The Hellhound Guardian by Olivia Salter | Horror | Short Fiction

The Hellhound Guardian

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,896

Beneath San Diego’s starless night sky, two desperate men are about to learn that some graves are better left untouched.

The air was thick and salty from the distant ocean, a familiar coastal breeze sweeping through the old cemetery on the outskirts of San Diego. Miguel tightened his grip on the rusted shovel as he cast a wary glance at his partner, Frank. Under the flickering yellow light of their flashlights, the ancient tombstones cast long shadows that seemed to stretch and coil in the darkness.

They moved quickly but clumsily, driven by a greed they'd long convinced themselves was worth it. Just one more hit—one more "collection," as they called it. This time, they’d scored big intel: a wealthy family crypt, barely touched in over a century. Frank’s whispers were quick and cold.

"Keep going, Miguel. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we’re out."

Miguel nodded, shovel hitting the damp earth. He tried to shake off the unsettling weight in the pit of his stomach. It was just nerves, he told himself. But then his shovel clinked against something solid. He froze, and a sudden chill prickled his skin. They’d reached it.

Frank grinned, the flashlight casting shadows across his face, giving him a ghoulish grin as he hoisted the heavy coffin lid. Inside, the figure was wrapped in ancient, brittle cloth. Gold bracelets and necklaces glittered in the beam of light, draped over thin, bony wrists.

They began pulling at the jewelry, stuffing their bags full. But as Miguel reached for a heavy pendant, his hand froze—beneath the corpse’s lifeless fingers was a strange, weathered charm. It seemed out of place, ancient beyond even the tomb. The charm was shaped like a snarling hound, eyes hollow and mouth open as if mid-howl. He pocketed it with a nervous shrug, brushing off a sudden, irrational sense of dread.

And then he heard it—a distant growl. Low, guttural, echoing from deep within the cemetery.

They exchanged glances, breath fogging in the night air.

“Just the wind, right?” Frank’s voice wavered.

Miguel nodded, but his heart hammered against his ribs. In the stillness, the growling persisted, moving closer, each snarl vibrating through the earth beneath their feet.

They shoved their finds into their bags, barely looking up as they ran away. But with every step, the growling grew louder, sharper, mingling with a new sound—labored breathing, a frantic panting that seemed to draw nearer with each heavy breath.

Miguel stopped, clenching his flashlight, casting it back toward the grave. Nothing. Just shadows swallowing shadows. But then, his beam landed on something—two massive paw prints, embedded in the soft soil, trailing behind them.

His blood ran cold.

The panting was clearer now, the sound of claws move quickly against the dirt. Without a word, he bolted, feet pounding the ground as he tore through the narrow graveyard paths, Frank barely keeping up. Behind them, a hideous snarl split the night—a wild sound, primal and hungry, filled with an anger that made Miguel’s skin crawl. It was close, much closer than it should’ve been, echoing off the mausoleums and tombstones like a terrible, living shadow.

They ducked between crumbling headstones, flashlight beams swinging wildly as they tried to find a way out. The cemetery’s paths twisted like a maze, every turn taking them deeper into a abyss of graves and memorials. The creature’s growls grew louder, each one vibrating in Miguel's chest, rattling his bones as if something ancient and dark was clawing its way toward them.

Frank stumbled, his flashlight clattering to the ground, casting a shaky glow on the cemetery wall. And then they saw it—hulking, low to the ground, with eyes like molten embers burning through the dark. The creature was the size of a bear, yet its shape was distinctly canine, twisted and warped like something stitched together from nightmare and shadow. Mangy fur clung to its body, taut over protruding ribs, and its mouth hung open, revealing rows of jagged, impossibly sharp teeth. It looked almost ghostly, an abomination made of mist and darkness, yet disturbingly solid.

The hound’s red eyes fixed on them, and Miguel could feel the weight of its gaze, a ferocious intelligence simmering behind the beast’s monstrous face.

“Run, Miguel! Now!” Frank’s voice was strangled with terror, his body already in motion.

Miguel didn’t hesitate. They sprinted through the winding paths, the growling beast in pursuit, its footfalls heavy and relentless. Miguel’s lungs burned, his breath coming in sharp gasps. His hand tightened around the charm he’d stolen, and with a sickening clarity, he realized it was warm, almost pulsing as if it were alive.

The creature was closer now, its hot breath snapping at their heels. Frank glanced back and screamed, tripping over a broken gravestone. He crashed to the ground, clutching his ankle, his face pale with terror as he tried to scramble to his feet.

Miguel skidded to a stop, torn between helping his friend and saving himself. But the choice was made for him. The beast’s jaws snapped shut around Frank’s leg, dragging him back, his scream piercing the night air. Miguel watched, frozen in horror as Frank’s flashlight clattered away, casting one last glimpse of Frank’s face contorted in agony, his hands clawing at the earth.

The hound’s eyes flashed to Miguel, blood on its muzzle, as if daring him to run.

Miguel’s legs moved before his mind could process, sprinting through the cemetery, heart pounding as he dodged around broken headstones and ducked beneath low-hanging branches. The air seemed colder now, each breath a ragged, icy gasp as he desperately searched for an escape.

The beast’s growls echoed through the night, always just behind him, closer with every step. In the madness of it all, he clutched the charm in his pocket, his mind racing as he wondered if it held the key to his survival—or his doom. He yanked it out, holding it up as he stumbled backward, staring down at the carved hound with its empty eyes.

He looked up, and there it was—the beast, standing between him and the cemetery gate, its eyes locking onto the charm, its growl deepening into something almost… satisfied. The creature began to advance, its steps slow, savoring every inch.

Desperation surged through Miguel, and he flung the charm at the hound, shouting a hoarse, terrified plea. The charm landed with a soft thud in the dirt between them.

The hound stopped. Its molten gaze shifted from Miguel to the charm. For a moment, it stood still, its head cocking slightly, as if amused. Then, with a final, bone-chilling growl, it lunged, snapping up the charm in its jaws, crunching it between its teeth with a sickening crack.

Miguel didn’t wait to see what would happen next. He sprinted toward the gate, heart hammering as he burst through to the road beyond. He didn’t stop, didn’t look back, just ran until the night swallowed the cemetery behind him.

He stumbled home, his body aching, the memory of Frank’s screams haunting his mind. But as he reached his apartment, he stopped dead. Scratched into his front door were three deep claw marks, fresh and ragged.

And in the silence, he heard it—a low, steady panting, drifting up from the darkness below.

Miguel’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at the door, his pulse pounding in his ears. The claw marks were raw, splintered wood curling up from deep grooves, fresh enough that flakes of paint were still peeling off. And there, just beyond the threshold, was that terrible panting—slow and patient, like the sound of something that had all the time in the world.

He backed away, scanning the hall. Everything was silent, eerily still. The neighbors’ doors were closed, lights off, the usual late-night murmur of the building entirely absent. It was as if he were the only soul left in this place.

Miguel fumbled for his phone, fingers trembling as he dialed. But just as he raised it to his ear, the line went dead—a crackle of static followed by silence.

He glanced back at his door. Slowly, his mind pieced together the unthinkable truth: he hadn’t escaped. He’d only brought the creature with him. His apartment felt impossibly far, the safety he’d longed for now a fragile illusion.

Miguel swallowed hard and moved to the nearest stairwell, descending into the dimly lit parking garage. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting shadows that stretched and flickered across the concrete floor. His footsteps echoed, each step louder than the last as he weaved between the rows of cars. His hand rested on the hood of his car, ready to open it, to escape, when a noise froze him in place—a soft, wet scraping sound, like claws dragging over stone.

The hound stepped into the light at the far end of the garage. Its fur looked even more matted now, dripping with something dark that Miguel could only assume was Frank’s blood. The creature’s eyes gleamed, unblinking, with that same merciless hunger, and its lips curled back to reveal bloodstained fangs.

Miguel’s eyes darted around the garage, his mind racing. There was nowhere left to run, and something inside him knew that this creature would pursue him to the ends of the earth. He could almost hear a voice whispering from some dark, ancient corner of his mind: You took from the dead, and now the dead will take from you.

With a final, desperate plea, Miguel straightened, his eyes fixed on the hound. "I give it back," he whispered, though his voice barely trembled. "I give it all back."

The creature paused, head tilting ever so slightly, as if it understood. Then, it lowered itself, muscles coiling, ready to pounce.

Miguel’s heart pounded as he reached into his pocket, pulling out every trinket, every stolen item he’d kept from his countless graveyard jobs. He dropped them one by one onto the cold cement, each piece clattering like shattered bones in the silence.

The hound watched him, unblinking, its eyes narrowing with something that looked like satisfaction.

Miguel took a step back, his hands raised, hoping against hope that he’d offered enough, that he’d fulfilled whatever cursed debt he owed.

The creature’s gaze lingered on him, a silent, terrible judgment. Then, with a final, guttural growl, it turned away, slinking back into the shadows, its form dissolving into the darkness until only its red, hateful eyes remained. They hovered there, watching him, a silent promise of retribution should he stray from the path again.

And then, as suddenly as it had come, the beast was gone, leaving Miguel alone in the flickering light of the garage.

He stumbled back to his apartment, heart still racing, legs weak with fear. That night, he left every window and door open, watching the darkness, waiting. But the creature never returned. Its vengeance had been satisfied—at least, for now.

But even as days turned into weeks, Miguel could still feel those eyes upon him, watching from the shadows, waiting. And whenever he felt the old urge rise—to take, to steal, to defile the graves he once haunted—he would remember the hound’s snarling face, the scent of decay, and the whisper that lingered in his mind:

Some debts are paid in flesh.

The Silence of Steel by Olivia Salter | Short Story

 

The Silence of Steel

 

By Olivia Salter

 

Word Count: 2,140

 
 
“Nonsense! This isn’t a country club,” Stevenson’s voice echoed off the polished oak walls, his words cold and clipped. “A penitentiary is where lawbreakers pay their dues, not a place for coddling.”
 
He waved a fleshy hand, dismissive, toward the convict standing at the foot of the table—a slight man with sunken cheeks, face lined with exhaustion. Stevenson’s gaze skimmed over him, impersonal, almost as if he were surveying a report rather than a human being.
 
Stevenson shifted his attention back to the room, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “This man here,” he went on, sweeping a glance around the table as though inviting them all in on the joke, “he’s seen that the newspapers are after the warden’s head and decided to take advantage. He’s spinning tales, gentlemen, conjuring up horrors to make himself look the victim.”
 
Several heads nodded. Around the table sat other members of the commission—stern men in dark suits, pens poised, faces alert yet wary. They watched the convict, wary of his defiance, wary of his words. One man, younger, shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but his gaze never left Stevenson.
 
Stevenson continued, crossing his arms with an air of finality. “I’ll admit, his story is well told—brutality, suffering, the usual. But exaggerated? Absolutely. Discipline, gentlemen, is not optional in a place like this. A bit of harshness is necessary to keep things in order. Without it, these prisoners would run wild.”
 
The convict’s fists tightened at his sides, the knuckles white, and he took a short breath as if trying to rein himself in. He’d been told to speak only when spoken to, but the urge to push back against the lies, the boldness in the air, surged up in him.
 
“There’s no call for brutality,” he said, his voice barely a murmur but hard as a diamond. His gaze didn’t waver as he looked into Stevenson’s smug face.
 
An electric charge settled over the room. The young man at the end of the table looked up, his pen frozen mid-note. Stevenson’s smirk hardened, and he shot the convict a look that could cut steel. The prisoner had broken the rule, spoken out of turn. The chairmen’s jaws tightened, their expressions turning steely, as though a line had been crossed.
 
Stevenson raised a hand, but the convict ignored him. He stepped forward, the light overhead catching the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.
 
“Do you know what it’s like in there?” he asked, his voice louder now, like he was forcing each word from his chest. “Do you know what they do to us?”
 
A few members shifted uncomfortably, exchanging glances. Stevenson’s face remained frozen in disdain, but he didn’t interrupt. The convict’s voice gained a grim strength.
 
“We’re treated like animals, like we’re already dead. A man so much as asks a question, and he’s met with a fist. A dropped spoon or fork in the mess hall? It means you’re skipping your next meal. And if a man’s too sick to work, he’s still dragged to the shop. The guards press guns to our backs and force us to stand, to lift, to move.”
 
The young man at the end of the table, his brows furrowing, seemed to shift uneasily in his seat. The convict noticed, and a glimmer of defiance sparked in his eyes.
 
“Petty things, these punishments,” the convict went on, his tone biting. “But if you make even one small misstep, they throw you in the dark cell.”
 
A murmur ran through the room. “The dark cell” had become a hushed phrase, one spoken of only by those who knew the prison’s shadows best. Stevenson’s mouth twitched slightly, but he held his ground, tapping his fingers impatiently against the table.
 
“Do you even know what that is?” The convict’s voice took on a harsh edge, his gaze daring anyone in the room to answer. “They call it solitary confinement, but ‘hell’ is a better word.”
 
His eyes flashed as he spoke, and he felt the memory pulling him down, down into the darkness he knew too well. He forced himself to stand tall, his voice almost a whisper, as though speaking the words made the memory too real.
 
“You’re shoved into a box of solid steel. Walls, floor, ceiling—all metal. It’s like they’ve buried you alive, with no cot, no stool, nothing but the freezing floor that chills your bones through your clothes. Once that door slams, light is gone. Darkness thick as ink. You can’t tell day from night, can’t tell if you’re awake or dreaming.”
 
A few of the men looked away. The young man cleared his throat and tried to focus on his notes, but his hand shook slightly.
 
The convict’s voice dropped lower, his words almost hollow. “No air, either, not enough to breathe. There’s just a tiny vent in the ceiling, a small, twisted pipe that barely lets any air through. You start feeling like the walls are closing in, like the whole world has collapsed on top of you.”
 
He paused, and the silence in the room thickened, pressing down like a weight.
 
“And then there’s the quiet,” he went on, his voice breaking slightly, but he held his gaze steady. “It’s so silent that your own heartbeat sounds like a hammer in your chest. Days… hours… you don’t know how long you’ve been in there. Just that darkness, the cold floor, and your own breath. You start to feel like you’re slipping away, like you’re nothing, like you never even existed.”
 
Stevenson watched him, unmoved, his arms still crossed tightly. But the others were visibly shaken. A few of the men exchanged glances, frowns deepening, lines creasing their foreheads. The young man looked as if he wanted to speak, but fear of breaking rank kept him silent.
 
The convict took a deep breath, his eyes almost defiant now, challenging them all to dismiss him. “That’s how they control us. They break us in that cell, make sure we come out more animal than man. And then, when you’ve had enough of the dark, when you’ve lost all sense of yourself… they open the door, throw you back into the world like you’re nothing but a dog.” His gaze burned into Stevenson’s, his voice steady, even fierce.
 
“But don’t call it discipline,” he finished quietly. “Because discipline teaches. This… this only destroys.”
 
The silence was absolute. Even Stevenson’s smirk had faded. He cleared his throat, trying to regain control, but the smugness was gone, replaced with something else—an anger, a defensiveness, like he felt cornered.
 
“This man,” he said, his voice low and clipped, “is simply a criminal grasping at sympathy. He’s painting a grim picture, yes, but there’s nothing in his words but bitterness. Rules exist to keep him in line, to prevent chaos. Without order, these men would tear each other apart. That cell he describes—it’s a deterrent, not some torture chamber.”
 
The convict’s gaze didn’t falter, his silence now more powerful than any retort. He looked around the room, letting his eyes settle on each man in turn, lingering on the young one, who finally lowered his head, scribbling something on his notepad.
 
“It’s not bitterness,” the convict replied softly. “It’s the truth.”
 
He stood there, a worn, haggard figure against the authority of polished suits and self-assured smiles. But in that moment, he held his own power—a defiance that refused to be crushed, a resilience that spoke louder than any dismissal Stevenson could muster. And for just a moment, the room seemed to shift, an unease filling the space between them all, a ripple that even the hard faces around the table couldn’t ignore.
 
The young man at the end of the table set down his pen, his eyes fixed on the convict. He opened his mouth, but closed it again, uncertain. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his notebook, his own expression caught somewhere between pity and respect.
 
Stevenson, catching this, let out a harsh laugh. “You see, gentlemen?” He gestured toward the convict with a wave of his hand. “This is what happens when you let them speak out of turn. They start getting ideas, thinking they deserve more than they’ve earned.”
 
But the convict remained silent, the flame of defiance still flickering in his eyes. He had no more words to waste. He knew they’d heard him; he’d seen it in their faces, even if only for a flicker, a brief shadow of recognition.
 
As they called the guards to take him away, he straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin just slightly as they gripped his arms and turned him toward the door. The memory of that cell, that steel-lined coffin, lingered, an ever-present shadow he carried with him, but it didn’t define him. Not anymore.
 
And as he was led down the long, empty hallway, he held onto one thought—simple, unyielding, and more powerful than any darkness.
 
One day, someone would listen.
 
As the he walked down the cold, dim hallway, led by two guards with a steel grip on his arms, his thoughts lingered on the faces around the table, especially the young man. Something in that man’s eyes had stirred a sliver of hope in him, a tiny crack in the wall of authority that had seemed impenetrable moments before. He had seen the flicker of unease, the discomfort as he spoke of the dark cell. That look had spoken louder than words—it was a glimpse of doubt in a place that rarely allowed it.
 
The clang of a metal door brought him back to the present, the sound echoing through the corridors. They were leading him back to his own cell, but even the small, barred cage seemed preferable to the dark cell, where time and memory dissolved in the void.
 
As they reached his cell, one of the guards sneered. “Hope you enjoyed your little speech,” he said, roughly shoving the convict inside. “Didn’t do you a bit of good.”
 
The convict turned slowly, meeting the guard’s taunting gaze. For once, he felt a strange calm, a strength that came from the knowledge that he had, at the very least, been heard.
 
“It’s enough to know I spoke the truth,” he replied, his voice steady. “Someday, someone will see what’s going on here. And when they do, maybe things will change.”
 
The guard snorted, slamming the cell door shut with a final, metallic clang. The convict watched him disappear down the hall, the silence settling around him like a familiar shroud.
 
But as he lay down on the hard cot, staring up at the cracked ceiling, he let himself hold on to that small spark of hope. He pictured the young commissioner’s face again, the conflicted look in his eyes, and for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to believe—just a little—that change was possible.
 
Back in the meeting room, the commissioners sat in silence, Stevenson tapping his pen irritably on the table. The young man at the end of the table seemed lost in thought, his eyes fixed on the spot where the convict had stood.
 
One of the older commissioners leaned in toward him, voice low. “Something on your mind, son?”
 
The young man glanced up, hesitating. “I just... I wonder if we’re really seeing the whole picture here. It’s easy to dismiss him, but... what if he’s telling the truth?”
 
Stevenson scoffed, shaking his head. “He’s an inmate. Criminals lie—especially when there’s something to gain.”
 
The young man shifted uncomfortably but didn’t respond. As the meeting concluded and they all filed out, that seed of doubt remained, tearing at him. Over the next few days, he found himself going over the convict’s words, the conviction in his voice, the haunted look in his eyes as he spoke of the dark cell.
 
One evening, long after his colleagues had left, the young commissioner sat alone in his office, surrounded by stacks of reports and files. His gaze drifted to a small file on the edge of his desk—the convict’s record. On a whim, he pulled it open, scanning the sparse notes, the list of infractions. But what caught his attention was the repeated punishment noted at the end of each report: “Solitary confinement.”
 
A chill ran through him as he read, each entry confirming the convict’s story. And in that moment, the young man felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on him, as if he were standing on the edge of a dark abyss. The convict’s voice echoed in his mind: One day, someone will listen.
 
The commissioner closed the file, his jaw set with new determination.  Tomorrow, he would return to that prison—not as an observer, but as someone determined to uncover the truth.

Reclaiming My Time: Picture of a New Life by Olivia Salter | Short Story

 

Reclaiming My Time: Picture of a New Life

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 2,827

Rebecca’s days had long ago blurred into a colorless loop: mornings with coffee brewed and breakfast ready, his lunch packed, his socks matched and folded. The ritualistic preparation for Eric’s day was a production with no audience, no applause, only the fading hope that perhaps today he’d look at her with more than that dismissive glance. In those early years, she had romanticized his dismissiveness as mystery, mistaking his quiet moods for depth and his selfishness for ambition.

But now, standing at the counter chopping vegetables for his dinner, Rebecca wondered how she’d slipped so deeply into this role. Eric sat behind her, hunched over his laptop, immersed in some new video game as usual. She glanced over her shoulder. His face was slack, unthinking, his fingers tapping out moves with the precision of muscle memory.

Once, she’d tried to join him in these games, thinking they could share something, but he brushed her off. “It’s not really your thing,” he’d said, not even looking up. It’s not really my thing, she thought bitterly, pressing the knife harder against the cutting board. Her days were spent accommodating his "things," keeping their life running so he could play, work, and rest undisturbed. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d asked how she was doing. If he ever had.

Her phone buzzed on the counter, jolting her out of her thoughts. It was Sarah, her friend from college. They hadn’t spoken in months, but Sarah had always been the one to check in, to see if Rebecca was alright, even when Rebecca had nothing reassuring to say.

Want to catch up? It’s been too long.

She stared at the message, her thumb hovering. A tiny thrill prickled under her skin—an invitation to step out of her role, even just for an hour. But as quickly as it came, she brushed it away. Eric would notice if she left. He’d complain about the disruption, the inconvenience of her absence. And besides, what would she even tell Sarah?

Her response was a single word: Busy.

***

The next morning, Rebecca found herself staring at her reflection, studying the hollowness in her own eyes. She barely recognized herself—the shadows under her eyes, the faint, tired lines around her mouth. She hadn’t done anything purely for herself in years. Eric had made sure of that, subtly, by filling her life with endless responsibilities.

She remembered how charming he had been when they met, his confidence and sharp wit intoxicating. He’d known exactly what to say, how to make her feel seen, special. “You’re different from anyone I’ve met,” he’d said, and she’d believed him. But over the years, his attention had dwindled to nothing, leaving only criticism in its place. He wasn’t angry or violent; he simply…expected. Expected meals, clean clothes, a quiet house, and her undivided attention when he needed it, which was rare.

In an impulsive flash, she picked up her phone and called Sarah. Her voice trembled, unpracticed. “Actually, I’d love to catch up. Are you free today?”

***

They met in a cozy cafe, a stark contrast to the sterile silence of her own home. Sarah greeted her with a warm, relieved smile. They sat by the window, the sun warming their faces, and for the first time in years, Rebecca found herself talking—really talking. She told Sarah about Eric’s indifference, her loneliness, the numbness that had seeped into every part of her life.

Sarah listened, her eyes filled with empathy. “You don’t have to live like this, Rebecca,” she said softly. “You deserve more than this. You don’t have to just disappear.”

The words hit her like a shock. Disappear. She realized that’s exactly what she’d done. Bit by bit, she’d allowed herself to fade, believing that if she became small enough, quiet enough, he’d finally be happy with her. But he never was, and she was beginning to see that he never would be.

***

That night, Rebecca picked up a paintbrush for the first time in years. Art had once been her solace, her passion, but she’d set it aside when she met Eric, thinking she’d find something even better with him. The canvas stared back at her, blank and intimidating, but she pushed forward, letting her hand move in bold, reckless strokes. She painted until the early hours, colors swirling and blending in ways that didn’t make sense but felt right.

When Eric woke the next morning, he barely glanced at her work. “Is there coffee?” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. He didn’t notice the exhaustion in her face, the slight tremor in her hands from a night spent pouring her heart onto the canvas. To him, the painting was just another one of her “little hobbies,” an insignificant diversion.

But for Rebecca, it was something else entirely. It was a beginning.

***

Over the next few weeks, she painted every chance she got. Her apartment filled with canvases—abstract shapes, chaotic bursts of color, expressions of frustration, longing, anger. She reconnected with old friends, too, cautiously at first, but with growing confidence. She even invited Sarah over one evening to see her work.

“Rebecca,” Sarah breathed, looking around at the paintings. “These are incredible. You could have a show with these.”

The suggestion thrilled her and terrified her at once. She could barely imagine herself stepping into that world, showing her work, stepping into the light. But the thought wouldn’t leave her. A show—a real show—felt like a bridge to another life, one where she wasn’t invisible.

When she talked about the idea with Eric that night, he laughed. “A show? Don’t you think that’s a bit much? I mean, art’s fine as a hobby, but who’s really going to care about this…stuff?”

She felt her stomach drop, but she held her ground. “It matters to me.”

He looked at her, puzzled. “Well, as long as it doesn’t interfere with things around here.”

It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. She wouldn’t let his dismissiveness poison her excitement. For the first time in years, she didn’t need his approval.

***

When the opportunity for a small exhibition came, she threw herself into preparing for it, spending hours refining her work. Her friends, those she’d distanced herself from during her marriage, rallied around her, filling her apartment with laughter, encouragement, and color. She realized that she’d become a stranger even to herself, but now, she was finding her way back.

Eric’s apathy persisted, though, and one night it reached a breaking point. She’d forgotten to pick up his dry cleaning—a minor oversight in the whirlwind of preparations for the exhibit—but he reacted as if she’d committed an unforgivable betrayal.

“You can’t even handle the simplest things anymore,” he snapped, his voice thick with disgust. “This is exactly why people can’t rely on you. You get distracted, obsessed with this…nonsense, and everything falls apart.”

Rebecca stood in stunned silence, her heart pounding as his words echoed in her mind. She’d heard them before, of course, in subtle digs and passing comments, but never so venomously. A strange calm settled over her as she watched him, her mind sharpening with a clarity she hadn’t felt in years.

“I think you should go,” she said quietly.

He scoffed. “Go where?”

“Out of my life,” she replied, her voice steady. “I’m done.”

***

The divorce was a brief, emotionless affair. Eric barely looked at her as they signed the papers, his face a mask of indifference. But Rebecca felt a weight lift with every page, every signature, as if she were shedding the last remnants of a life that had once consumed her.

In her new apartment, a small, sunlit space filled with canvases and art supplies, Rebecca began to rebuild. She found work at a local bookstore and spent her evenings painting, each canvas a step closer to reclaiming herself.

One evening, she was introduced to a man named Leo at a gallery opening. He was kind, soft-spoken, and seemed genuinely interested in her work. Over coffee, they talked about art, literature, and the quiet beauty of ordinary things. He asked about her story, and she told him, not as a victim but as a survivor, someone who had found her way back to herself.

As their friendship grew, Rebecca felt something she hadn’t felt in years—a tentative, cautious hope. But she was different now. She guarded her independence fiercely, setting boundaries, ensuring her life remained her own. Leo respected that, never pushing, always offering, understanding that her trust was a gift, not an expectation.

***

One night, as she looked at a painting of an open landscape she’d recently completed, Rebecca felt a sense of peace settle over her. The colors were vibrant, expansive, full of life and possibility. She realized she was no longer painting from a place of anger or loss but of freedom, of joy in the unknown.

She stood back, admiring the canvas, feeling her heart swell. Her life was her own again, full of color and light. And as she looked around her small apartment, filled with art and laughter and friends, she knew that she had finally come home—to herself.

***

Rebecca sat in front of her easel, a cup of tea cooling in her hands as she stared at the canvas. It had been weeks since she’d left Eric, and yet there were days when she felt like she was still running from him. The echoes of his voice, his criticisms, and his selfishness had clung to her like a persistent fog, lingering in the corners of her mind. But every stroke of paint, every hour spent surrounded by color, reminded her that she was moving forward.

She had learned that freedom was more than just an absence of someone else—it was the presence of her own desires, her own voice. And now, with each new day, she was learning to embrace that voice fully.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. She glanced up, wiping her hands on her apron before crossing the room to answer. When she opened the door, Sarah stood on the other side, smiling brightly.

“I brought lunch,” Sarah said, holding up a small brown bag. “And I need to talk to you about something.”

Rebecca stepped aside to let her in. “What’s going on?”

Sarah set the bag down on the table and turned to face her. Her eyes were filled with excitement, and Rebecca could feel the weight of her words before they were even spoken.

“So, I’ve been talking to some of my contacts,” Sarah began, her voice full of energy. “I know this isn’t what you’ve been focused on, but there’s this gallery in the city that wants to showcase your work. They’ve seen some of the pieces you’ve been posting, and they’re really interested.”

Rebecca blinked, momentarily stunned. It wasn’t that she hadn’t dreamed of this moment—she had. But somewhere along the way, she had buried that dream beneath the weight of Eric’s indifference and her own self-doubt. Now, standing on the brink of a real opportunity, she felt her heart flutter with both fear and excitement.

“Wait,” Rebecca said, trying to process the information. “A gallery wants to showcase my work?”

Sarah nodded, her smile widening. “Yes! They want to do a full exhibition of your pieces. You’ve got talent, Rebecca. It’s time to share it with the world.”

Rebecca stood motionless for a moment, the gravity of the offer sinking in. Her first instinct was to decline, to find some reason to back away from it. She was used to pushing away any recognition, any spotlight. For so long, her identity had been tangled up in someone else’s life, their demands, their needs. Now, it felt foreign to imagine her art being seen by more than just a handful of people.

But as she looked at Sarah, standing there with such certainty and excitement, Rebecca realized that this was no longer about hiding in the shadows. This was about stepping into the light, about taking back everything she had lost in the years of playing the supporting role.

“I don’t know,” Rebecca said, her voice quieter now. “What if I’m not ready? What if they hate it?”

Sarah shook her head. “You are more than ready. You’ve been preparing for this without even realizing it. Just let yourself take the chance.”

Rebecca inhaled deeply, the weight of her past colliding with the promise of something new. She thought of the years spent cleaning up after Eric, of the hours spent in silence, trying to please him, trying to shrink herself into a version of herself that he could accept. She thought of all the times she had put off her own dreams for his comfort, for his approval. She had spent so much time waiting for his validation, but now, she was the one who needed to validate herself.

With a deep breath, she nodded. “Okay,” she said, her voice steady. “Let’s do it.”

***

The weeks leading up to the exhibition were a blur of preparations. Rebecca found herself working late into the night, touching up paintings, choosing the ones that felt the most personal, the most authentic to who she was now. Each brushstroke felt like an act of defiance, a statement of her strength and independence. No longer did she need to hide behind anyone else’s expectations. Her art was hers, and that was enough.

She took long walks through the city, visiting galleries and soaking in the works of other artists. It was both inspiring and humbling to see how much art could communicate, how much it could speak to the heart and soul. Rebecca knew she had a voice now, and it was time to let the world hear it.

On the night of the exhibition, Rebecca stood in the gallery, her heart pounding as she surveyed the room. The walls were lined with her paintings, the colors vibrant and bold against the neutral tones of the space. She could hardly believe it. This was her work, her heart on display for the world to see.

Sarah, of course, was there, beaming with pride, her enthusiasm infectious. “This is it, Rebecca,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “You’re here. You’re finally doing it.”

Rebecca smiled, but a part of her felt like she was standing on the edge of something much bigger than herself. This wasn’t just about her art; it was about reclaiming everything she had lost. It was about saying to herself—and to the world—that she was more than what Eric had tried to make her. She was more than a wife, more than a mother to a man-child. She was an artist. She was a person. She was whole.

As the evening wore on, more people filtered into the gallery, admiring the paintings, chatting with Sarah, complimenting Rebecca’s work. For the first time in years, she felt seen—not as someone’s partner or caretaker, but as an individual with something valuable to offer.

The door opened with a soft chime, and Rebecca looked up, startled to see Leo standing in the doorway. He was smiling, his eyes warm, and he waved at her across the room. She hadn’t expected him to come; she had told herself she wasn’t doing this for him, that she was doing it for herself. But when he walked toward her, his presence was like a quiet reassurance that she wasn’t alone in this journey.

“You’re incredible,” Leo said softly, his gaze taking in the paintings with genuine admiration. “I knew you had talent, but this… this is something else.”

Rebecca smiled, feeling a warmth spread through her. “Thank you. It’s…it’s been a long time coming.”

Leo tilted his head. “I know. But you’re here now. And that’s what matters.”

They stood together, both of them taking in the room, the paintings, the crowd. For a moment, it felt like the world was a little bit kinder, a little bit brighter, because she had dared to take a step into it, on her own terms.

As the evening drew to a close, and the last of the guests filtered out, Sarah came over with a bottle of champagne, her grin wide. “You did it, Rebecca. You really did it.”

Rebecca took the glass, her fingers steady. “We did it,” she corrected. “We all did.”

Leo raised his glass in agreement, and Rebecca, for the first time in years, felt the weight of her past lift. She had finally found her way back to herself, not through someone else’s approval, but through her own strength, her own desire to live fully, authentically.

She was no longer a shadow. She was the artist, the woman who had stepped out of the darkness and into the light. And this was just the beginning.

The Sleepless Night of Thomas Riddle by Olivia Salter | Flash Fiction

 

The Sleepless Night of Thomas Riddle

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 988

Some people fear what lurks in their dreams. Thomas feared his own mind.

It had been three nights since Thomas Riddle last slept. Every time he tried to close his eyes, his mind dragged him back into the same nightmare—back to the old apartment, the place he’d left years ago and vowed never to see again.

In the dream, the apartment lay empty and silent, like a tomb waiting to swallow him whole. He’d open the door and step inside, feeling the sticky residue of smoke and sweat clinging to the walls. Shadows collected in the corners, thick as ink, and the air smelled like damp wood, as though the place itself was rotting from the inside out. Every time he returned, he could feel it creeping over his skin—the sense that something was wrong, that he was not alone.

And each time, he’d start to search.

It was an endless, compulsive urge. He’d rifle through every drawer, lift every cushion, pace the cramped rooms, feeling his hands grow cold and damp. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he sensed—no, he knew—that if he found it, he could finally leave the nightmare behind.

But always, he found himself standing in front of the bathroom door.

Tonight, Thomas was determined not to sleep. He sat on his bed, his face illuminated by the cold glow of his phone screen, scrolling through meaningless headlines, trying to keep himself awake. He’d drunk enough coffee to keep his nerves thrumming, his hands shaking. But even that couldn’t keep his eyelids from drooping.

He checked the time: 3:12 a.m.

“Just stay awake,” he muttered to himself, his voice a dry rasp. But his vision blurred, the room swayed, and against his will, he felt his body sagging, slipping toward the pillow. His breathing slowed, and the bedroom around him faded, darkening, dissolving.

And then he was back.

***

He stood in the doorway of the old apartment, staring at the peeling wallpaper, the stained carpet, the broken-down couch. A faint sourness filled the air, like stale cigarette smoke and something else, something he couldn’t name but tasted metallic and sharp on his tongue.

His hand drifted to the countertop, brushing over dust and grime. Then he started to search, just as he always did. He didn’t want to, didn’t know why he had to, but his hands moved anyway—opening cabinets, shuffling through the junk drawer, glancing under the couch. Every time, it was the same relentless, helpless compulsion.

And every time, he would end up facing the bathroom door.

Tonight, though, it was different. The door was open, just a crack, the darkness within shifting like smoke. He couldn’t see much, but he felt it—the presence on the other side, watching him, waiting for him to come closer.

A tremor ran through him, but he took a step forward, then another, as if something had wrapped itself around his heart and was pulling him toward that door. His fingers brushed the cold, rusted handle, and he pushed it open.

Inside, slumped in the corner, was…himself.

Thomas’s breath hitched, his chest tight. The figure was thin, hunched, its skin pale and stretched, bones jutting under the skin like knives. Its head was bent, its arms wrapped around its knees, and its fingers were smeared with something dark, wet, and sticky.

The figure lifted its head, and he saw his own face staring back at him—gaunt, hollow-eyed, lips drawn back into a twisted, bitter smile. Its eyes were empty, glassy, but locked onto him with a raw, hateful intensity that froze him in place.

“Thomas,” it whispered, his own voice but scraped down to something raw and unnatural. “You left me here.”

A memory surfaced, jagged and painful. The last night in this apartment—the fight, the slamming door, the vows he’d made to never come back. And yet, he had come back, over and over, in this nightmare, drawn back to the very thing he’d wanted to leave behind.

“You left me here,” the figure said again, and Thomas felt a chill settle deep in his bones, a darkness that crept through him like ice. He stumbled backward, his breath ragged, his heart hammering. But he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the figure, from the way it stared at him with those cold, accusing eyes.

He glanced down, and his hands were wet—slick with the same dark, viscous stain that coated the figure’s fingers. It felt warm, sticky, pulsing as though it had a life of its own.

“You brought me here,” the figure whispered, its voice rising into a sick, mocking tone that echoed off the walls, bouncing through his mind. “Now stay.”

He tried to move, to turn and run, but his legs felt rooted, as though they’d been buried in the carpet. The walls seemed to close in, the air thickening, pressing down on him, crushing him. He gasped for breath, feeling his lungs straining, his vision blurring.

Wake up, he thought desperately. Just wake up!

But he didn’t wake.

***

Thomas’s eyes snapped open, his body drenched in sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. He was back in his bedroom, the familiar hum of his fan in the background. He took a shaky breath, then another, trying to calm himself.

But as he sat up, he noticed something in the corner of his room—a dark shape, huddled and motionless.

He blinked, his eyes adjusting, but it didn’t disappear. It was still there, hunched and still, its head tilted, watching him. The shape shifted slightly, and he could just make out its face.

It was him.

His heart sank, a hollow dread spreading through him as he realized he’d never left the dream. He was still in the apartment. And he knew, with a sick certainty, that he’d never leave again.

Thud. Thud. Thud. By Olivia Salter | Horror | Short Fiction

 

Thud. Thud. Thud.

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1, 165

It started innocently enough. I’d visit the old man like I always did, sometimes bringing his groceries or just sitting by his bed, listening to him recount stories from a life long gone. His place was a bit rundown, smelling faintly of mildew and old books, but it was homey in a way that made me comfortable. He was comfortable, too—at least, I thought he was. Until that eye.

The first time I noticed it, I tried to ignore it. It was just a cataract, right? A perfectly normal thing for a man his age. But every time I looked at him, that eye—the milky blue one—seemed to fix itself on me, even when he wasn’t talking or paying me any attention. It didn’t blink like his other eye. It stayed open, watching. Always watching.

One evening, as he told me a story about his late wife, I found myself staring at it, that pale, lifeless thing. I felt my heart rate spike for no reason. My hand trembled slightly as I adjusted the chair under me. The room felt smaller, the air thicker. I could barely hear his words over the thumping of my own pulse in my ears.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice wheezy from years of chain-smoking.

I blinked, pulling my eyes away from his. “Yeah, fine. Just tired.” I stood up, grabbing my coat from the back of the chair. “I should probably get going.”

He nodded and gave me a weak smile. “See you tomorrow, then?”

I nodded, but I couldn’t look at him again. Not at that eye.

***

Over the next few days, something in me shifted. It wasn’t that I disliked him—he was a kind man, frail but gentle. But whenever I saw him, all I could think about was that eye. That eye saw things it shouldn’t. It saw through me, into places I didn’t want it to go. When I left his apartment, it would follow me. Even in the safety of my own room, I couldn’t escape it. I’d lie in bed at night, feeling its cold, pale gaze on the back of my neck.

It was irrational, I knew that. But that didn’t make it any less real to me.

The idea came gradually, so gradually that it seemed like it had always been there. What if... what if I could make it stop? What if I didn’t have to see it anymore? The thought of killing him came not as a shocking revelation but as a natural solution to a problem I couldn’t otherwise solve. Once I got rid of the eye, I could breathe again. I could sleep.

***

I started planning. Every night at midnight, I’d creep into his apartment. The old man never locked his door—he trusted me completely. I was careful, though. I’d slip into his room as quietly as possible, using only the dim light from my phone. His breathing was always slow, steady. I didn’t care about him, just the eye. But every night, it would be closed, leaving me standing there like an idiot, waiting for it to open so I could act.

One night, I stood over him longer than usual, my breath catching in my throat. What was I doing? Was this really about the eye, or was it something else? I didn’t know. All I knew was that I had to finish what I’d started.

On the eighth night, everything fell into place.

I was careful as ever, but this time, when I slipped the door open, I felt a different kind of energy in the air. My hands weren’t shaking anymore. I was calm, steady, and focused. As I crept into the room, the floorboards didn’t creak beneath me like they had on previous nights. The darkness felt like an ally, wrapping me in its comforting embrace. He was sleeping—just as always—but something was different. His breathing was shallow, and as I neared the bed, I saw it. The eye. Wide open, staring at me.

My heart slammed against my ribs as I locked eyes with it. It wasn’t just an eye anymore; it was something more sinister, something that had seen too much. I knew, in that moment, that it had to end. I wasn’t just killing him—I was freeing myself.

I reached down with trembling hands, grabbed the pillow from beneath his head, and pressed it over his face. His body jerked beneath me, weak but desperate. He gasped, his arms flailing. I felt the wild beating of his heart as I held him down, my hands steady now, my mind clear. The sound of his heartbeat echoed in my ears, growing louder with each second.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Even as his movements slowed, the heartbeat didn’t. It pounded against my skull, refusing to stop. I pressed harder, but the sound only grew louder, more frantic. It was like it was mocking me, reminding me that I couldn’t escape it.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Finally, he went still. I lifted the pillow and stared at him. The eye was closed. I smiled—finally, peace. But the heartbeat remained, low and persistent.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

***

I worked quickly, pulling up the floorboards and hiding the body beneath. I wiped down the room, cleaned up every trace. When I was done, I stood back, satisfied. No one would ever know. I replaced the boards, careful to leave no signs of what I had done. But that sound... it wouldn’t stop.

A knock on the door startled me. I froze. The heartbeat was deafening now, but I forced myself to stay calm. I opened the door to find two police officers standing there.

“Sorry to bother you,” one of them said. “A neighbor reported a scream.”

I smiled—cool, collected. “Oh, that was me. Bad dream. The old man’s out of town.”

They asked to come in, and I let them. We went through the motions—checking rooms, casual conversation—but I couldn’t focus. The thudding in my head was unbearable now. How could they not hear it?

Thud. Thud. Thud.

We ended up in his room, and they seemed satisfied with my story. I invited them to sit, hoping they’d leave soon. I sat down too, right above where I’d hidden him. But the sound kept getting louder, faster. I clenched my fists, trying to act normal, but it was no use.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

“Do you hear that?” I blurted out, my voice shaking.

One of the officers raised an eyebrow. “Hear what?”

The heartbeat. It was all I could hear. It was all there was.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

I jumped to my feet, pacing the room. “You must hear it! You must!”

They exchanged glances. The room was spinning now, my chest tight. I couldn’t take it anymore. With a scream, I ripped up the floorboards, exposing the body.

“There! There it is! Make it stop!”

Thud. Thud. Thud.

But the heartbeat didn’t stop.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

It never will.

Mwiba's Mission by Olivia Salter | Short Fiction

 

Image credit: APOPO

Mwiba's Mission

By Olivia Salter

 Word Count: 1,094

In a quiet training center where the African forest whispered secrets in the wind, Mwiba the rat twitched his whiskers, his nose quivering with anticipation. With a coat the color of rich, damp earth and eyes shimmering with uncanny intelligence, he resembled not just any rodent but a determined soldier. Mwiba wasn’t there to scurry and hide; he was part of a covert team trained to hunt down the hidden sins of humanity—illicit wildlife trade.

Every morning, as the sun cast golden rays over the sprawling greenery outside, Mwiba and his fellow African giant pouched rats engaged in their ritualistic training. Inside their modest arena, wooden boxes were neatly arranged along the walls. Some held innocuous items—soft fabric, earthy soil, and shiny plastic. Others, however, concealed treasures of a darker nature: samples of ivory, rhino horn, and pangolin scales, the very essence of greed.

Under the watchful gaze of Dr. Kima, Mwiba approached the first box. His heart raced, not from fear but from the thrill of the hunt. He moved with purpose, each step deliberate, his nose quivering in the air, testing the rich tapestry of scents that filled the space. The air was thick with the earthy aroma of wood and the metallic tang of nails, but Mwiba sought something rarer, something that would change lives.

Suddenly, a distinct scent hit him—a faint whisper of ivory, sharp and heavy, mixed with the dusty remnants of a world he knew all too well. Mwiba froze, his nose hovering just above the box. He tapped his paw, the movement precise and practiced, a silent alarm signaling his trainers. His heart pounded as he watched Dr. Kima rush over, her eyes alight with recognition.

“You’ve found it again, Mwiba!” she exclaimed, dropping a small morsel of food into his waiting paws. The treat was a reward, but it came with a weighty understanding. Each successful detection was not just another day of training; it was a battle cry against the relentless tide of wildlife trafficking, a tangible blow against an industry that thrived on suffering.

As the sun climbed higher, the trainers gathered, their faces etched with determination. “Today, we simulate an operation based on intel about a trafficking ring operating nearby. Mwiba, you’re up,” Dr. Kima announced, her tone serious yet encouraging.

Mwiba felt a surge of pride mixed with anxiety. The stakes were higher than ever. This wasn’t merely an exercise; it was a real mission where lives hung in the balance. He took a deep breath, his senses sharpening, the familiar scents of the training room now feeling more like a battleground.

“Stay alert, everyone,” Dr. Kima instructed, gathering her team. “We need to be swift and precise.”

With that, Mwiba and his fellow rats began their search, navigating through a maze of boxes that represented the tangled web of the trafficking network. Mwiba tuned into the orchestra of scents that filled the air, sniffing carefully. He detected familiar odors—plastic, dirt, and chemicals—but then caught a new, sharp odor. The air thickened with something unnatural, something that didn’t belong. It was an urgent, strong scent that sent shivers down his spine.

Before he could signal, Dr. Kima moved closer, catching the hint of disturbance in the air. “Mwiba! What have you found?” she asked, her voice filled with concern.

He tapped again, more insistently this time, signaling that something was off. The trainers gathered, their expressions shifting from anticipation to worry. Dr. Kima opened the box, and the sight that greeted them twisted Mwiba’s heart. Inside were tiny pangolins, curled tightly together, their scales gleaming dimly under the fluorescent lights, fear etched into their fragile bodies.

“Oh no,” Dr. Kima whispered, her voice trembling. “We need to act fast. These poor creatures... they need us.”

The pangolins were more than just victims; they were innocent souls caught in a cruel web spun by human greed. Mwiba’s heart ached for them, his instinct to comfort overwhelming. He nudged the nearest pangolin gently with his nose, offering solace in a world that had been so cruel to them.

“Call the authorities!” Dr. Kima ordered, her voice steady but urgent. “We can’t let these animals become another statistic in this horrific trade.”

As the trainers worked swiftly, Mwiba remained close, watching them take action. He felt the weight of responsibility settle over him, but there was a flicker of hope amidst the urgency. His small contributions—each sniff and tap—were not just routines; they were lifesaving actions against a relentless cruelty.

When the authorities arrived, they sprang into action, assessing the situation with urgency. Mwiba observed as they documented the animals, their expressions grave yet determined. The pangolins would be rescued, their lives salvaged from the brink of despair, thanks to the relentless efforts of the trainers and Mwiba’s keen instincts.

As the pangolins were carefully transported to safety, Mwiba felt a swell of pride. Each successful intervention reinforced his belief in their mission. This was not merely training; it was a real fight against an industry that threatened to wipe out species one by one. The pangolins, once mere statistics in a devastating trade, were now vibrant, living beings deserving of a second chance.

That night, as the sun sank below the horizon, Mwiba curled up in his cozy nook, exhausted but fulfilled. The day’s events replayed in his mind like a vivid dream—the pangolins scampering freely through the forest, their scales shimmering in the sunlight, full of life and spirit. He felt an unbreakable bond with them, as if their struggles mirrored his own.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but Mwiba was ready. Each training session forged his resolve, honing his skills for the fight against wildlife trafficking. As he lay in his nest, the quiet hum of the training center surrounding him, he contemplated the weight of his responsibilities. Would he always be brave enough to face the darkness? The thought lingered, but it was brushed aside by the certainty that he was not alone in this battle.

He closed his eyes, allowing the warmth of accomplishment to envelop him. He understood that even the smallest hero could create ripples of change. As he drifted off to sleep, Mwiba held tight to the knowledge that hope and resilience could rise from the unlikeliest of places. Together with his fellow rats, they would confront the darkness, ensuring that no creature, no ivory tusk or pangolin scale, would disappear without a trace. Mwiba's mission was just beginning, and he would face whatever came next with unwavering determination.

DNA Remembers by Olivia Salter | Poetry

DNA Remembers

By Olivia Salter

You can strip away my given name,
Deny my birthright, stake false claim—
Erase the truth, rewrite the lies,
Yet still, my greatness will survive.

My voice is drowned, my story blurred,
Its verses twisted, lines unheard.
But quiet now, beneath the strains,
A heartbeat stirs; my pulse remains.

Erase the words, distort the tones,
Dismiss the story carved in bones.
Yet histories you cannot see
Run deeper, wilder, endlessly.

Once sold and bought, then stolen still,
Across the waves, against my will,
Yet on each shore, through iron bars,
The fires light beneath my scars.

For roots like mine defy the flame—
A quiet strength without a name.
Each branch bears stories burned, concealed,
But from these depths, my truths are healed.

You paint my culture in your face,
Refashion icons, take their place,
Yet even shadows know the past—
This ancient strength was built to last.

Erase my gods, my faith, my creed,
Break every vow, uproot each seed.
But sacred roots dig fiercely deep,
Beyond your power to unsweep.

And for each freedom torn away,
Each sunken ship, each stolen day,
The roots press further, stretched and wide,
A quiet, unrelenting tide.

You wear our wounds, but never know
The earth beneath where our roots grow.
Though buried, beaten, hushed, or bent,
My blood remembers what you spent.

For centuries of silenced names,
For histories erased in shame—
Yet still we rise, we walk, we stand,
Alive in every breath and hand.

I walk with those who came before,
Who lived and died, endured much more—
In every scar that bears their cries,
Our lineage, like embers, rise.

Beyond the books, the myths, the chains,
Beyond what loss or blood sustains—
A truth survives, unclaimed by greed,
In every spirit, every seed.

So write me out, erase my line,
Redraw my face, reshape the sign—
But I persist through tides and flames,
Reclaiming every stolen name.

And in this blood, I feel the weight
Of all who bore your twisted fate.
Their whispered songs still pulse in me,
A silent, strong infinity.

Each step I take revives the ground,
Each breath, a song of strength unbound.
Through shadows cast by tainted laws,
I rise, untouched by iron claws.

You take, you twist, you bury deep,
But I am more than what you keep.
My legacy is born of pain—
A river time cannot contain.

I bear the memory of chains,
Of barren fields and blood-soaked rains,
Of ancestors whose muffled screams
Now fuel the fire in my dreams.

Erase my name, reshape my lines,
Pretend my story isn't mine,
But here I stand, unbreakable—
My voice as steady as the pull.

And from the soil, from stars and stone,
In pulse and blood, I call my own.
For every shadow hides a light,
A strength that darkness cannot smite.

An anthem buried, yet I sing,
My silent pulse, my reckoning.
For even when the voices fade,
My DNA remains—unfrayed.