Beneath the Veins by Olivia Salter | Short Fiction

 

Beneath the Veins

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,807

The fluorescent light overhead buzzed softly, casting the room in a sickly yellow tint. Shadows clung to every corner, faint but ever-present, as though waiting to close in. Jared lay strapped to the hospital bed, his chest rising and falling in shallow, labored breaths. A pungent, earthy smell clung to him, and the rough patches along his skin looked almost alive, a patchwork of tiny green specks and veins swollen to unnatural proportions. Each beat of his heart pulsed along his arms and neck, where something dark and rootlike seemed to creep just beneath the surface.

Olivia, the nurse on duty, approached him cautiously. She was used to seeing addicts and people with desperate choices etched into their skin, but this? She’d never seen anything like this.

She reached for his wrist, trying to calm the trembling in her hands. When her fingers brushed against his skin, a roughness rasped against her fingertips, as though the once-soft flesh had been colonized by something else, something that had taken root inside him. For a moment, she could almost feel it moving beneath her touch.

He winced and opened his bloodshot eyes, looking at her with a flicker of something that might have been hope, if not for the overwhelming glaze of pain clouding them.

“What… happened?” she asked softly, her voice barely a whisper.

Jared’s mouth moved, lips dry and cracked as he managed a raspy answer. “It’s… inside me,” he breathed, his gaze drifting away, perhaps to a memory. “I needed… peace. Just a way out of… all this.” His face twisted, as though even speaking took a monumental effort.

Images flickered through his mind: the cramped, cluttered apartment, the buzzing silence he couldn't escape, and the mushroom tea he’d boiled up after hearing from some stranger online that it would take him somewhere “beyond all this.” Anything, he’d thought, would be better than lying awake, feeling nothing but empty walls pressing in around him.

As Olivia watched him, her chest tightened. She understood the loneliness she saw in his eyes, but this… She forced herself to remain professional, but each second tugged harder at her, his desperation resonating deeper than she wanted to admit.

The hospital room’s hum grew louder, and a faint scraping sound caught her attention. Her eyes widened as she looked at Jared’s arm, where dark tendrils traced a path up his skin. Tiny white growths bloomed along the veins, spreading like spores on damp soil, each one digging deeper into his flesh. She pulled her hand back instinctively, heart hammering.

Outside the room, the doctors’ voices murmured, the words “mycelium infection” and “unprecedented” drifting in fragments through the door. She half-listened, the medical jargon sounding surreal against the reality before her.

Inside, Jared was losing ground to the thing growing within him. The tingling itch was now a consuming burn, spreading through his chest and limbs, wrapping around his bones. It hurt in a way he hadn’t thought pain could, every nerve screaming under the relentless invasion. He felt himself slipping away, as if whatever part of him had once been human was receding, replaced by a cold, consuming life that had no empathy and no end.

His eyes flicked back to Olivia, and he saw her watching him, eyes wide with a horror she couldn’t fully hide. He tried to form words, to explain, but they wouldn’t come. Instead, he managed a small, choked gasp, a sound both pleading and resigned. She wanted to reach out, to squeeze his hand, to tell him he wasn’t alone, that he was still human, but the sight of those green veins—of the fungus creeping ever upward—held her back.

Olivia stepped toward the door, her hand on the handle, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave just yet. She glanced back, meeting his eyes one last time, and saw something in them: a flicker of fear, and beneath that, a strange acceptance. He’d surrendered to it, the growing thing that was claiming him piece by piece, filling the emptiness he’d once felt with a living, relentless purpose.

As she watched, another line of spores pushed through his skin along his jaw, branching out like ivy searching for light. Jared’s eyes fluttered closed, and his breathing slowed, steadying as if the pain were fading, as if he’d reached a place beyond suffering.

Olivia took a step back, lingering in the doorway as she whispered, “I’m sorry, Jared.”

The silence that followed Olivia’s apology weighed heavy, pressing against her chest as she turned from the door, ready to leave him alone with whatever strange life was taking him over. But a faint rustle stopped her, pulling her gaze back to the bed. Jared’s body had gone still, the tension in his face melting into an eerie calm. His lips, once dry and cracked, softened, a hint of color returning to them as though blood—and something else—flowed fresh beneath the surface.

And then his eyes opened.

They were no longer clouded with pain or fear. Instead, they held a peculiar brightness, a depth that hadn’t been there before. His pupils seemed to pulse slightly, as though the veins connecting them to his heart now carried something far from human.

"Olivia," he murmured, and his voice was different, a low, steady tone that seemed to echo in her mind. He didn’t sound afraid anymore; he sounded calm, almost serene.

She took a step back, her hand tightening around the doorknob, but something in his gaze held her rooted in place. It was Jared’s face, his features, but there was an unsettling shift to them, a smoothness that made her stomach twist. His skin, pale and nearly translucent, had taken on an odd luminescence, a slight greenish tint beneath the surface. Where his veins had once pulsed, tiny white filaments now spread outward in patterns almost… beautiful.

"Are you… Are you still Jared?" she asked, her voice a hoarse whisper.

Jared tilted his head, as if considering the question. He lifted his hand slowly, fingers curling and uncurling, as though testing how his body worked. "I am… more than Jared," he said finally. “I am the one who found the peace he wanted. And I’m something… new.”

Olivia’s hand tightened on the knob, but she couldn’t make herself leave. There was a pull in his words, a quiet assurance that disarmed her even as it filled her with a creeping sense of dread.

“The loneliness, the hurt,” Jared continued, his voice steady, his gaze fixed on her with an intensity that left her feeling exposed, as though he could see the small, hidden parts of her soul. “I thought I could escape them with a drink, a pill, with this tea. But all I did was feed it… feed the darkness inside. Now I understand. The tea—it didn’t take me away. It showed me a path inward.”

The filaments beneath his skin shifted, growing in thin, delicate lines along his collarbone, down his arms, sprouting like roots seeking soil. His body no longer fought against them; it embraced them, let them flourish and weave with every beat of his heart. Watching him was like watching the quiet spread of moss over stone, the steady, inevitable creep of nature overtaking something once human.

“Jared,” Olivia whispered, a plea in her tone. “Let me help you. There’s still time… maybe they can….”

But he smiled, the expression both serene and haunting. “Help? I’m beyond help now. I’m part of something vast, something that has existed long before either of us. This…” He lifted his hand, fingers curling inward, his skin shifting to reveal a delicate web of mycelium beneath. “This is peace.”

Olivia’s heart raced, her instincts screaming for her to leave, but she hesitated, searching his gaze for some remnant of the man she’d seen only hours ago—a man who’d been so desperate to escape his pain that he’d reached for something unknown, something dangerous.

He seemed to sense her inner conflict and tilted his head. “It doesn’t have to be terrifying, Olivia,” he murmured. “Loneliness, fear, pain—they’re just parts of a world that tells us we’re alone, that we’re separate. But this—” he spread his arms, showing the web-like growths that pulsed with a strange life, a hidden beauty, “this connection runs deeper. We’re all just… threads in a larger fabric. You don’t have to be alone.”

Olivia felt a strange tug inside her, a whisper in the back of her mind, urging her to come closer. Her pulse quickened, and she took a small, involuntary step forward, drawn to him in a way she couldn’t explain, her thoughts muddying as she tried to remind herself of who he had been—Jared, the patient, the man who needed help.

But Jared wasn’t that man anymore. And as she stared into his eyes, she sensed he didn’t want to return to who he’d been.

“Join me,” he said softly, his voice low and soothing, like a soothing song, like a promise. “There’s no loneliness here. Just life. Just… belonging.”

For a fleeting moment, Olivia saw herself reflected in his eyes, her own exhaustion mirrored back at her, the isolation she’d felt, the weariness that came with watching suffering day after day. She understood that pull, that longing for something beyond, for something to fill the empty spaces.

But as her hand reached for his, something snapped inside her. She wrenched her gaze away, her fingers falling to her side, and stumbled back toward the door.

“Jared,” she whispered, a tremor in her voice, “I can’t.”

He watched her for a long moment, that same gentle, otherworldly calm in his gaze. He didn’t plead or try to convince her further. He only nodded, his expression softening, as though he already knew her answer and had accepted it long before she spoke.

As Olivia backed out of the room, she saw him close his eyes, a peaceful smile settling on his face as the filaments continued their quiet journey beneath his skin. He was content, whole in a way she’d never seen him before, a man who had found a place beyond fear, beyond loneliness—a place she wasn’t yet ready to follow.

The door clicked shut behind her, and Olivia took a shaky breath, pressing her back against the wall outside his room. She could still feel the pull of his words, the strange allure of what he’d offered. But she pushed it down, swallowing hard, reminding herself of who she was, of the life she still had yet to live.

And as she walked down the hallway, leaving Jared behind, she couldn’t shake the feeling that part of him had stayed with her, a faint, lingering presence woven like a thread into her mind, his invitation echoing softly in the depths of her heart.

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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 Silent Ones by Olivia Salter | Short Fiction

  

The Silent Ones

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,015

The sky hung heavy and gloomy, deep bruised purples streaking through the clouds as Jackie’s car crawled up the gravel drive. She shut off the engine, the car ticking as it cooled, and stared at the farmhouse ahead, squat and sinking in a field of wild grass. The land was still, almost too still, like a held breath, and the house itself seemed to exhale a stale, earthy scent that made her stomach turn.

The porch sagged under her weight as she climbed the steps. Every inch of this place was wrapped in memories—summers with her grandmother, afternoons on the porch watching storms roll in from the hills, and her grandmother’s whispered stories about the “Silent Ones.” As a child, she’d giggled, dismissing them as ghost stories meant to scare her. But now, standing there, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching her, lurking just out of sight, waiting.

Inside, the house was thick with dust and quiet, the kind of quiet that had weight to it, pressing in from all sides. Faded photos lined the walls—faces she vaguely remembered, people she’d never met. Her grandmother’s favorite armchair sat by the window, empty now, its cushions worn.

Jackie shivered, brushing her hand over the chair’s arm as if expecting to feel warmth. But the fabric was cool, lifeless, and as she pulled her hand back, she could have sworn she heard a soft sigh, like someone settling back down after a long wait.

***

Days stretched on, each one dragging her deeper into the house’s silence. She sorted through her grandmother’s things by day, pulling out dusty boxes and weathered envelopes, but each night she lay awake, ears straining in the dark. And each night, the house seemed to breathe a little louder, as if it were coming alive, filling with a faint, eerie hum she couldn’t quite place.

She found an old letter one morning, the paper brittle and yellowed, her grandmother’s cramped handwriting fading. Her fingers traced over the words, “They remember, Jackie. They always remember.”

That night, the silence broke. It started with a faint shuffle in the hallway, like bare feet dragging along the floorboards, and then a whisper—low, thick, a sound that seemed to sink into her skin. Jackie froze, her breath shallow, and waited, her eyes fixed on the door. But the only thing that came was more silence.

She tried to brush it off, but the next morning she noticed something odd. Dark stains, almost bruise-like, had spread along the walls, curling into odd shapes, vaguely human. Their empty eyes seemed to follow her as she moved, and her skin prickled as if she were being watched from every corner of the room.

Her fingers brushed against one of the stains. It felt wet and cold, like something trapped inside was pushing its way out. Her grandmother’s words echoed in her mind, and a chill settled over her: They remember.

***

That night, the silence grew dense, stifling. Jackie moved through the house, hoping the routine would steady her nerves. But as she stepped into the hallway, a figure flickered at the edge of her vision—a shadowy silhouette, melting into the wall, its mouth twisted open in a silent scream.

Then she saw another. And another. Silent figures, contorted, reaching out, their faces twisted with something between anger and sorrow. And finally, her grandmother—her face hollow, empty eyes locked onto Jackie, lips moving but making no sound.

Jackie’s heart raced, the images around her blurring, memories rising to the surface. A flash of her own face, young and hard with anger. Her grandmother begging her to let go of her pride, her stubbornness. A neighbor boy’s face, his bright smile, and the summer night he’d vanished after she’d sent him away. She hadn’t thought of him in years, but now she remembered it all—the storm, the floodwaters, and her own silence that followed.

The weight of her guilt closed in, pressing down on her like a physical force. She staggered back, but the Silent Ones drew closer, their hands outstretched, their fingers cold as they brushed against her skin.

She heard them now, their voices filling her mind, whispering accusations, demanding answers. They surrounded her, her grandmother’s ghost watching, silent, as if awaiting her confession.

***

Jackie’s breath came in shallow gasps as she stumbled backward, desperate to escape. She ran through the house, each step echoing in the dark, but the Silent Ones followed, sliding through walls and slipping between shadows, always just behind her. They pulled at her clothes, their hands cold as ice, their faces filling her vision, crowding her, suffocating her.

She could feel their pain, their anger, all the lives touched by her family’s sins. Each face brought with it memories, flashes of moments she’d buried, pieces of herself she’d tried to forget. And with each memory, the silence grew thicker, wrapping around her throat, squeezing until she could hardly breathe.

Her grandmother’s voice, soft and resigned, whispered in her ear. They remember everything, Jackie. You can’t escape it.

***

Morning came quietly, casting soft light over the farmhouse. Outside, the fields lay calm, untouched, a gentle breeze rustling the wild grass. But inside, the silence was absolute. Neighbors who came to check on the house found it empty, the floors undisturbed except for faint footprints in the dust that led from room to room, stopping just outside the bedroom door.

They left quickly, unwilling to stay in a house that felt so… heavy, haunted. Over time, rumors grew about the house—that if you stood still enough, you could hear whispers slipping through the walls, shadows shifting in mirrors, echoes of footsteps pacing the halls. And sometimes, in the silence, a new shadow could be seen on the wall—a woman’s silhouette, mouth open in a silent scream, her eyes forever wide with the weight of things left unsaid.

The house waited, just as it always had, its silence stretching, ready for the next soul brave enough—or foolish enough—to listen.

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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.

In the Quiet Reaches by Olivia Salter | Poetry

In the Quiet Reaches

By Olivia Salter

In the mind’s quiet, shadowed keep,
Where thoughts unravel, secrets seep,
A chamber yawns, dark and deep—
Where buried truths lie, lost in sleep.

From these walls, a murmur grows,
Echoes of sorrow, cries in throes;
Ghostly laughter falls like rain,
Lingering whispers fraught with pain.

Each thought stirs ripples in the still,
A tempest stir, against our will,
As fears take wing in frantic flight,
And break the silence of the night.

Yet through the chaos, clarity gleams,
A fragile hope in fractured dreams;
Each scream that rips the heavy air
A plea for peace, a soul laid bare.

So listen close, let your heart run free,
In minds where darkness dances, find the key,
For in the turmoil, strength takes bloom—
A quiet light to pierce the gloom.

In depths where silent sorrows dwell,

Where shadows weave their hidden spell,

Fragments of memory rise and swell,

Like tolling bells in a distant knell.

Through haunted corridors we tread,

Where words unsaid are softly fed

To fires that smolder, flickering low—

Embers of grief we cannot show.

These walls have heard what lips conceal,

The wounds we bear, the scars that heal;

In cracks of light, the shadows bend,

And fractured souls begin to mend.

For every fear that coils and bites,

A flicker grows, a spark ignites;

In caverns vast, where doubts reside,

Hope stirs, a flame we cannot hide.

So walk unbowed, face the unknown,

In silent keeps we walk alone—

Yet from that depth, a strength will grow,

And guide us through the undertow.

In mind’s dark keep, a truth unfolds:

The weight of silence breaks its hold;

Each whispered fear, each buried plea,

Reveals the light of what we’ll be.

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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 Autumn Leaves by Olivia Salter | Short Story

 

The Last Autumn Leaves

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 2,549

Eva ran her fingers over the cool, silver locket around her neck. She hadn’t taken it off since he gave it to her two years ago, one summer evening under those same maple trees by the lake. That night, his eyes had shimmered with a promise of forever love, and she’d believed him. Now, though, as she waited for him to arrive, she couldn’t decide if it had ever been real or if she’d been clinging to an illusion of him all along.

The air was thick with the scent of damp leaves and woodsmoke drifting from nearby chimneys, a premonition of the first frost. The sun was already dipping low, casting long shadows through the park as the wind played its mournful tune through branches stripped nearly bare. This was where they’d spent countless late afternoons together, where they’d fallen into the habits and patterns that had become a slow poison. She’d loved him here—too much, she realized now.

Isaac arrived late, as always, striding with the kind of ease that made Eva’s heart clench. His hands were shoved deep into his coat pockets, and his face was as familiar to her as her own, yet she felt a strange sense of distance, like he was already slipping from her, a figure in a fading photograph.

“Hey,” he said, stopping just short of where she stood. He smiled, a small, hesitant curve of his lips, and though part of her wanted to lean into the warmth of it, she knew better now.

“Hey,” she replied, her voice barely a whisper. She could feel the weight of every conversation they’d ever had resting between them, a mountain of words that had never quite bridged the space where real understanding should have been.

They stood there in silence for a moment, Eva watching as the last stubborn leaves held tight to the branches above, each one clinging to life even as the season told them to let go. She wondered if she was one of those leaves, too—still grasping for something that had already drifted away, even if she hadn’t wanted to admit it.

Isaac broke the silence. “You…you wanted to talk?” His voice sounded unsure, almost as if he couldn’t quite believe she’d asked him to meet here.

“Yes, I did,” she said, straightening, gathering her strength. She’d rehearsed this in her mind a thousand times, but standing here in front of him, every word felt as if it might shatter before it left her lips. She took a steadying breath. “Isaac, I’ve been thinking…about us, and I don’t think we’re on the same path.”

He looked at her, a flicker of confusion passing over his face. “What do you mean?”

She tightened her grip on the locket, the metal biting into her palm. She didn’t want to spell it out for him, but maybe he needed to hear it, clearly and plainly, no more soft edges. “You know what I mean, Isaac. I’ve been waiting for you to show me that this—” she gestured to the space between them, “—means as much to you as it does to me. But I can’t keep giving pieces of myself, hoping that one day you’ll do the same. I’m tired.”

A flash of something dark crossed his face. “Tired? What are you talking about? I’m here, aren’t I? I came because you asked me to. I thought we had something good.”

She forced a bitter laugh, the sound sharper than she’d intended. “Good? Good isn’t enough, Isaac. Good is you calling me when it’s convenient for you, making me feel like I’m the only one who’s giving anything. I’ve been bending and breaking, trying to meet you halfway, but every time I get close, you pull back. Don’t you see that?”

Isaac stared at her, as if seeing her for the first time, and for a moment, she thought she saw the spark of realization in his eyes. But then his expression closed off, his jaw tightening. “Eva, you’re being dramatic. It’s not that serious.”

Her heart sank. She’d heard that line from him before, the one he used to brush aside her feelings as if they were leaves in the wind, unimportant, fleeting. She’d let him do it so many times, convincing herself that he didn’t mean it, that he cared more than he knew how to express. But standing here, she knew it wasn’t enough. Love wasn’t just showing up when it was easy, and it wasn’t dismissing someone’s pain with a careless word.

“It is serious,” she said, her voice steady. “Maybe that’s the problem—you think it’s all just…light and easy. But love isn’t just about the happy moments. It’s about showing up, even when things are hard. I’ve shown up for you more times than I can count, and I’m realizing that you’ve never really shown up for me.”

He shifted, glancing away, his hands clenching in his pockets. She could see his discomfort, the way he wanted to dismiss her again, brush her off, make her doubt her own feelings. It had always been this way: his needs, his excuses, his half-hearted efforts. And she’d let it happen because she’d wanted so desperately to believe he could be the person she saw in those rare moments when he let his guard down.

“Eva, I never asked you to give so much,” he said quietly. “You chose to do that. I didn’t ask for all this…intensity.”

The words stung, sharp and cutting, like the wind biting into her cheeks. But beneath the hurt, she felt a strange sense of clarity. He was right—he hadn’t asked. She’d given and given, hoping he’d see her, hoping he’d love her in the way she needed. But it had always been a one-sided dance, her chasing after a mirage of the man she wished he could be.

She felt tears prick her eyes, but she blinked them back. She would not cry, not here, not in front of him. “I know, Isaac,” she said softly. “I know you didn’t ask. And maybe that’s the saddest part.”

He looked at her then, a flicker of something—regret, maybe, or even a hint of sadness—crossing his face. But it was too little, too late. She’d spent too many nights lying awake, wondering if she was too much or not enough, trying to twist herself into shapes that would please him. She couldn’t do it anymore.

“Isaac,” she continued, her voice a whisper, “I’ve loved you with everything I had, but I can’t keep doing this. I’m losing myself in the process, and I deserve more than that.”

He reached for her hand, his fingers brushing hers, warm and familiar, a touch she’d once craved. But now, it felt like an anchor, holding her in a place where she no longer belonged. She pulled her hand away, the final severing of a bond that had been fraying for a long time.

“Eva, please…” he murmured, and for a moment, she thought she heard a hint of real sorrow in his voice. But she knew it wasn’t enough. Regret wasn’t the same as love, and sorrow wasn’t the same as commitment.

She took a step back, feeling the weight lift, little by little. The pain was still there, a deep ache in her chest, but beneath it, she felt a strange sense of freedom, a glimmer of the self she’d lost along the way.

“Goodbye, Isaac,” she whispered, the words both a release and a promise to herself. She turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing through the quiet park, each step carrying her further from him and closer to herself.

As she reached the edge of the park, she paused, glancing back one last time. Isaac was still standing there, his figure silhouetted against the fading light, but he no longer held the same power over her heart. He was a chapter closing, a memory she would carry but never again let define her.

She walked away, leaving the last autumn leaves to fall behind her, feeling the dawn of something new blossoming within her—a quiet, resolute love for herself, strong enough to carry her forward into whatever lay ahead.

Eva kept walking, her feet carrying her beyond the boundaries of the park and into the city streets, where lights were beginning to glow against the deepening blue of twilight. With each step, she could feel herself growing stronger, a weight lifting that she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying for so long. She took a deep breath, feeling the crisp autumn air fill her lungs, cold but bracing, as though the universe was reminding her of what it meant to be alive and awake to her own needs.

As she passed a coffee shop, she caught her reflection in the window. The woman looking back at her seemed somehow older, yet more assured, with a glint in her eye she hadn’t seen in years. She barely recognized herself. She had been so lost in trying to mold herself into the shape that would fit Isaac’s needs, she’d forgotten what it felt like to be her own person. To want things for herself.

For years, she had bent herself in half, a shadow of her full self, just to keep the peace in their relationship. But with him gone, she no longer needed to. She could stretch out, unfurl her heart, and ask herself what she wanted—really, truly wanted—without fearing the answer would drive him away.

As she stood there in the fading light, she felt the urge to write. Eva had always loved writing, loved getting lost in the worlds she created with her words. It was a part of herself that Isaac had once admired, but that admiration had grown quiet over the years. He hadn’t actively discouraged her from writing, but his indifference had settled over her creativity like a cold fog. When she’d told him about her latest story idea, he’d nodded absently, barely listening. Over time, she’d begun to question if her ideas had any worth.

But now, with nothing and no one holding her back, she felt a surge of excitement. The realization hit her like a spark in a dark room—she could write for herself, as much and as deeply as she wanted. She could make it her world, one where she was enough.

Driven by a rush of inspiration, she pulled out her notebook and began scribbling thoughts, words pouring from her pen as if a dam had finally broken. As she wrote, a feeling of warmth and purpose bloomed within her, filling up the hollow spaces left by Isaac’s absence. This was a part of herself that had lain dormant, waiting for her to find the courage to reclaim it.

By the time she finished writing, an hour had passed, and the city was alive with the evening hum of people returning home, lights flickering on in apartment windows. She tucked the notebook back into her bag, feeling lighter than she had in years. She wasn’t sure where this path would lead her—she only knew it was one she was ready to walk alone.

Over the following weeks, Eva began rediscovering parts of herself she’d let go during her relationship with Isaac. She spent long evenings in coffee shops, filling pages with stories, her imagination ignited with new energy. She returned to her love for art, spending Saturdays exploring galleries and taking photos of anything that caught her eye, finding beauty in places she’d once overlooked. Each day felt like a journey back to herself, piece by piece, memory by memory.

She found solace in her solitude, in the quiet spaces where she could hear her own voice, no longer drowned out by the noise of someone else’s expectations. She began setting boundaries with friends and family, learning to say “no” when she needed time for herself. She realized that taking up space in her own life wasn’t selfish—it was essential.

There were moments of pain, of course. Sometimes she would reach for her phone, her thumb hovering over Isaac’s number, a familiar ache tugging at her. But each time, she reminded herself of the truth: love couldn’t flourish where there was no respect, no reciprocity. And each time, the ache grew a little softer, a little easier to bear.

One night, as she was settling into bed, her phone lit up with a message from an unknown number. The words were simple, and she recognized Isaac’s voice in them immediately: “Thinking of you.”

Her heart gave a painful lurch, but she knew better than to respond. She had already walked away, already mourned the parts of herself she’d lost in that relationship. She didn’t need to revisit the past, to be drawn back into a cycle that would only leave her hurting again.

Instead, she put the phone down, closed her eyes, and reminded herself of the woman she was becoming—the woman she was proud of. This time, she chose herself.

Months passed, and autumn turned to winter, then to spring. Eva’s life had blossomed in ways she never could have imagined. She completed her first novel, a story that mirrored her own journey, one of finding strength in the face of heartbreak. She submitted it to a small press, and to her surprise, it was accepted for publication. The book, Falling Leaves, was dedicated “To all those who had to let go in order to grow.”

Her friends and family noticed the change in her, too. There was a spark in her eyes, a confidence that came not from someone else’s validation, but from within. She was no longer afraid of being too much or not enough; she was simply herself, whole and unafraid.

On a warm, breezy afternoon, Eva visited the park by the lake where she had last seen Isaac. The trees were vibrant with new leaves, the air filled with the scent of fresh blossoms. She found the bench where they’d parted ways and sat down, taking in the view.

There was no sadness this time, no lingering sense of loss. Instead, she felt gratitude for the journey that had brought her here, to this moment of peace and acceptance. The park had witnessed her heartbreak, her pain, and now it bore witness to her healing.

She thought of Isaac, wondering if he had found his own way, if he had discovered his own path to happiness. She hoped he had, but she knew it wasn’t her burden to carry anymore. They had been two people on different journeys, their paths crossing for a time, only to diverge when they could no longer grow together.

Eva closed her eyes, letting the breeze caress her face, feeling the warmth of the sun on her skin. She was whole, complete, and content with her own company. She had learned that love was not a sacrifice, but an act of self-respect, one that started from within.

As she rose to leave, she glanced back at the trees, the branches reaching toward the sky, full of new life. She smiled, a quiet, knowing smile, and walked forward, ready to embrace the world ahead, where her story was just beginning.

Visit Olivia Salter’s Author Page at Amazon.

 

© 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.

Buried in the Algorithm by Olivia Salter | Short Fiction

 

Buried in the Algorithm

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,792

The caption had to be flawless. Something witty but raw, something to make them pause mid-scroll.

“Calm before the grind.” No. Too cliché.

“How I stay grounded in chaos.” Ugh. Too try-hard.

My latte was growing cold under the ring light as I typed, deleted, and retyped. Finally, I settled on: “Brewing balance in a world of noise. ☕✨” Perfect. I posted it, watching the likes roll in.

My feed painted a picture of serenity. But in real life? My fridge was empty, my inbox overflowing with sponsorship deadlines, and Trey, my ex, hadn’t called in weeks. Not that I blamed him. He had warned me once: “You’re too obsessed with being seen.”

Still, the likes poured in, and for a moment, they filled the hollow parts of me.

Until the DM arrived.

***

At first, it was easy to ignore. A blank profile picture, no followers. User12345:

"Do you think they’d still like you if they knew the truth?"

I rolled my eyes. Trolls were part of the territory. I deleted the message and posted a new story—another “candid” moment of me laughing in perfect lighting.

But the message stuck in my mind. The truth? What truth? My life was curated, sure, but wasn’t everyone’s?

Later that night, another DM arrived:

"You can’t bury lies forever, Callie."

I blocked the account and set my phone down, but the unease stayed with me.

***

The next day, I was at the café where I staged most of my “morning routine” posts. I handed my name to the barista and took a seat by the window, arranging my latte and croissant for the perfect flat lay.

When the barista called out my order, I grabbed my cup, only to freeze.

Instead of my name, someone had scrawled LIAR in black marker across the lid.

I spun around, searching the café, but no one seemed to notice. The barista looked blank when I asked who’d written it. “Must’ve been a mistake,” she mumbled.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me.

Back home, my followers were turning. Comments on my latest post were cutting: “She’s so fake.” “Why does she always look so posed?”

I deleted the post and curled up on my couch. That night, the lights flickered, plunging my apartment into darkness.

***

A notification pinged on my phone. User12345: “This is who you really are, Callie.”

I stared at the screen, my breath shallow. I typed back, “What do you want from me?”

Dots appeared, then disappeared. My laptop screen lit up across the room, an open live feed showing me sitting at my kitchen table.

But I wasn’t there.

I screamed, slamming the laptop shut. The air around me felt heavy, charged. When I tried to turn on the lights, they flickered, then died.

Another DM arrived:

"Are you ready to see the truth?"

Before I could respond, everything went black.

***

When I woke, the air was thick and damp. My hands hit wood above me. Darkness pressed against my eyes, and the realization hit: I was buried alive.

I screamed until my throat was raw, my fists pounding the lid. Panic clawed at my chest, stealing my breath.

Then, a voice—not human, but mechanical, distorted—echoed around me.

“You built this coffin, Callie. Every like, every lie. Now you get to live in it.”

The pressure in my chest grew unbearable. “Please!” I sobbed. “I’ll delete everything. I’ll tell the truth!”

Silence, then a low laugh. “Do you even know what the truth is anymore?”

***

Faintly, I heard voices above me. “Callie! Where are you?”

“Trey!” I screamed with everything I had. The dirt shifted, vibrations running through the wood. A crack of light broke through, followed by Trey’s hands pulling me free.

I collapsed into his arms, gasping for air. The fresh air hit me like a drug.

“How… how did you find me?” I choked out.

Trey looked conflicted. “Your last post. You tagged your location. I couldn’t ignore it.”

My stomach twisted. Even at my lowest, my obsession with being seen had left me vulnerable.

***

Back in my apartment, I stared at my phone. Notifications piled up. People were speculating about my disappearance. Conspiracy theories trended: “Did Callie fake this for clout?”

Trey sat across from me, his arms crossed. “You don’t have to keep doing this, Callie.”

Tears burned in my eyes. “It’s all I have.”

“No,” he said gently. “It’s not.”

My finger hovered over the app. With a deep breath, I deleted it. The weight lifted, but not entirely.

As I set my phone down, a single notification flashed across the blank screen.

User12345: “You can’t bury the truth.”

***

The silence of my phone was deafening. Without the app, my usual distractions—notifications, comments, and DMs—were gone. The emptiness felt like a hole in my soul, but at least it was quiet.

Trey stayed for a while, helping me clean up the apartment. He was gentle but firm, guiding me through deleting old files, clearing staged props, and boxing up brand products I’d never even opened. Each discarded piece felt like shedding a layer of someone I no longer recognized.

But as night fell, the silence became oppressive. Trey was leaving soon, and I didn’t trust myself alone.

“You don’t have to go,” I blurted out, surprising even myself.

He looked at me, hesitant. “Callie, this isn’t about us. You need to figure out what you want without me being your safety net.”

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Thanks for saving me.”

“Always,” he said softly, closing the door behind him.

***

That night, I dreamed I was back in the coffin. Dirt pressed against my lungs, my phone screen glowing faintly in the dark. On it, the app had reappeared. Every time I tried to delete it, the app multiplied, filling my phone with infinite copies.

I woke up gasping, drenched in sweat. My phone sat on the nightstand, blank and silent.

But the next morning, when I turned it on, the app was back.

My blood ran cold. I hadn’t reinstalled it. My thumb hovered over the icon, shaking. Against my better judgment, I opened it.

My profile was intact, but it was different. My curated posts were gone, replaced with images I had never taken.

A candid shot of me arguing with Trey.

A tear-streaked selfie I didn’t remember taking.

A blurred photo of my reflection, distorted and hollow-eyed.

The captions were worse. They revealed truths I’d never admitted, not even to myself.

"I don’t even like coffee, but they do."

"I love the idea of love, not Trey."

"I’m afraid of being forgotten."

I slammed the phone down, my chest heaving. The line between reality and manipulation was crumbling.

***

The next day, I went to Trey’s place. He opened the door, surprised to see me.

“I think I’m losing my mind,” I admitted. “The app—it’s back. But it’s… wrong. It’s showing things I’ve never posted. Things I’ve never said.”

Trey frowned, his concern deepening. “Have you told anyone else about this? Maybe a therapist or—”

“No,” I interrupted. “They’ll think I’m crazy. Hell, I think I’m crazy.”

He led me inside, sitting across from me at his kitchen table. “Okay. Let’s figure this out. Did anyone have access to your account? A manager? A hacker, maybe?”

I shook my head. “No one. And even if they did, how would they know these things?”

Trey didn’t have an answer. But he stayed with me as I tried to piece together the timeline, searching for any rational explanation.

***

That night, the messages returned.

User12345: “You can’t run from yourself, Callie. You’ve lied so long, you’ve forgotten the truth. Let me remind you.”

I stared at the screen, heart pounding. This time, I didn’t delete the message. Instead, I typed back.

“What do you want from me?”

The response was immediate: “To see you.”

My phone buzzed with a notification: a live feed had started from my account. It showed my apartment—but not the way I’d staged it. The camera panned to my bedroom, where I sat frozen in real-time.

I stood up, my legs trembling. “Who are you?” I screamed into the empty room.

The lights flickered, plunging me into darkness. My phone screen was the only source of light now, and the feed was still running. Slowly, the camera on the live stream turned to show the mirror behind me.

In the reflection, I wasn’t alone.

A figure materialize behind me, its face featureless but unmistakably me—hollowed out, a grotesque parody of the persona I’d created.

“Stop it!” I shouted, whipping around. But the room was empty. When I turned back to the phone, the figure was gone, replaced with a single message.

“It’s time to face the truth.”

***

For the next few days, I refused to leave Trey’s apartment. He offered to stay home with me, but I could see the strain in his eyes. I was dragging him into something I didn’t fully understand, and it wasn’t fair.

Late one night, I decided I couldn’t hide anymore. If User12345 wanted me to face the truth, I would.

I went live on my account, this time intentionally. My hands shook as I stared into the camera. Thousands of followers joined within seconds, their comments flooding the screen.

“This is the real me,” I said, my voice trembling. “I’m not perfect. I’m not grounded or serene. I’ve lied to all of you, and to myself. I’ve hurt people I love for the sake of likes and attention. And now… now I don’t know who I am anymore.”

The comments froze. For a moment, the silence felt unbearable. Then one by one, real messages started coming through:

"Thank you for saying this."

"I’ve felt the same way."

"We see you, Callie. The real you.”

The screen dimmed, a final notification appearing at the top:

User12345 has left the chat.

***

The app didn’t delete itself, but I stopped using it. Trey helped me find a therapist who understood the unique pressures of living a curated life. Slowly, I began reconnecting with the world outside the screen.

One day, I returned to the café—not for content, but for coffee. When the barista handed me my cup, my real name was written on it.

As I sat by the window, sipping the coffee, I felt the sun on my face for the first time in what felt like years. The haunting wasn’t entirely gone; I still felt its shadow in the quiet moments. But I was learning to live with it.

And for the first time, I wasn’t afraid to be unseen.

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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 Curse Beneath the Sand by Olivia Salter | Short Fiction

 

The Curse Beneath the Sand

By Olivia Salter

Word Count:  1,141

The desert night was silent, the only sound the faint hiss of sand slipping against the stone. By the glow of his lantern, Howard Carter knelt before the massive stone slab, barely breathing. Beneath his fingers, the cold sandstone felt alive, pulsing with secrets older than civilization. Weeks of fevered digging had led him here, to this shadowed chamber sealed for millennia. And now, beneath the Valley of the Kings, he was on the verge of his greatest discovery—one that had eluded him, teased him, through rumor and half-formed tales.

As his crew lifted the stone lid, an ancient, sickly odor seeped into the air, harsh and stale. Carter’s stomach turned, but he forced himself to look. Towering before him were sarcophagus, larger than any he had ever encountered, crafted with precision so fine that even the dim lantern light seemed to make the carved faces breathe.

“Sir…” whispered Winters, his young assistant, pale and shivering despite the desert heat. “Have you…have you seen anything like this?”

Carter shook his head, his gaze locked on the giant stone forms. These weren’t just any pharaohs—they were colossal, their limbs elongated in strange, unnatural proportions, the lids etched with snarling jackals and serpents twisted around arms as thick as pillars. Hieroglyphs glistened under the flickering light, symbols of rage and sorrow intertwined: Guardians of the Sun’s Path. Blood of Ra.

A chill ran through him, but he brushed it off. This was his life’s work—his ambition, his purpose. But even as he marveled, a sliver of doubt wormed into his mind. Perhaps there was a reason this chamber had remained sealed. The hieroglyphs around him spoke of curses, but one line repeated again and again, as though to drive the warning home: Leave the blood of Ra to rest.

And then, in the silence, he heard it—a low, rhythmic sound, like a heartbeat pulsing through the stone. It was faint but unmistakable, as though something slumbered, half-awake and listening.

Winters staggered back, clutching a small protective charm to his chest. “Sir…maybe we shouldn’t…”

“Stay calm, Winters,” Carter snapped, more out of fear than impatience. He couldn’t turn back now, not with everything at stake. And yet, as he stared into the painted stone eyes of the colossal figures, a strange thought crossed his mind: perhaps they were staring back. The shadows seemed to deepen, the air thickening with a presence as ancient as the desert itself.

Just then, the ground beneath them trembled, a low rumble that sent dust cascading from the ceiling. And then he saw it—the massive stone lid of the largest sarcophagus shifting, as though something inside was pressing against it, testing its seal.

“Sir…” Winters stammered, frozen with terror.

Before Carter could respond, the lid groaned open, revealing an arm reaching from within—a limb dark and sinewed, cracked like ancient bark, each finger long and clawed, longer than any human’s. Carter’s heart pounded as his mind scrambled for explanations, but there were none. This was no artifact, no mere stone carving. It was alive.

The figure rose, a towering mass draped in remnants of gold and royal linen, its face framed in a ceremonial headdress. But its eyes—those blackened, pitiless eyes—glowed with a faint red, burning through the gloom. The giant form looked at Carter, its gaze filled with something beyond hatred, something deeper, as if it recognized him.

Carter stumbled back, his throat dry. What have I done? Every curse he had ever laughed off, every warning he had ignored, seemed to press down on him now. He thought of the tombs he’d disturbed, the treasures he’d claimed. And in the pharaoh’s gaze, he felt the weight of his choices.

The figure raised its hand and pointed to the wall, where images began to shift, hieroglyphs flickering to life under the faint red glow. Carter stared, mesmerized, as the story of this pharaoh came to life. He wasn’t buried with treasures or servants, nor was he honored. This giant had been sealed away as a guardian, a creature half-myth, cursed to remain here to protect Egypt from something darker than death.

“Sir…please…let’s go,” Winters whispered, edging toward the exit, clutching the charm in his hand.

But Carter couldn’t move. He was bound, his legs frozen, his mind ensnared by the revelation, the terrible beauty of it all. He was looking at something that no human was meant to see, something that defied time itself. And then, as though reading his every thought, the figure spoke, its voice a low, guttural rumble that filled the chamber with the weight of centuries.

“Thou who hast trespassed,” it intoned, the words seeping into Carter’s mind, bypassing language, “thou who would steal from the dead—know that my wrath shall be eternal.”

The chamber began to quake, stone cracking, dust billowing around them. Winters screamed, backing away as the ceiling began to crumble, chunks of stone crashing to the ground. But Carter, even now, could only watch, mesmerized, as the colossus stepped forward, one titanic foot shaking the ground with every movement.

Reality broke through, and Carter finally turned, pulling Winters toward the entrance. They fled, the walls collapsing behind them, the roar of falling stone and the thunderous footsteps of the guardian filling their ears. But even as they scrambled through the narrow passageways, Carter knew there was no escaping the pharaoh’s judgment.

They burst into the open desert, gasping, gulping down the cold night air, but a shadow still loomed over them. Carter glanced back, and there, framed in the moonlight, the giant stood at the entrance of the tomb, its eyes like twin fires against the stars.

“Run,” Carter said, shoving Winters toward the tents. “Take the charm. Go, and don’t look back.”

Winters looked at him, eyes wide with terror, clutching the charm as though it might save him. “What about you?”

Carter managed a weak smile. “I’ll stay. This… this was my mistake.”

For a moment, Winters hesitated, but then he turned and ran, disappearing into the darkness. Carter faced the towering figure alone, feeling the sand shift beneath him, as if the desert itself sought to reclaim him.

He dropped to his knees, hands trembling, bowing his head in resignation. He’d spent his life tearing into the earth for secrets, defying every warning, chasing glory without regard for those who had come before. Now, he understood the cost.

The pharaoh’s eyes blazed brighter as it raised one colossal arm, and in the final instant, as the winds swept around him and the sands began to swallow him whole, Carter let out a breath, almost grateful to be undone by the very forces he’d ignored.

The sands settled, erasing every trace of the dig, leaving only a hollow, haunted silence where the curse had at last found its justice.

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Unfinished Symphony by Olivia Salter | Poetry

 

Unfinished Symphony

By Olivia Salter 

In a dim, drab office,
under buzzing fluorescent lights,
a young lady—ebony skin, yet striking—
sits, grinding away day after day.

The gray, cracked walls
and the bland hum of the ticking clock
beat out a lifeless rhythm,
filling the silence with steady taps.

Her tired brown eyes wander
across endless columns of numbers,
lines and curves of 2's and 3's,
her pen scratching the page,
disrupting the stillness.

Autumn sun slips weakly
through the grimy glass,
streaking across her ledger.
Then—what was that?

A soft, familiar tune, distant yet clear,
breaks through the walls around her mind.
Louder, closer it comes.
The pen falls from her grip, forgotten.

Tears glisten in her eyes,
her lips tremble into a faint, wistful smile.
She stands there, captured in a silent dance,
one hand resting on her heart,
the other raised, as if to catch the music.

The clock’s ticking fades,
and she loses herself,
draws in the music like breath,
her face bright with visions,
her soul alive with poetry.

The words pour out, unbidden,
rising from somewhere deep.
She murmurs verses, her lips barely moving,
lost in the moment.

Then, the clock strikes—
a harsh reminder, a sudden jolt.
The music ends, the words vanish.
She blinks, the vision fades,
and a look of pain clouds her face.

"Tick, tock," the clock chants,
“Work, work,” it insists.
Dreams don’t pay rent,
don’t buy food for her children,
don’t bring security.

The dream is pulled back, forced down.
But oh, if she had the chance,
if the world opened to her voice,
She’d be more than a shadow,
She’d be a name, a legacy.

And you, world, with all your wealth,
couldn’t you make room for such a voice?
Why should brilliance suffocate,
why should a soul burn out,
unseen, uncelebrated?

Trapped in that cramped room,
she feels ideas beating at her mind,
like birds, desperate to fly free—
only to fall silent, caged,
fading back into the dark.

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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.