’s see if he made any suspicious withdrawals.”

A few keystrokes later, Malik whistled. “Darnell pulled out five grand in cash two days ago. That’s not pocket change.”

Kamari leaned in. “Who was he paying off?”

Malik clicked through the transactions. “Here’s something—Darnell transferred money every month to a company called Tate Holdings, LLC.”

Kamari’s eyes narrowed. “Serena’s company?”

“Not quite. It’s registered under a different name—” Malik’s voice trailed off.

Kamari leaned closer. “Who?”

Malik turned the screen toward her. “Marcel Tate’s little brother. Anthony Tate.”

A slow chill crept up Kamari’s spine.

Anthony Tate had always been a ghost—never in the limelight, never making waves. But if he was still collecting debts under his brother’s name, he had motive to want Darnell dead.

And if he was setting up his sister-in-law, that meant he wanted something more than revenge.

Control.

11:45 PM – Southside, Birmingham

Kamari and Malik parked outside Tate Auto & Storage, a run-down car repair shop that Anthony Tate supposedly owned. The shop was dark, but a light flickered inside the office.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Malik murmured, hand resting on his holster.

Kamari nodded. “He’s either expecting us, or he’s cleaning up.”

They approached quietly. Kamari knocked. No answer.

Malik tried the knob. Unlocked.

Inside, the air smelled like motor oil and stale cigarettes. A desk sat in the middle of the room, stacks of papers scattered across it. And on the wall—security footage.

Footage from The Blue Orchid.

Kamari’s pulse quickened. “Well, well.”

A chair scraped against the floor behind them.

Anthony Tate stood in the doorway, arms crossed. He was in his late 30s, lean, with sharp eyes that carried the weight of too many bad decisions.

“Detectives,” he said, voice smooth. “You should’ve called.”

Kamari gestured to the monitors. “You watching your work?”

Anthony smirked. “Just staying informed.”

Malik stepped forward. “You set up Serena. You wanted us looking at her while you handled Darnell.”

Anthony shrugged. “I didn’t kill Darnell.”

Kamari’s jaw tightened. “Then why erase the security footage?”

Anthony chuckled. “I never erased anything. I just made sure the right people saw what I wanted them to.”

He stepped to the desk, tapping a keyboard. The footage played—this time, a different angle.

It wasn’t Serena leading Darnell outside.

It was Jermaine, the bartender.

Kamari’s mind reeled. “Why would Jermaine—”

Malik cut in. “Unless he owed you.”

Anthony’s smirk widened. “You catch on quick.”

Jermaine had been in debt, probably desperate. And Anthony had used him to get rid of Darnell while pinning it on Serena.

Kamari clenched her fists. “You really think you’ll get away with this?”

Anthony leaned in. “Detective, I already have.”

Then, a sudden screech of tires outside. Headlights flooded the room.

Kamari and Malik ducked just as bullets shattered the office window.

Anthony dove for cover, cursing.

Kamari pulled her weapon, heart hammering.

Someone wanted them all dead.

And whoever it was—wasn’t done yet.

Gunfire erupted outside, bullets ripping through the thin walls of Tate Auto & Storage. Kamari and Malik hit the ground as shards of glass rained over them.

Anthony Tate scrambled behind his desk, cursing under his breath.

"Malik, you good?" Kamari called out.

"I'm breathing," Malik muttered, pressing against a metal cabinet for cover. He peeked outside. "Black SUV. Tinted windows. Looks like they brought backup."

Kamari’s grip on her Glock tightened. "You expecting company, Anthony?"

Anthony scoffed, checking the revolver tucked in his waistband. "Not my people. Which means it’s yours."

Kamari’s stomach dropped. If it wasn’t Anthony’s crew, that meant someone else wanted to tie up loose ends. And considering how neatly they’d been led here, this was a trap from the start.

A pause in the gunfire.

Kamari signaled to Malik. “We need to move—back exit.”

Malik nodded, keeping low as they crept toward the garage bay doors. Anthony stayed put.

"You coming or what?" Kamari hissed.

Anthony shook his head. "I ain't running. If someone wants me dead that bad, I'd rather see their face."

"Suit yourself," Malik muttered.

Kamari didn't have time to argue. She reached for the door handle—

A figure appeared in the alley, aiming a gun straight at her.

She barely ducked in time as the shot rang out, the bullet sparking off the metal frame.

Malik fired back, forcing the shooter to retreat. Kamari pressed herself against the wall, breathing hard.

"Now what?" Malik asked.

Kamari glanced at Anthony. "You got another way out?"

Anthony hesitated, then nodded. "There's an old service tunnel beneath the shop. Leads two blocks south."

"You better not be lying," Malik muttered.

Anthony smirked. "I lie about a lot of things, Detective. My survival ain't one of them."

Anthony led them through a hidden trapdoor behind a stack of old tires. The tunnel was narrow, damp, and smelled like rust and mildew. Kamari’s heart pounded as they hurried through the darkness, Malik covering their backs.

After what felt like forever, they emerged behind an abandoned laundromat on 5th Avenue.

No sign of the SUV.

Malik exhaled. "We need to figure out who set this up before they find us again."

Anthony adjusted his jacket, eyes sharp. "I can tell you one thing—it ain't just about Darnell."

Kamari narrowed her eyes. "Then what is it about?"

Anthony smirked. "Power, Detective. The kind that don't forgive mistakes."

Before Kamari could press him further, her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number.

She answered.

A distorted voice whispered, "You’re running out of time, Detective. Walk away while you still can."

The line went dead.

Kamari stared at her phone, her pulse racing.

Whoever was pulling the strings wasn’t done yet.

And now, they were watching.

Kamari lowered the phone slowly, her mind racing. The distorted voice wasn’t just a threat—it was a warning.

“Let me guess,” Malik muttered, eyes scanning the street. “More bad news?”

“They know we’re getting close,” Kamari said, shoving the phone into her pocket. “Whoever’s behind this is watching us.”

Anthony chuckled dryly, lighting a cigarette with steady hands. “Told y’all—this ain’t just about Darnell.” He exhaled a stream of smoke, his sharp eyes glinting in the dim streetlights. “This city’s got layers, detectives. And y’all are about to peel back the wrong one.”

Kamari glared at him. “Then start talking. Because right now, we don’t know if we should be protecting you or arresting you.”

Anthony smirked. “Thing is… the people you’re up against? They don’t just kill you. They erase you.”

Kamari’s gut twisted. “Who are they?”

Anthony flicked his cigarette into the street. “The ones who really run Birmingham.”

2:30 AM – Kamari’s Apartment

Kamari triple-locked her door and pulled the blinds closed. It had been a long time since she felt unsafe in her own city.

Malik sat on her couch, scrolling through surveillance databases. “No luck on the SUV’s plates. Either they were fake, or our shooter’s got some pull.”

Kamari sighed, sinking into a chair. “We need to figure out why Darnell was killed now. Not just that he owed money—but who really wanted him dead.”

Malik hesitated, then turned the laptop toward her. “I ran another background check on Darnell.”

Kamari leaned in, reading.

And then her stomach dropped.

Darnell wasn’t just an accountant for a construction company.

He was a whistleblower.

Malik scrolled down. “He was set to testify next week. SEC had an open case against some big-name developers in Birmingham—shady contracts, money laundering, ties to organized crime.”

Kamari sat back, exhaling slowly.

“This wasn’t just about a debt,” she murmured. “Darnell was silenced.”

Malik nodded grimly. “And if we don’t tread carefully, we might be next.”

4:00 AM – The Warehouse

Anthony’s lead took them to a warehouse on the edge of town, near the old steel mills. It was supposed to be abandoned.

But a single black SUV was parked outside.

“Looks familiar,” Malik muttered, checking his gun.

Kamari’s heart pounded as they crept closer. If Darnell’s murder was connected to the corruption case, this was the first real lead.

A low hum of voices carried from inside. Kamari pressed against the cold steel wall, peeking through a dusty window.

Inside, Jermaine—the bartender—was pacing nervously.

Across from him stood a man in a navy suit, his back to them. He was flipping through a thick folder, his posture calm, controlled.

Kamari’s breath caught.

She recognized that man.

Isaiah Colton.

A real estate mogul. One of the biggest developers in the city. The kind of man who had judges, politicians, and police chiefs in his back pocket.

The kind of man who didn’t get his hands dirty—but always had people to do it for him.

Jermaine’s voice wavered. “I did what you asked. I led ‘em outside. But I didn’t pull the trigger.”

Colton sighed, closing the folder. “And yet, Detective Graves and her partner are still alive.”

Jermaine swallowed hard. “I ain’t got nothing else to do with this.”

Colton stepped closer. “That’s the problem, Jermaine.”

Then—

A gunshot.

Jermaine collapsed, a dark stain blooming across his chest.

Kamari barely held back a gasp. Malik tensed beside her.

Colton turned to his shooter—another man in a black suit, face unreadable.

“Clean this up,” Colton said smoothly. “And find the detectives.”

Kamari pulled Malik back. They had seconds before the men inside came looking.

Her mind raced.

Isaiah Colton had just proven what they suspected.

Darnell was killed because he was a threat to powerful men.

And now, so were they.

Kamari and Malik crouched in the shadows, their hearts pounding as the warehouse doors creaked open. The suited man who had executed Jermaine stepped outside, scanning the lot like a wolf catching a scent.

“We need to move. Now,” Malik whispered.

Kamari nodded. They slipped behind rusted shipping containers, keeping low as footsteps crunched on gravel.

Then—

A phone rang.

Not theirs.

The suited man pulled out his cell. “Yeah.” A pause. “No sign of ‘em.” Another pause. Then, “Understood.”

He turned to two other men. “Colton says we’re not waiting. Find them tonight.”

Kamari’s stomach twisted. They weren’t just being hunted.

They were priority targets.

5:30 AM – Safehouse

They drove in silence, Malik gripping the wheel as Kamari checked the gun at her hip. Their safehouse was a low-rent, barely-furnished apartment on the West Side, a place the department kept off the books for deep cases like this.

Malik locked the door behind them. “We’re in deep, Kam.”

Kamari sank onto the couch, rubbing her temples. “Colton’s not just covering up Darnell’s murder—he’s sending a message. Anyone who talks, dies.”

Malik exhaled. “So what’s the play?”

Kamari glanced at her phone. She had one contact who might help—a retired detective named Lionel Stokes. He used to work corruption cases before he got pushed out. If anyone had dirt on Colton, it was him.

She dialed.

It rang once. Twice.

Then a gruff voice answered. “Who’s this?”

“It’s Kamari Graves. I need your help.”

Silence. Then, “If you’re calling me, you’re already in trouble.”

Kamari swallowed. “Darnell Briggs. Colton had him killed.”

Another silence. Then, a slow sigh. “Meet me at Eddie’s Diner in one hour. And come alone.”

6:30 AM – Eddie’s Diner

The diner was nearly empty, the scent of burnt coffee lingering in the air. Kamari spotted Lionel Stokes in a back booth—older, graying, but with sharp eyes that had seen too much.

She slid into the seat across from him.

He didn’t waste time. “Colton’s been untouchable for years. He’s got judges, cops, even feds in his pocket.”

Kamari leaned forward. “But Darnell had something. He was ready to testify.”

Lionel nodded. “Yeah. And now he’s dead.” He slid a folder across the table. “This is what he was working on.”

Kamari opened it—and felt her breath hitch.

Bank statements. Offshore accounts. Wire transfers leading to shell companies.

And at the center of it all?

Isaiah Colton.

Kamari’s pulse quickened. This wasn’t just shady business. It was enough to bury Colton.

Lionel lowered his voice. “Colton’s got a kill order on you, Detective. You don’t walk away from this, you make sure it counts.”

Kamari closed the folder, determination hardening in her chest.

She wasn’t running.

She was taking Colton down.

Kamari gripped the folder tight, her mind racing. This was it—proof. Enough to expose Colton’s empire. But exposing him wouldn’t be easy. He had men on the inside, and she and Malik were already targets.

Lionel stirred his coffee, watching her. “You thinking about taking this straight to Internal Affairs?”

Kamari exhaled sharply. “If I do, Colton’s people inside the department will bury it before it ever sees daylight.”

Lionel nodded. “Then you need insurance.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” he leaned forward, “you don’t just turn this in. You make it public. Colton’s got power because he controls the information. You take that control away, and he’s just another man waiting for a prison cell.”

Kamari’s mind clicked into place. The media. A leak big enough that no one could ignore it.

But first, they had to survive the next few hours.

7:30 AM – Safehouse

Kamari shut the door behind her, locking it tight. Malik was waiting, pacing. “Well?”

She tossed the folder onto the table. “We’ve got enough to take him down.”

Malik flipped through the pages, whistling low. “Bank fraud, money laundering, bribery—hell, this man’s been running Birmingham like his own personal kingdom.”

“Which means he won’t go down without a fight.” Kamari sat down, running a hand through her braids. “We need to get this to a journalist. Someone who won’t fold under pressure.”

Malik smirked. “Good thing I still owe a favor to The Birmingham Tribune.”

Kamari raised a brow. “You and Erica Hughes still talk?”

Malik shrugged. “She likes when I give her good stories.”

Kamari rolled her eyes but nodded. “Call her. We do this tonight.”

Malik reached for his phone—

Then the lights in the safehouse flickered.

A second later—

Gunshots.

7:45 AM – Under Fire

The windows shattered as bullets tore through the apartment. Kamari and Malik hit the floor, scrambling for their weapons.

“They found us!” Malik yelled.

“No kidding!” Kamari pressed herself against the couch, gun in hand.

She peeked outside. A black SUV was parked near the curb, masked gunmen moving in.

More shots rang out.

Kamari’s mind raced. They had to get out now.

“Back exit!” she shouted.

Malik covered her as she bolted for the rear door. Kicking it open, they rushed into the alley—

Only to be met with another SUV blocking their path.

The driver’s side window rolled down.

And Isaiah Colton was sitting inside, calm as ever, watching them like a man who had already won.

His voice was smooth, almost amused. “You really should’ve walked away, Detective Graves.”

Kamari clenched her jaw, heart pounding.

Colton smiled. “But now?” He nodded toward his men. “You don’t walk away from this at all.”

Kamari’s grip tightened on her gun.

She wasn’t going down without a fight.

Kamari’s heart pounded as Colton’s gunmen closed in, their weapons gleaming under the streetlights. The alley was boxed in—two SUVs blocking both ends. No way out.

Malik tensed beside her. “We got maybe five seconds before they start shooting again.”

Colton smirked from inside the SUV. “Put the guns down, Detectives. Make this easy.”

Kamari’s mind raced. Giving up wasn’t an option.

Then she spotted it—an old fire escape, half-hidden in the shadows.

She met Malik’s eyes. “Follow my lead.”

Then—

She fired first.

The gunshot cracked through the night, hitting one of Colton’s men square in the shoulder.

Chaos erupted.

Malik took down another gunman, giving Kamari just enough cover to sprint toward the fire escape.

“Move!” she yelled.

Malik was right behind her. They scaled the rusted ladder as bullets ricocheted off metal. Kamari’s hands burned from the rough iron rungs, but she didn’t stop.

Colton’s voice carried below. “Find them! Now!”

Kamari and Malik scrambled onto the rooftop, breathless.

“We can’t keep running,” Malik said. “We need to end this.”

Kamari wiped sweat from her brow. “We’re going to.” She pulled out her phone. “But first, we make sure the whole damn city knows the truth.”

8:30 AM – The Leak

Inside a dimly lit newsroom, journalist Erica Hughes stared at the documents Kamari had just handed over. Her eyes widened as she flipped through them.

“This… this is enough to bring Colton down.”

Kamari nodded. “But only if it goes public. Now.”

Erica didn’t hesitate. She reached for her phone. “I’m calling my editor. This is going live within the hour.”

Malik exhaled, glancing at Kamari. “You think this will stop him?”

Kamari’s jaw tightened. “No. But it’ll take away his power.”

Outside, sirens wailed.

The city was waking up.

And soon, so would the truth.

9:15 AM – The Final Move

Kamari and Malik sat in an unmarked car outside City Hall, listening as the morning news blasted from the radio.

“Breaking news—The Birmingham Tribune has just released shocking documents linking real estate mogul Isaiah Colton to a web of corruption, bribery, and multiple murders. Federal authorities have launched an immediate investigation—”

Malik smirked. “Guess Colton’s having a bad morning.”

Kamari wasn’t smiling. She kept her eyes on the entrance of City Hall, where a line of black SUVs had just pulled up.

Then—

Colton stepped out, flanked by his lawyers. His expression was tight, controlled. But she saw it—the slight tension in his jaw. The realization that, for the first time, he wasn’t the one pulling the strings.

He turned.

Their eyes met.

Kamari gave him a slow nod.

Checkmate.

As federal agents swarmed him, Colton finally lost his smirk.

Kamari exhaled, gripping the steering wheel. “It’s over.”

Malik chuckled. “Damn right it is.”

As Colton was led inside in handcuffs, Kamari leaned back in her seat, exhaustion settling in.

It wasn’t just about Darnell anymore.

It was about all the people who had been silenced.

And finally—finally—justice had caught up.

One Month Later

The city was still buzzing from Colton’s downfall. His empire had crumbled, his allies turning on him. More arrests followed. Birmingham was changing.

Kamari sat on her porch, sipping coffee as the morning sun rose over the city.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Malik.

"Looks like we made the news again. Hope you're ready for your detective-of-the-year speech."

Kamari smirked.

She wasn’t in this for awards.

She was in it for justice.

And Birmingham still had a long way to go.

THE END.

The Fine Print by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Anti-Romance

 

The Fine Print

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,187

Naya’s fingers curled tightly around the divorce papers, the crisp edges pressing into her skin. The weight of them felt heavier than it should have, as if they carried the full burden of the past two years. She could feel the sting of the paper against her palm, sharp and unyielding—much like the reality she had spent too long ignoring.

The courtroom was cold—too cold—but maybe that was fitting. A place like this wasn’t built for comfort. It was built for endings. Contracts dissolved. Assets divided. Promises reduced to legal jargon and signatures on a page.

She inhaled slowly, resisting the urge to rub her arms for warmth. The fluorescent lighting buzzed faintly above her, casting a harsh glow over the polished mahogany table that separated her from the man who had once vowed to love her.

Across from her, Jordan sat with the same unshaken confidence that had once drawn her in. His suit was crisp, tailored to perfection, the dark fabric smooth as if not even the weight of a failed marriage could wrinkle it. His posture was relaxed, one arm draped over the chair, his fingers tapping idly against the table as if he were merely waiting for a business proposal to be finalized.

Maybe, for him, that’s all this had ever been.

Naya’s stomach twisted, but she kept her face impassive. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her falter.

Her lawyer cleared his throat, his voice steady and deliberate. “Ms. Jenkins is requesting full control of her assets and a clean break—no financial ties.”

For the first time, Jordan hesitated. It was subtle—the briefest tightening of his jaw, the faintest flicker of something in his eyes. Surprise? Annoyance? Maybe even the first stirrings of regret.

Good.

Naya had spent too much time doubting herself, too many nights wondering if she had misread the signs, if she had overreacted, if maybe—just maybe—he had loved her after all.

But today?

Today, she wasn’t the one being played.

Two years ago, she had believed in forever.

Jordan had swept her off her feet with an ease that felt effortless, as if loving her required no thought, no hesitation—only instinct. He had known exactly what to say, exactly how to look at her, exactly when to touch her in a way that made her feel special, chosen. Like fate had led her to him.

Weekend trips to Miami, candlelit dinners at rooftop restaurants, whispered promises beneath city lights—each moment had been carefully curated, each grand gesture leaving her breathless. She had thought it was love.

She had thought he was love.

When he proposed, slipping the ring onto her finger with a dazzling smile, she had felt safe. Secure in the knowledge that she was stepping into a lifetime of partnership. She had said yes, not just to the man in front of her, but to the future she thought they were building together.

But real love wasn’t conditional.

Real love didn’t come with fine print.

The red flags had been there, small but insistent, disguised as care.

Merging finances will make things easier, Naya. Trust me.
You don’t have to worry about the details—I’ve got it handled.
We’re a team, we're all we have. What’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is ours.

Except ours had always meant his.

At first, it had been little things. He would call the shots on where they lived, how they budgeted, which investments made “the most sense.” He had framed it as efficiency, a way to ensure they were on the same page financially. She had wanted to believe him.

Then, after her mother passed and she inherited the estate, the shift had been subtle—but undeniable.

Jordan had stopped asking. He made decisions without her input. He signed documents without her seeing them first. She would find out about transactions after the fact—her name attached to things she had never approved.

The mortgage had been the final straw. A house bought under her name, without her knowledge, yet somehow Jordan had control over the paperwork. When she had discovered it, nausea had twisted in her gut.

She had confronted him, heart pounding, the accusations flying out before she could stop them.

Jordan had barely looked up from his laptop, sighing as he rubbed his temples. “Naya, don’t be dramatic. This is how marriage works.”

No remorse. No concern. No attempt to reassure her that she had misunderstood.

Just a quiet, matter-of-fact confirmation that to him, marriage wasn’t about love. It was strategy.

And now that she was pulling out of the deal?

He didn’t even seem surprised.

Naya forced herself back to the present.

She could feel the weight of the divorce papers pressing into her palms, the thick stack of legal documents holding the finality of everything she had endured. Two years of deception, of manipulation, of watching herself become smaller while Jordan took up more space. But now, the weight wasn’t suffocating. It wasn’t crushing her anymore.

It was just there. A fact. A reminder of what she had survived.

She inhaled slowly, steadying herself as she lifted her gaze to meet Jordan’s. He was watching her, his expression unreadable. But she knew that look—she had seen it before. It was the same one he had worn whenever he was about to convince her, persuade her, turn the situation in his favor. The same quiet confidence that had once made her believe he was right, that she was overreacting, that she just needed to trust him.

But she wasn’t that woman anymore.

Jordan leaned forward, lowering his voice like this was some intimate negotiation instead of the end of a marriage. “Naya, be reasonable. We built a life together.”

She exhaled softly, tilting her head. She didn’t need to raise her voice. She didn’t need to argue. The truth was simple.

“No,” she said, meeting his eyes. “I built a life. You just lived off it.”

A flicker of something passed through his expression. Annoyance? Resentment? For the first time, his control was slipping, and Naya saw it in the way his fingers tightened around the pen.

There it is.

Control had always been his currency, the foundation of his power. He had spent years making sure she felt dependent on him, uncertain without him. He had always been the one holding the pen, the one making the decisions.

But now?

He was bankrupt.

Her lawyer slid the final document across the table. “Sign, and we can all move on.”

Jordan hesitated. His fingers flexed around the pen, his jaw tightening just slightly. The silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of his stalled power. This wasn’t how he had planned things to go.

Naya could almost see the wheels turning in his mind. He had expected resistance, sure, but he had also expected her to waver. To falter. To let the past cloud her judgment just long enough for him to find a new angle, a new way to pull her back in.

But Naya?

She had already decided.

She wasn’t his transaction anymore.