Bare and Unbroken: The Genesis of Change by Olivia Salter | Short Fiction

 

Bare and Unbroken: The Genesis of Change

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,132

The hooded dryer hummed low, surrounding Beverly’s head in warm, static heat. She closed her eyes, letting the scents of lye and floral oils transport her, temporarily melting away her tension. Around her, the salon buzzed with laughter—a chorus of women’s voices blending in a melody of gossip and shared dreams. This tiny sanctuary in South Chicago was her haven, a place where she felt invincible.

She opened her eyes and saw Sheila’s reflection behind her. Her stylist grinned mischievously as she worked the dye into Beverly’s roots. “Girl, you got them all wrapped around your finger, don’t you? You better get that promotion, looking this good,” Sheila teased.

Beverly smirked, raising a brow. “I don’t do ‘half-done,’” she replied, watching her own reflection—every strand of sleek black hair meticulously framing her face. Her look was carefully chosen: polished, powerful, and dignified. It was her armor.

But under that armor, a faint prickle at her scalp had been growing stronger. The tingling had started as a minor irritation, easily brushed off. As Sheila’s hands worked over her head, the sensation turned sharper, a sting just beneath the surface. Beverly pressed her lips together, chalking it up to stress or perhaps a slight reaction to the chemicals.

Later, in her own bathroom, she combed through her hair meticulously, searching for flaws. That’s when she noticed it—a bare patch, soft and pale, hidden just behind her left ear. She froze, the comb hovering in midair. For a moment, she held her breath, her gaze transfixed by that small, vulnerable spot. But Beverly dismissed it, shrugging it off as a minor irritation. She was in control; she always was.

In the following weeks, Beverly’s health unraveled. The headaches were no longer whispers; they became brutal, pulsing waves that took her breath away. At night, nausea clawed its way up, leaving her sweating in the dark. She found herself handling her hair with caution, each brushstroke a reminder of the sensitivity crawling across her scalp. She noticed more bare patches, like tiny scars hidden under her once-flawless hair.

Finally, after a dizzy spell left her gripping her desk, Beverly found herself sitting in the doctor’s office, the smell of antiseptic a sharp, biting contrast to the familiar scents of the salon. She watched her doctor’s face tighten as she scanned the clipboard, her gaze softened by sympathy.

“Beverly,” her doctor began gently, “we’ve detected signs of skin cancer—likely linked to prolonged chemical exposure from the relaxer treatments and dyes. There’s also evidence of early-stage uterine cancer.”

The words crashed over her, leaving Beverly feeling as if the ground had opened beneath her. She clutched the armrests, her nails digging in, the room spinning. She could still smell the chemicals, feel the heat of the dryer, hear the buzzing laughter of the salon. But now, all of it felt tainted, like a betrayal woven into the fabric of her life.

At home, Beverly stood in the dark, hands trembling as she wrapped a scarf tightly around her scalp, almost as if shielding herself from the enemy within. She wandered aimlessly, her fingers tracing the edges of framed photos on her shelves—her mother, her grandmother, women who had endured, who had survived on grit and resilience. But this? This felt different. She had prided herself on strength, but her very body had turned against her. She shied away from mirrors, hiding her once-cherished hair, now reduced to thinning whispers and fragile strands she dared not touch.

Then came chemotherapy.

Beverly dreaded her first treatment. The sterile clinic lights, the chemical drip that wormed its way into her veins, left her feeling hollowed. The treatments picked away at her strength; nausea clawed up from her stomach, her bones ached, and her hair fell out in handfuls, slipping through her fingers like broken promises. Each strand felt like a piece of herself, an identity unraveled and left in fragments. As weeks turned into months, the illness took more from her, stripping her down to a shadow of the woman she once saw in the mirror.

Beverly’s transformation was gradual, each loss forcing her to confront what remained. Her skin had paled, her body had weakened, and her scalp was bare—a blank canvas staring back at her. One rainy afternoon, after yet another grueling session, she found herself standing before the bathroom mirror. Her fingers traced the surface of her bare scalp, smooth yet oddly comforting in its vulnerability.

She drew in a deep breath, staring at her reflection with unflinching honesty. This was Beverly—not a polished version or an ideal, but the bare truth, stripped of every tactic she had worn as armor. In that moment, she realized she could still be strong—different, but strong.

The next day, Beverly returned to Sheila’s salon, though the familiar laughter and chatter made her chest tighten. The salon grew quiet as she entered, her scarf tied tightly around her scalp. She caught Sheila’s eye, nodding firmly as she sat in the chair.

“Cut it all off,” she said, her voice unwavering. “I want to see myself.”

Sheila hesitated, but after a moment, she lifted the clippers. As the buzz filled the air, Beverly watched her last remnants of hair fall, drifting away in gentle wisps. Her fingers reached up, grazing her scalp, now smooth and bare. She was vulnerable, stripped of everything she had once held dear—but also liberated, her reflection raw and unfiltered.

People around her began to notice the change. Friends, family, and even strangers saw the quiet power in her gaze, the grace with which she carried herself. Beverly found beauty in her basic state, in the honesty that radiated from her presence, no longer bound by the constraint of her former image. And with that, she found a new purpose.

She became an advocate, educating others—especially Black women—about the potential risks hidden in everyday beauty products, the dangers that many overlook in the pursuit of an ideal. She spoke at community centers, support groups, sharing her story with a voice clear and unwavering. She watched the understanding in their eyes, the way her vulnerability bridged a gap, offering a place for others to share their own hidden fears.

Beverly’s journey taught her that beauty was not the perfection she had once chased but the courage to stand bare, unshielded, and proud. She was no longer just surviving but thriving, rooted in a quiet strength that went deeper than her appearance. In the end, Beverly had reclaimed herself—her story woven from scars and misinformation, no longer tied to the reflection she had once constructed but to the fire that burned within her. She was a warrior, grounded in the truth of her journey, her courage radiating from within.

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© 2025 Olivia Salter - All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author.

The Weight of Empty Rooms by Olivia Salter | Poetry

 

The Weight of Empty Rooms

by Olivia Salter

I stand in the doorway, framed by silence,
A solitary figure in a house too large.
The walls whisper your names,
But you're not here to answer.

Family portraits stare with vacant eyes,
Smiles frozen in faded sepia.
I touch the glass, leaving fingerprints—
The only proof I still exist.

In the kitchen, your coffee mug waits,
A thin film of dust where your lips should be.
The fridge hums a monotonous dirge,
Drowning out the sound of my heartbeat.

Remember the oak we planted, Mom and Dad?
Its branches now scrape against my window,
A nightly reminder of promises unkept,
Of roots that didn't grow deep enough.

Sister, your room remains untouched,
A shrine to teenage dreams and rebellion.
I sit on your bed, inhaling the ghost of your perfume,
Wishing I could bottle your laughter.

Brother, your baseball glove gathers cobwebs.
I try it on, but it doesn't fit—
Like this role of being the only one left,
A misshapen family of one.

Nights are the hardest. I lie awake,
Listening for footsteps that never come,
For doors that never open,
For voices that never call my name.

Dawn breaks. I brew coffee for one.
The emptiness echoes, but I speak anyway:
"Good morning," I say to the void.
And for a moment, I swear I hear it answer back.

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© 2025 Olivia Salter - All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author.

The Last Deal by Olivia Salter | Short Fiction

 

The Last Deal

by Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1073

 

Victor Casella leaned against the railing of the pier, staring out at the darkened horizon. The salty breeze stung his eyes, but he barely noticed. Anger tore at him, a fire that no amount of San Diego's cool coastal air could extinguish. His world had crumbled over the last few months, and every time he thought he’d hit bottom, his rival, Marcus Devereaux, found new ways to kick him while he was down.

The family-owned business that had been his pride for generations was now a mere shadow of its former self. Marcus, with his polished smile and ruthless tactics, had stolen contracts, poached clients, and spread insidious rumors that tarnished Victor's reputation. Alone, divorced, and estranged from his children, Victor felt like a hollow shell of the man who once commanded respect and love. Clenching his fists, he realized he had to fight back; he couldn’t let Marcus destroy everything he held dear.

As talks of a man named Halstead reached his ears, Victor's heart raced. Halstead was a reclusive figure, spoken of in hushed tones in the bars of La Jolla. He was rumored to offer solutions not found in courtrooms or boardrooms, dealing in shadows—and if anyone could bring Marcus to his knees, it would be him.

Victor turned away from the ocean and pulled his collar up against the chill. He recalled the last time he’d seen Halstead’s house during a charity event years ago—a night filled with laughter and hope. Now, the mansion seemed shadowy like a fortress, its facade hiding something darker beneath.

The heavy oak door creaked open as if anticipating his arrival. The warm, luxurious glow of Halstead’s modernist mansion felt at odds with the suffocating dread that filled the air. Victor hesitated on the threshold, his heart hammering. He had sworn he didn’t believe in magic or curses, yet after what Marcus had done, he found himself willing to embrace the supernatural.

“Victor,” a voice called from deeper inside. It was smooth, practiced—an invitation wrapped in charm. Victor followed the sound down a long, narrow hallway, passing modern art and sculptures that should have felt comforting but only heightened his sense of unease.

Halstead stood waiting in a nearly empty room lit only by flickering candles. Shorter than Victor remembered, with close-cropped silver hair and a well-tailored suit, Halstead’s unsettling gaze held an emptiness that chilled Victor’s soul.

“You came,” Halstead said, a knowing smile creeping across his face. “I thought you might.”

Victor took a shaky breath. “I need him gone,” he said, his voice hoarse with desperation. “Marcus Devereaux has destroyed everything. I’ve tried everything—nothing sticks. I need him out of my life—for good.”

Halstead walked slowly around the room, fingers brushing the back of a chair as though considering Victor’s worth. “You realize what you’re asking for isn’t a simple transaction. To end a life, especially the way you wish, there are consequences. For both of us.”

“I don’t care about the consequences.” Victor’s voice rose, desperation spilling over. “He’s taken everything from me. My business, my wife—my kids don’t even look at me the same. It’s like I’m already dead. If Marcus doesn’t go first, I’m finished.”

Halstead paused, his expression shifting. “And if I help you, you know what you’re giving up.”

Victor hesitated, staring at the floor. He hadn’t asked what it would cost. He hadn’t wanted to know.

“Your life isn’t what it once was, Victor. What do you think you have left to lose?” Halstead’s voice was almost gentle, coaxing Victor toward a decision hanging in the air. “You want your rival gone—your wish will come true. But understand—fate is delicate. When you ask for a life, you pull at threads that can unravel everything.”

Frustration bubbled within Victor. “What are you saying? That this comes back on me? There’s a price?”

Halstead smiled thinly, turning back to the candlelit table. “Every deal has a cost. The question is whether you’re willing to pay it.”

A small clay figure sat at the center of the table, crudely resembling Marcus down to the arrogant tilt of his chin. Halstead lifted it, tracing its shape with careful fingers.

Victor stared at it, feeling the weight of his decision pressing down on him. He could walk away, try to rebuild his life through conventional means. But the thought of Marcus, unscathed and thriving, ignited something dark within him.

“I’ll do it,” Victor said quietly, his voice steady. “I don’t care what it costs.”

Halstead’s smile widened as he struck a match. The tiny flame flickered before catching on the figure’s clay surface. As it burned, Victor felt something tighten in his chest—an invisible grip, cold and relentless.

“It begins now,” Halstead murmured. “By dawn, your rival will be no more.”

Victor’s throat went dry. The air felt heavier, thick with something that clawed at his lungs. His phone buzzed in his pocket, startling him from the trance. Fumbling, he pulled it out.

A news alert flashed across the screen: Marcus Devereaux found dead—apparent heart failure.

Victory surged through Victor, but it was fleeting, swallowed by a cold dread that seeped into his bones. “It’s done,” Halstead said, extinguishing the last of the candle. But his eyes remained fixed on Victor. “And so is your part of the bargain.”

“What are you talking about? He’s dead, right? That’s all I wanted.”

Halstead’s gaze darkened. “You’ve taken a life, Victor. Now, life will balance itself.”

A sharp pain shot through Victor’s chest, stealing the breath from his lungs. He doubled over, gasping as the room spun. His vision blurred, the edges of the world fading to black. He collapsed, clutching at his chest.

In his final moments, Victor’s thoughts spiraled into regret. He had allowed anger and vengeance to consume him, blinding him to the reality of his choices. The warmth of his family’s love, the respect he once commanded—he had sacrificed it all.

As darkness surrounded him, a bitter realization settled in: he hadn’t just traded Marcus’s life—he had traded his own. The cost of vengeance had proven too high, and now he would never have the chance to reclaim what he had lost. 

In the depths of despair, Victor understood that true strength lay not in revenge but in the capacity to forgive, a lesson he had learned too late as the shadows closed in around him.

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© 2025 Olivia Salter - All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author.

The Emerald Pendant by Olivia Salter | Short Story

 

The Emerald Pendant

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 2,253

The Seattle skyline pierced the gray sky, its iconic Space Needle barely visible through the thick mist that clung to the city like a second skin. In a modest brick house in Ballard, the Reeves family huddled around their kitchen table, the warm glow of the soft light bulbs creating a cozy atmosphere that misrepresented the tension in the air.

Emma Reeves, her curly hair pulled back in a messy bun, tapped away at her laptop, forehead wrinkled in concentration. "Another rejection," she sighed, closing the lid with more force than necessary. "I don't understand. My app idea is solid. It could revolutionize the way people navigate Seattle's public transit."

Her husband, Oliver, reached across the table to squeeze her hand. His fingers, calloused from years of work as a carpenter, were rough against her skin. "Don't give up, honey. The right investor will see its potential."

Their daughter, Olivia, a high school senior with bright blue hair and an ever-present sketchbook, looked up from her drawing. "Mom, your app is amazing. Those tech bros don't know what they're missing."

Emma managed a small smile, but the weight of mounting bills and dwindling savings pressed heavily on her shoulders. The tech boom had transformed Seattle, driving up costs and leaving many long-time residents struggling to keep up. The Reeves were no exception.

A knock at the door startled them all. Oliver rose to answer it, returning moments later with a woman Emma hadn't seen in years.

"Aunt Vivian?" Emma said, surprise evident in her voice. "What are you doing here?"

Vivian Jones, Oliver's aunt, stood in the doorway, looking every bit the eccentric artist she'd always been. Her silver hair was styled in an futuristic cut, and her clothes were a riot of colors and patterns. But it was the object in her hands that drew everyone's attention – a small, detailed carved wooden box.

"I came to give you this," Vivian said, her voice carrying a hint of an accent from her childhood in Hong Kong. She placed the box on the table with a serious that seemed at odds with her vibrant appearance.

Emma opened the box carefully. Inside, nestled on a bed of red silk, was what appeared to be a jade pendant in the shape of a coiled dragon.

"It's beautiful," Emma breathed, reaching out to touch it.

Vivian's hand shot out, grabbing Emma's wrist. "Be careful," she warned. "This is no ordinary trinket. It's said to grant wishes, but at a terrible cost."

Oliver scoffed. "Aunt Viv, you can't be serious."

But Vivian's expression remained grave. "I acquired it years ago, in a little shop in the International District. The old woman who sold it to me... her eyes haunt me still. She said the dragon would grant three wishes, but each would come with a price that grew steeper with each use."

Olivia leaned in, fascinated. "Have you ever used it, Aunt Vivian?"

A shadow passed over Vivian's face. "Once," she whispered. "Only once. And I've regretted it ever since." She shook her head, as if dispelling a dark memory. "I thought about destroying it, but something always held me back. Now, I'm leaving Seattle – heading to an artist retreat in New Mexico. I can't take this with me, but I couldn't bear to leave it behind either."

Emma studied the pendant, its jade surface cool and smooth beneath her fingers. Despite her usual realism attitude, she felt drawn to it, as if the dragon's tiny emerald eyes were peering into her very soul.

"I don't believe in magic," Emma said slowly, "but we could certainly use some luck right now." She looked up at Vivian. "Are you sure you want to leave this with us?"

Vivian nodded solemnly. "Just promise me you'll be careful. Some wishes are better left unmade."

After Vivian left, the family sat in silence, the jade dragon sitting harmless on the table. Finally, Oliver broke the tension with a nervous laugh.

"Well, if we're going to test out a magical wishing dragon, we might as well start small, right? How about... $5000? Enough to catch up on bills and give us a little breathing room, but not so much as to raise any eyebrows."

Emma hesitated, then picked up the pendant. It felt heavier than it should, as if weighted with unseen consequences. "Alright," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I wish for five thousand dollars."

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a gust of wind rattled the windows, and the lights flickered giving the impression that something bad or unpleasant was going to happen. The pendant grew hot in Emma's hand, and she dropped it with a gasp.

"Mom? Dad?" Olivia's voice was small and frightened.

Oliver wrapped an arm around his daughter. "It's okay, sweetie. It was just the wind. Nothing to be afraid of."

But as they went to bed that night, none of them could shake the feeling that something had changed, that forces beyond their understanding had been set in motion.

The next day dawned gray and misty, typical Seattle weather. Emma was in the kitchen, absently scrolling through job listings on her phone, when it buzzed with a notification. Her eyes widened as she read the email.

"Oliver!" she called out, her voice a mix of excitement and disbelief. "You won't believe this. Remember that coding competition I entered months ago? The one sponsored by that big tech company? I just got an email. I won second place... and a $5000 prize!"

Oliver rushed into the kitchen, his face breaking into a grin. "That's amazing, Em! I knew your hard work would pay off."

As the initial excitement wore off, an uneasy doubt crept into Emma's mind. The timing was too perfect, too coincidental. She glanced at the jade dragon, still sitting on the kitchen table. Its emerald eyes seemed to glint in the morning light, as if sharing a secret joke.

"It's just a coincidence," Emma muttered to herself. "It has to be."

But even as she said it, she couldn't quite convince herself. The jade dragon sat silent and still, its coiled form holding the promise of two more wishes – and the unspoken threat of what prices those wishes might demand.

As the days passed, the Reeves family's initial elation over the unexpected windfall began to fade. The $5000 did indeed provide some much-needed breathing room, allowing them to catch up on bills and even splurge on a nice dinner out. But an undercurrent of unease lingered, especially for Emma.

She found herself unable to shake the feeling that their good fortune had come at a cost, though she couldn't pinpoint exactly what that cost might be. The jade dragon sat on a high shelf in their living room, its presence a constant reminder of the power they had tapped into.

One rainy afternoon, as Emma was walking home from the bus stop, her phone buzzed with a call from an unknown number. Hesitantly, she answered.

"Mrs. Reeves?" a crisp voice asked. "This is Sandra Liu from Emerald Tech Innovations. We were impressed by your transit app concept in the recent competition. We'd like to invite you for an interview to discuss potential development opportunities."

Emma's heart raced. Emerald Tech was one of Seattle's fastest-growing startups. This could be the break she'd been waiting for. As she hung up, her eyes drifted to the Space Needle, barely visible through the misty rain. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine her app's logo displayed proudly on its observation deck.

At home, Emma shared the news with Oliver and Olivia. Their excitement was noticeable, but as they celebrated, Olivia's phone chimed with a news alert.

"Oh no," Olivia said, her face falling. "There's been a huge accident on the 520 bridge. A bus... it went off the edge into Lake Washington."

The family gathered around Olivia's phone, reading the horrifying details. No fatalities had been reported yet, but several people were critically injured. As they scrolled through eyewitness accounts, Emma felt a chill run down her spine.

"That's... that's the bus I usually take," she whispered. "If I hadn't gotten that call and stayed late at the coffee shop to calm my nerves, I would have been on it."

The realization hung heavy in the air. Oliver pulled Emma close, his face pale. "It's just a coincidence," he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

That night, Emma tossed and turned, unable to sleep. The jade dragon seemed to call to her from the other room. Finally, she got up and crept to the living room.

In the pale moonlight filtering through the windows, the dragon's emerald eyes seemed to glow. Emma picked it up, its weight familiar in her hand.

"Was it you?" she whispered. "Did you cause that accident to get me that interview?"

The dragon, of course, remained silent. But as Emma stared at it, she couldn't shake the feeling that it was somehow alive, listening, waiting.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind. Emma threw herself into preparations for her interview, trying to push thoughts of the dragon and its possible influence out of her mind. Olivia, inspired by recent events, started a school project on transit safety. Oliver took on extra carpentry jobs, determined to build up their savings in case Emma's app took off and she needed startup capital.

The day of the interview arrived. Emma stood before the mirror, adjusting her blazer and taking deep breaths to calm her nerves. The jade dragon caught her eye from its shelf. 

"I don't need you," she muttered. "I can do this on my own."

But as she reached for the door, a moment of doubt gripped her. What if she froze up? What if they hated her idea? Everything was riding on this opportunity. Before she could talk herself out of it, she grabbed the dragon.

"I wish for my interview to go perfectly," she whispered.

The pendant grew warm in her hand, and for a split second, Emma could have sworn she saw the dragon's tiny claws flex. 

The interview started off brilliantly. Emma's responses were articulate and confident, her passion for her project evident. The panel seemed genuinely impressed. But as she was mid-sentence, explaining a key feature of her app, a commotion erupted in the hallway.

"Fire!" someone shouted. "Everyone out, now!"

Alarms blared as smoke began to seep under the door. In the chaos of the evacuation, Emma found herself separated from the interview panel. Outside, as fire trucks wailed in the distance, she watched in horror as flames engulfed the upper floors of the building.

"Are you alright?" A voice beside her made her jump. It was Sandra Liu, the woman who had called her about the interview.

Emma nodded, still in shock. "I'm fine, but... the interview..."

Sandra's eyes widened in recognition. "Mrs. Reeves! Your interview – it was going amazingly. In fact," she glanced at the burning building, then back at Emma with a determined look, "consider this your official offer. We'd be fools to let talent like yours slip away, especially after you handled this situation so calmly."

As Emma stammered her thanks, she felt the weight of the dragon in her pocket. A chill ran down her spine as she realized the true cost of her "perfect" interview.

That night, as fire crews still worked to fully extinguish the blaze, the Reeves family sat in somber silence around their kitchen table. The jade dragon sat in the center, its presence oppressive.

"We have to get rid of it," Oliver said, breaking the silence. "This is too dangerous."

Emma nodded, her face drawn. "But how? Aunt Vivian said she tried to destroy it..."

Olivia, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, spoke up. "What if... what if we used the last wish to undo everything? To wish that we'd never made any wishes at all?"

The adults exchanged glances. It seemed too simple, too easy. But as they looked at the dragon, its emerald eyes glinting in the low light, they knew they had to try.

With trembling hands, Emma picked up the pendant one last time. "I wish," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "that we had never made any wishes on this dragon."

The room seemed to spin, colors blurring and reality shifting. When everything settled, the Reeves family found themselves back at their kitchen table, Aunt Vivian standing before them with the wooden box in her hands.

"I came to give you this," Vivian was saying, "but... no. I can't. I'm sorry, I made a mistake." She snapped the box shut, clutching it to her chest. "Some things are better left alone."

As Vivian hurried out, Emma felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She looked at Oliver and Olivia, saw the same mix of relief and confusion on their faces.

"What just happened?" Olivia asked.

Emma shook her head, memories already fading like a half-forgotten dream. "I'm not sure, but I think... I think we just dodged a bullet."

Oliver reached across the table, taking Emma's hand in his. "Whatever it was, we're okay. We're together. And we'll face whatever comes next as a family."

As they sat there, the Seattle mist outside began to clear, revealing a sky full of stars. In that moment, Emma realized that the real magic wasn't in wishes or jade dragons, but in the love and resilience of her family. And that, she knew, was worth more than any wish could ever grant.

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© 2025 Olivia Salter - All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author.

The Gravity of a Kiss by Olivia Salter | Poetry

 

The Kiss by Gustav Klimt

The Gravity of a Kiss

by Olivia Salter

We stood in silence, side by side,

The noise of cars, the city's tide.

Your fingers twitched but didn’t stray—

Were you unsure or choosing to stay?

The air between us, thick and still,

Like holding breath against your will.

I wondered if you felt it too,

This quiet thing that slowly grew.

Your hand brushed mine, a fleeting dare,

I caught my breath, unsure, aware.

A pull between us, soft but strong,

Like something here had waited long.

Your eyes held mine, a question posed—

Do we stay here, or lean in close?

The space between us shrank, then held,

As if the world had paused, expelled.

A gust of wind, your coat uncurled,

Your lips, a doorway to another world.

I saw your nerves in every move,

But I felt mine, as if to prove—

That once we crossed this fragile line,

No turning back, no stopping time.

So when you leaned and met me there,

It wasn’t lips, it wasn’t air—

It was the warmth of something new,

A spark that suddenly burst through.

The world around us ceased to be,

And all I knew was you, just we.

Your lips were soft, like falling snow,

A slow descent I couldn’t know.

The taste of you was bittersweet,

Like something right, but incomplete.

A pause, then tremble, and we broke,

But in your eyes, the embers stoked.

I didn’t speak, I couldn’t dare,

But something changed, just hanging there.

We stood apart, but still as one,

The weight of what we’d just begun.

A kiss that altered time and space,

A promise held in warm embrace.

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© 2025 Olivia Salter - All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author.

The Pause That Healed by Olivia Salter | Short Fiction

Painting by Caia Koopman

The Pause That Healed

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1566

The strong smell of tear gas stung Zara's nostrils as she pushed through the irritated crowd. Sweat trickled down her back, her throat raw from hours of chanting. The setting sun painted the sky in hues of angry red and bruised purple, a fitting backdrop for the chaos unfolding on the streets below.

"No justice, no peace!" The words tore from her lips, joining the many voices around her. Zara's arms ached from holding her sign up in or into the air; over her head, but adrenaline kept her going. This was her element—the pulsing heart of dispute, the crucible where change was forged.

A bottle shattered against the pavement nearby, the sound sharp and jarring. Zara flinched, her grip tightening on her placard. The crowd surged, a living, breathing entity with a will of its own. She stumbled, caught in the riptide of bodies.

"Watch it!" A husky voice snarled as she collided with someone. Zara looked up, her eyes locking with a face she knew all too well from countless online clashes. Marcus. His features were twisted in a frown, eyes blazing with the same fire that she felt coursing through her veins.

Before either could speak, a fresh wave of tear gas oozed through the street. Coughing, chocking, and tears coursing down her face , they were pushed towards the shelter of a small café. The door burst open under their combined weight, the little bell above jingling with lack of harmony.

"That's it!" The café owner's voice cut through their gasping breaths. He was a stout man with salt-and-pepper hair and worry lines etched deep around his eyes. "You two stay put until this mess outside clears up." The lock clicked with finality, trapping them in the unexpected oasis of calm.

The café was a peaceful in contrasts to the mayhem outside. Warm, golden light spilled from antique fixtures, illuminating mismatched chairs and tables topped with chipped china cups. The aroma of coffee and freshly baked pastries hung in the air, a jarring counterpoint to the strong scent of tear gas that clung to their clothes.

Zara and Marcus retreated to opposite corners, eyeing each other cautiously. The silence stretched between them, tight as a bowstring. Zara's fingers itched for her phone, for the comfortable arena of social media where she could rally her supporters and destroy her opponents with carefully crafted tweets.

Instead, she found herself studying Marcus. Up close, without the filter of a screen or the frenzy of a protest, he looked... ordinary. Tired, even. A faint scar traced his jawline, and his knuckles were white where he gripped the back of a chair.

"So," Marcus cleared his throat, his voice rough from shouting. "Come here often?"

A snort of laughter escaped Zara before she could stop it. "Really? That's what you're going with?"

The corner of Marcus's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Well, it broke the ice, didn't it?"

Outside, sirens wailed and the muffled roar of the crowd retreat and flowed like a turbulent sea. Inside, the tick of an old clock on the wall marked the passage of time, each second an eternity.

"Why do you do it?" Zara found herself asking, surprising even herself with the question. "Why do you support policies that hurt so many people?"

Marcus's eyes flashed, but instead of the answer she expected, his voice was low and measured. "You really want to know? Or are you just looking for more ammunition?"

The challenge hung in the air between them. Zara felt the familiar surge of righteous anger, the response rising to her lips. But something made her pause. Maybe it was the absurdity of their situation, or the way the warm light softened Marcus's features, making him look more human than the picture she'd built in her mind.

"I... I want to know," she said finally, the words feeling foreign on her tongue.

And so, as the chaos raged outside, they talked. Really talked, for the first time. Words flowed like the coffee the café owner continued served them, bitter and strong and eye-opening.

Marcus spoke of his father, a factory worker who lost his job when the plant moved overseas. Of the slow decay of his hometown, the desperation that seeped into every crack and crevice. "You talk about justice," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "but where's the justice for people like my dad? For communities left behind?"

Zara listened, really listened, feeling the firm conviction that had armored her for so long begin to crack. She shared her own stories—of friends deported, of communities living in fear, of the daily injustices that fueled her fire.

As they talked, the world outside seemed to recede. The café became a bubble, a neutral ground where ideas could be exchanged without the need for signs or megaphones.

"I'm not saying I agree with you," Marcus said at one point, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "But I never realized how much thought you've put into your position."

Zara nodded slowly, cradling her cold coffee. "I could say the same about you. I always assumed you were just..."

"Ignorant? Heartless?" Marcus supplied with a wry smile.

"Yeah," Zara admitted, feeling a flush creep up her neck. "And I guess you thought I was a naïve troublemaker?"

"Guilty as charged."

They lapsed into silence, but it was different now. Thoughtful rather than hostile. Zara felt something shift within her, like tectonic plates realigning. The anger that had fueled her for so long began to transform into something else—a desire to understand, to connect.

As the hours ticked by, their conversation ranged far and wide. They debated policies and philosophies, sharing personal stories and long-held beliefs. There were moments of tension, of course—old habits die hard—but there were also unexpected moments of laughter, of shared frustration with the system they were both trying to change in their own ways.

When the café owner finally unlocked the door, the street outside was quiet. The protest had dispersed, leaving behind a litter of signs and lingering cans of tear gas. Zara stepped out, blinking in the harsh light of morning, feeling as though she was emerging into a different world.

"So," Marcus said, scuffing his shoe against the pavement. "That was..."

"Yeah," Zara agreed, understanding the sentiment behind his unfinished thought. "It was."

They parted ways without grand declarations or promises, but something had fundamentally changed. As Zara walked home, her mind buzzed with new ideas, new possibilities.

In the days that followed, she found herself unable to slip back into her old patterns. Her tweets lost their biting edge, her protest chants felt hollow. At a strategy meeting for her activist group, she found herself speaking up with a new message.

"We need to create spaces for dialogue," she insisted, her voice carrying over the skeptical murmurs. "We need to listen as much as we speak."

Her words were met with mixed reactions. Some nodded in agreement, energized by the prospect. Others scowled, accusations of betrayal in their eyes. "Going soft, Zara?" One of her oldest allies sneered. "Did they finally get to you?"

The words stung, but Zara stood her ground. "No," she said firmly. "I've just realized that shouting louder isn't always the answer. Sometimes we need to take a time out from the hate and really hear each other."

In the weeks that followed, Zara threw herself into her new approach with the same passion she'd once reserved for protests. She organized "Time Out on Hate" events—neutral spaces where people from opposing sides could meet, talk, and most importantly, listen.

It wasn't easy. The first few meetings were tense, filled with suspicious glares and barely concealed hostility. But slowly, something beautiful began to emerge. People who had once hurled insults at each other online were now having coffee together, their voices low and earnest as they shared their fears and hopes.

Zara watched as small acts of understanding rippled outward, creating waves of change. A conservative businessman, moved by the story of a young immigrant, offered her an internship. A liberal activist, after hearing a veteran's struggle, started a program to support military families.

They didn't always agree, but they began to see each other as human beings rather than faceless enemies. And in that recognition of shared humanity, Zara found the fulfillment she had been seeking all along.

Standing before a diverse group at her latest "Time Out on Hate" event, Zara felt a sense of peace she'd never known in all her years of angry activism. The room hummed with nervous energy, but also with hope.

"Welcome," she said warmly, her gaze sweeping over faces both familiar and new. Her eyes lingered for a moment on Marcus, who gave her a small nod. "Let's take a pause from the noise, from the anger, and truly see each other. This is where healing begins."

As the group began to mingle, their voices a low murmur of cautious introductions and tentative questions, Zara knew that this—this moment of pause, of potential understanding—was the most revolutionary act of all. In the quiet space between breaths, in the moment before words are spoken, there lay the possibility of real, lasting change.

And in that pause, in that precious time out from hate, a new world was being born, one conversation at a time.

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© 2025 Olivia Salter - All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author.

When the Shadows Call by Olivia Salter | Short Fiction

When the Shadows Call

by Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,172

The small room, cluttered with papers and half-filled notebooks, flickered in the glow of a single candle. Kylie sat hunched over her laptop, the soft clattering of keys breaking the midnight silence. Her latest horror story, now nearing completion, had consumed her for weeks. She loved writing at night, when the world was asleep and the shadows seemed to deepen, blurring the lines between reality and imagination.

Outside, a storm brewed, the wind whispering against the old wooden house. Kylie had been living alone for months now, ever since the divorce, and this was her sanctuary. Her escape. She poured her heart and soul into her stories, her characters, her monsters. They gave her control over a world where everything seemed to fall apart. In her stories, she could decide who lived, who died, and what lurked in the dark.

Tonight, she was writing about shadows—living shadows that could creep into the real world. As she crafted her final scene, she described the knock: slow, deliberate, three beats that echoed through the walls of an old, forgotten house. Her protagonist had written these monsters into existence, just as Kylie had, and now they were coming for her.

Kylie typed the last sentence, her fingers shaking slightly as she hit the final period. The clock on the wall ticked softly, and the wind outside grew louder, rattling the windows. She glanced at the time: midnight. Her candle sputtered, casting twisting, grotesque shadows on the walls.

Then, as if pulled from the very pages she had written, came the knock.

Knock, knock, knock.

The sound was soft at first, a gentle tapping that seemed to echo through the room. Kylie froze, her fingers suspended above the keyboard. She hadn’t imagined it—she knew she hadn’t. The knock came again, louder this time, more deliberate, as if something on the other side of the door was mimicking what she had just written.

Her breath quickened. She pushed back from her desk, her chair scraping against the floor. The wind outside howled, the shadows in the room stretching, shifting as the candlelight flickered. Kylie’s heart pounded in her chest. She stood slowly, her legs trembling beneath her, and took a step toward the door.

“Hello?” Her voice cracked as she called out, but the house answered only with silence.

She swallowed hard, her throat dry. It was ridiculous to be afraid, she told herself. She was alone. The knock was probably just the wind playing tricks, or a branch tapping against the door. Yet her pulse raced, and the air in the room felt thick, suffocating.

The door stood only a few feet away, its edges lined with shadows that twisted and squirm. With a shaking hand, Kylie reached for the doorknob. Her palm rested on the cold metal for a second before she turned it, slowly pulling the door open.

Nothing. The hallway beyond lay empty, dimly lit by the faint glow of the storm outside. She stepped back, her pulse still racing. But as she closed the door, something caught her eye—a movement in the corner of the room. A shadow, darker than the others, clung to the wall, watching her.

Her breath hitched. The shadow stretched and shifted, peeling itself from the wall like black ink spilling across the floor. It wasn’t attached to anything, wasn’t cast by any object or person—it was alive.

Kylie stumbled backward, knocking into her desk. The candle flame flickered wildly, and the shadow stretched taller, its form twisting into something grotesque. She watched, paralyzed, as it grew eyes—two burning embers that stared back at her with an intensity that made her skin crawl.

“You gave us life,” it whispered, its voice like dry leaves scraping against stone. “Now we demand yours.”

Kylie gasped, her heart slamming against her ribs. The room closed in around her, the shadows shifting, moving, becoming alive with each flicker of the candlelight. Her mind raced, trying to grasp the impossibility of it. She had written this. She had written them into existence, and now they were here, standing before her, demanding something she couldn’t give.

The shadow took a step forward, its form fluid and monstrous, twisting and elongating as it moved. Its eyes burned brighter, and Kylie could feel the cold radiating from it, seeping into her bones.

“No,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “You’re not real.”

The creature’s smile widened, jagged teeth forming out of the inky blackness. “Oh, we’re real,” it hissed. “And we are many.”

As the words left its mouth, the shadows around the room began to thrash, pulling themselves free from the walls, from the corners, from every place the light didn’t touch. One by one, they came to life, eyes blinking open, glowing with the same malevolent fire. They surrounded her, their whispers growing louder, more insistent.

Kylie’s knees buckled. She scrambled to her desk, her trembling hands fumbling for the laptop. She could rewrite it, she thought desperately. She could write them away, erase them, just as easily as she had created them. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, but the screen flickered, the words disappearing before her eyes.

The shadows closed in, their shapes towering over her. Their voices filled the room, a cacophony of hisses and whispers.

“Too late, Kylie,” the first creature whispered, its breath cold against her skin. “You can’t undo us. We live now, just as you wrote. And now, we take what you owe.”

Kylie screamed, her voice drowned out by the howling wind and the rising roar of the shadows. They swarmed around her, their forms tangling and twisting, growing darker, denser, until the room was consumed by them. She felt their cold hands on her, pulling her down, suffocating her.

Her vision blurred, her lungs burning as the darkness closed in, pressing down on her chest, wrapping around her like a vice. Her mind raced back to the story, to the final scene she had written—the knock, the shadows, the inevitable end.

But this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She was the writer. She controlled the story. She decided the ending.

With a final burst of strength, Kylie reached for the candle. Her fingers closed around it, the wax hot and soft beneath her touch. She lifted it, preparing to hurl it into the shadows, hoping that maybe, just maybe, light could save her.

But the flame sputtered and died before she could throw it.

The room fell silent. The shadows, now thick and suffocating, consumed every inch of space. Kylie’s screams were swallowed by the darkness, and then, nothing.

The storm outside raged on, but within the house, there was only stillness. The shadows, once alive with movement, returned to their places on the walls, their forms no longer twisting, no longer watching. The house stood quiet, as though nothing had ever disturbed it.

The clock struck midnight, the final chime echoing through the empty room.

In the darkness, the faintest of whispers lingered: “We are real.”

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© 2025 Olivia Salter - All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author.