The Devil's Ledger by Olivia Salter | Horror | Flash Fiction

The Devil's Ledger

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 948

Mississippi Delta, 1924

Evelyn Carter gripped the edge of her desk as Judge Elroy Cline lounged in the doorway of the schoolhouse. His pristine white suit gleamed against the rough wood of the frame, his boots tracking dust across the floor.

“Fifty dollars,” he drawled, chewing on the end of a toothpick. “By Friday. Or I’ll see this shack torn down faster than you can say ‘amen.’”

Evelyn felt her blood simmer, but she kept her voice steady. “This school is on land my father bought with his own money, Judge. You know that.”

Judge Cline chuckled, slow and mean. “Maybe so, but paperwork’s a funny thing. It gets misplaced. Meanwhile, the land under this building? Belongs to the county now. My county. And I reckon I can do with it what I please.”

“You’re a thief, Elroy Cline, and a coward.”

His smile widened. “You’re callin’ me names, Miss Carter, but you’re the one in trouble. Fifty dollars. Or I’ll see these little pickaninnies of yours back in the cotton fields where they belong.”

Evelyn’s nails dug into the wood of the desk. “You don’t scare me.”

“Oh, I don’t have to scare you, ma’am. The clock’ll do that for me.” He tipped his hat, turned, and left, whistling a cheerful tune as he strolled down the road.

Evelyn’s shoulders sagged when he was gone, but the tight knot of anger in her chest only grew.

***

The week dragged on, each day hotter than the last. Evelyn taught her students as best she could, but the weight of Judge Cline’s threat pressed down on her.

One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the sky a bruised purple, Evelyn climbed the hill to the old church. It stood alone, a crumbling relic of another time. Folks whispered it was cursed, but Evelyn didn’t care. She pushed the heavy wooden door open, her steps echoing in the hollow space.

“Lord,” she murmured, kneeling at the dusty altar, her hands clasped tight. “I need help. I need… a miracle.”

Her voice broke, and silence fell over the church. Then—scratch, scratch, scratch.

Her head snapped up. One of the bricks in the altar wall shifted, dislodging itself with a low groan. Evelyn froze, watching as it tumbled to the ground, revealing a dark hollow. Inside was a book.

The leather was cracked and worn, but the gold letters on its cover gleamed as if freshly pressed: The Devil’s Ledger.

Evelyn’s hands trembled as she reached for it. The book was cold to the touch, heavy with something she couldn’t name. She opened it, and the air in the church seemed to shiver.

The first page was filled with names, scrawled in deep red ink. Some were names she recognized—men and women from the town who had disappeared or died in strange ways.

A low whisper coiled through the air, soft as a snake’s hiss.

“Write the name of the one who wrongs you. Justice will be done.”

Evelyn slammed the book shut and stumbled back. “No. I don’t want no part of this.”

The ledger sat silently, its leather cover gleaming in the faint candlelight.

***

Three days later, Evelyn sat in the empty schoolhouse, staring at the cracked walls. She’d tried everything—asking for donations, writing letters to old friends, even praying. Fifty dollars was more than she could ever hope to scrape together.

The ledger haunted her thoughts. She dreamed of its pages, of Judge Cline’s name glowing in red ink.

On the fourth night, her desperation boiled over. She returned to the church, her heart pounding.

“I didn’t want to do this,” she whispered as she opened the book, her voice trembling. “But you left me no choice.”

She grabbed the pen that had appeared at the bottom of the page and scrawled: Elroy Cline.

The ink glowed, then burned into the paper, filling the church with the smell of scorched wood. Evelyn dropped the book, her hands shaking.

***

The next morning, the town was buzzing with news: Judge Cline had been found dead in his study.

“He was clutching his chest,” whispered Clara Mae, one of Evelyn’s older students. “But they say his face… it looked like he’d seen the devil himself.”

Evelyn nodded, but her stomach churned. She had wanted justice, but this felt wrong.

That night, she returned to the church, determined to destroy the ledger. She flung it open—and froze.

Her name was written beneath Judge Cline’s, glowing faintly.

“No,” she breathed, her voice shaking. “This… this ain’t right.”

The shadows in the church began to move, twisting and stretching. Faces emerged—familiar, terrible faces. Her great-uncle, her cousin, her neighbors. They stared at her, their mouths opening in silent screams.

“You wanted justice,” a voice hissed, deep and mocking. “Justice demands balance.”

Evelyn staggered back as the shadows closed in. “I was trying to help! I was—”

Cold hands gripped her arms, her legs, dragging her into the darkness. Her screams echoed through the empty church, then faded into silence.

***

Weeks later, a traveling preacher stopped at the abandoned church. He found the ledger resting on the altar, its leather cover gleaming as if freshly polished.

Curious, he opened it and saw the names. His breath caught at the newest addition: Evelyn Carter.

A pen appeared at the bottom of the page, shimmering faintly. The preacher hesitated, his hand hovering over the book. Whispers filled the air, seductive and sweet.

He slammed the ledger shut and shoved it back into the wall, his heart pounding. “Not today,” he muttered, hurrying out of the church.

As he walked away, the whispers followed him, soft and patient.

“Justice waits.”

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The Last Witness by Olivia Salter | Science Fiction | Short Fiction

 

The Scream by Norwegian artist Edvard Munch in 1893

The Last Witness

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,864

The city felt smaller now, swallowed by silence. Logan Kane moved down what used to be 8th Avenue, his shadow stretching long under the broken neon lights. He kicked an empty can across the cracked pavement, the sound echoing in a way that made him flinch. Funny how the absence of people had amplified everything—his senses, his regrets, his memories.

It had been—what?—a year since the outbreak? Maybe two. He stopped keeping track after the last person he knew died. Days blurred into nights, and the only constant was the weight of being the one left behind.

The small Hispanic grocery store came into view, its sign barely hanging on, the letters faded but still faintly reading “Fernando’s Market.” He’d scavenged it before, but he checked it every few months. Most of the food had been looted early, but sometimes he got lucky.

Inside, the air was heavy with mildew and decay. Logan rummaged through the shelves, pushing aside broken glass and cans with rusted labels. His fingers brushed against a can of peaches, dusty but intact. He stared at it for a long moment, then slipped it into his pack.

Before leaving, he paused by the counter. The mirror behind it was still there, though cracked from some long-forgotten looter’s bat. His reflection stared back, hollow-eyed, bearded, his cheeks drawn tight. He barely recognized himself anymore.

A voice startled him.

“Still scavenging, huh?”

Logan spun around so fast he tripped over a box of old candy bars. He hit the ground hard, his heart pounding.

But no one was there. Just shadows.

He stayed frozen for a long moment, breathing hard. “I’m losing it,” he whispered to himself. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought it. He talked to himself more these days, filling the silence with anything to keep his sanity intact.

The voice came again, softer this time. “Logan.”

It was unmistakable. Her voice. Ava.

His hands trembled as he got to his feet, scanning the room. “Who’s there?” he called out, though he already knew.

No answer. Just the wind outside, whistling through broken windows. He turned back toward the mirror.

And there she was.

Ava stood in the reflection, her face pale but her expression almost serene. She looked the way she had on their honeymoon, her hair loose around her shoulders, her favorite dress swaying like there was a breeze only she could feel.

But something was off. Her eyes were too dark, her smile too still.

Logan’s breath caught in his throat. “You’re not real,” he said, his voice shaking.

Her head tilted, her smile fading. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

He backed away from the counter, but her image stayed in the mirror, watching him. “You’re not here,” he said again, louder this time, like he could drown her out.

“I never left, Logan,” she said softly. “You brought me here.”

He felt the walls closing in, the room suddenly too small. “This is just... it’s guilt,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I’m tired. I’m... I’m alone, and I’m tired, and this is just—”

“You’re not alone,” Ava interrupted. Her voice was calm, almost tender. “Not entirely.”

He froze. The way she said it made something cold crawl up his spine.

“What do you mean?” he whispered.

Ava stepped closer in the mirror, though her reflection didn’t match the room around her anymore. It was like she was in a different place entirely—one with soft light and shifting shadows.

“You think you’re the last man,” she said. “But you’re not. You’re the last witness.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He shook his head. “I don’t... I don’t understand.”

Her expression darkened, her voice sharper now. “You do.”

The memories flooded back: the lab, the sleepless nights, the serum. He’d told himself it was for humanity, but deep down, he’d known it was for her. Ava had been sick, one of the first infected. He’d promised her he’d fix it, that he’d save her.

“I didn’t know,” he choked out, tears welling in his eyes. “I didn’t know it would—”

“You didn’t listen,” she snapped. “I told you to stop. I begged you.”

“I was trying to save you!” he shouted, his voice breaking.

“And what did you save, Logan?” Her figure began to crack, her edges blurring like a broken signal. “Not me. Not them. Just yourself.”

He staggered back, tripping over debris. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this,” he whispered.

Her reflection fractured further, but her voice remained steady. “You didn’t stop when you should have. You didn’t think you could fail. And now you’re all that’s left to see what you’ve done.”

The mirror shattered, sending shards raining to the floor. Logan dropped to his knees, staring at the pieces. Ava was gone, but her words lingered, heavy in the silence.

He stayed there for what felt like hours, the wind whistling through the broken windows. When he finally moved, it was to pick up the can of peaches. He held it in his hands, staring at his distorted reflection in the metal.

The city was still quiet. Too quiet.

As he stood to leave, a faint sound caught his ear—a whisper, soft and distant. It was Ava’s voice.

“You’re not alone.”

Logan looked around, his heart pounding. For the first time in months, he felt something close to fear. He turned toward the door, his steps quickening as the whispers grew louder.

Outside, the wind carried the sound of something moving, something alive. Or maybe not alive at all.

***

Logan kept moving, the weight of his pack pulling at his shoulders as the whispers grew louder. His boots struck the pavement in hurried, uneven steps. The city’s silence had always been suffocating, but now it was worse—broken by something he couldn’t place.

Every alley seemed darker. Every shadow felt alive. He glanced over his shoulder, his heart racing.

Nothing.

“Just keep walking,” he muttered to himself. His voice sounded small in the expanse of empty buildings. “You’re imagining things. It’s just the wind.”

The can of peaches shifted softly against the inside of his pack, a small, grounding reminder of reality. He focused on it, the promise of a meal he didn’t have to fight for. It was something solid, something real.

But Ava’s voice cut through the noise of his thoughts.

“You think it’s the wind, Logan?”

He froze mid-step, his breath catching in his throat. The voice hadn’t come from behind him this time. It was closer—right beside him.

“Stop it,” he hissed, gripping the straps of his pack. He quickened his pace, his eyes darting to the windows of the buildings around him. Most were shattered, their interiors dark and empty, but every so often, he thought he saw movement in the corner of his vision.

“Ava’s not here,” he whispered. “Ava’s gone.”

But the whispers didn’t stop. They multiplied.

Voices—faint, overlapping, too quiet to understand—seem to seep out of the walls, the ground, the very air. Logan clamped his hands over his ears, his pace breaking into a jog. The sound followed him, growing louder, clearer.

“Logan... you don’t deserve to be here.”

His foot caught on a piece of rubble, and he fell hard, scraping his palms on the pavement. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the sting of the wound. The whispers were almost deafening now, a chorus of accusations, fragments of sentences that sliced into him like shards of glass.

“You could have stopped it.”

“You let us die.”

“You only cared about her.”

“No!” Logan shouted, spinning in a circle. “I didn’t— I was trying to help! I didn’t mean for this to happen!”

The voices fell silent all at once, leaving only the sound of his ragged breathing. He dropped to his knees, clutching his head.

When he looked up, he wasn’t alone.

Figures stood in the distance, their shapes blurry and wrong, like people distorted through frosted glass. They didn’t move, but he could feel their eyes—hundreds of them—locked on him.

He stumbled backward, his hands scrabbling for the pack he’d dropped. His fingers found the can of peaches, and for some reason, he held onto it like a lifeline.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice shaking.

The figures didn’t respond. They just stood there, silent and still, their edges flickering like a failing signal.

Logan took a step back, then another, his muscles tensing as the distance between them seemed to shrink despite his retreat.

“You’re not real,” he said, his voice breaking. “None of this is real.”

One of the figures took a step forward. The motion was smooth, unnatural, as though it wasn’t walking but sliding across the ground.

“Witness,” it said, the single word echoed in a voice that sounded like it came from deep underwater.

Logan turned and ran.

***

The city blurred around him as he sprinted, his lungs burning, his legs screaming for rest. He didn’t look back, didn’t dare. He could still hear the whispers, faint but ever-present, chasing him down streets that seemed unfamiliar despite the months he’d spent wandering them.

He finally ducked into a doorway, pressing himself against the cold concrete wall, trying to catch his breath. He slid down to the ground, clutching the can of peaches like it was the last piece of the world he could hold onto.

The whispers were gone. For now.

His mind raced. Those figures—what were they? Hallucinations? The virus? Some remnant of the people he’d failed to save?

“Ava,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “What’s happening to me?”

When he opened them, she was there again, sitting across from him on the broken steps of the building. She looked... different this time. Softer. Less like a ghost and more like the woman he’d loved.

“You’re running,” she said simply.

“What else am I supposed to do?” he snapped, his voice cracking.

Ava tilted her head, her eyes searching his face. “You can’t run forever, Logan. You know that.”

He looked away, staring down at the can in his hands. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

“Face it,” she said.

Her words hit him like a blow. He shook his head, his grip tightening on the can. “Face what? There’s nothing left to face. Everyone’s gone. You’re gone.”

Ava leaned forward, her voice soft but unyielding. “You think the end was an accident? That you just... got lucky?”

His stomach churned. “What are you talking about?”

“You weren’t immune, Logan,” she said, her gaze steady. “You were chosen. The virus didn’t spare you. It marked you.”

The whispers returned, faint and insidious, crawling into his ears. Ava stood, her figure flickering like a candle in a draft.

“Face it, Logan,” she said one last time before vanishing.

***

Logan sat there, frozen, as the whispers swirled around him. The can of peaches slipped from his grasp, rolling to a stop at the edge of the doorway.

Somewhere in the distance, a voice—deep, resonant, and inhuman—called his name.

And this time, Logan stood up to face it.

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The Boy Who Never Grew Up by Olivia Salter | Anti-Romance | Short Story | Anti-Romance

 

The Boy Who Never Grew Up

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,246

Jaxon’s apartment reeked of neglect. The stench of stale takeout mingled with a sour hint of old socks, clinging stubbornly to the air. Pizza boxes were stacked precariously by the door, while half-empty soda cans littered the coffee table. His gaming console hummed faintly, bathing the room in a cold, artificial glow.

Karla stood in the doorway, arms laden with grocery bags. She hesitated, her lips tightening as her eyes scanned the disaster zone. Her foot nudged a discarded hoodie, revealing a crumpled bag of chips beneath.

“Jaxon,” she called, her voice clipped. “Are you going to help me, or should I just do it all myself?”

No response.

She sighed, walking into the living room. There he was—slouched on the couch, headset clamped over his ears, fingers dancing over the controller. His face was illuminated by the game’s vivid explosions, utterly absorbed in his digital world.

“Jaxon!” she barked.

He flinched, yanking off the headset. “What? Why are you yelling?”

“Why am I yelling?” she said, cynical. “I’ve been calling you for five minutes! Can you tear yourself away long enough to help me unload the groceries?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “I’m in the middle of a raid. Just give me ten minutes.”

She stared at him, her chest rising and falling as she fought to keep her temper in check. “You’ve been in the middle of something for five years, Jax,” she said, her voice trembling. “This isn’t a raid; this is our life. And I’m tired of doing it alone.”

His face darkened. “You always blow things out of proportion. It’s just groceries.”

“It’s never just groceries!” she snapped, slamming the bags onto the counter. “It’s the laundry. It’s the bills. It’s everything. You can’t even pick up after yourself, let alone contribute to this relationship.”

Jaxon scowled, sinking deeper into the couch. “You’re always nagging. Why can’t you just chill?”

Karla opened her mouth, then closed it. She turned away, hands gripping the edge of the counter so tightly her knuckles turned white. “You don’t hear me,” she whispered. “You never hear me.”

He rolled his eyes. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

The room fell silent except for the faint sounds of his paused game. Karla wiped her hands on her jeans and walked to the bedroom. She emerged minutes later with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Jaxon asked, frowning.

“I’m leaving,” she said simply, her voice steady. “I can’t do this anymore.”

His jaw dropped. “Wait. You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” she replied, meeting his gaze. “I’ve set myself on fire trying to keep you warm, Jaxon. I’m done.”

Before he could respond, she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

***

Jaxon woke the next morning to a quiet so profound it felt oppressive. The bed was cold, her side neatly made. He found a note on the kitchen table, the words scrawled in her familiar handwriting:

“Jax, I love you, but I can’t keep drowning in your mess. Don’t call me unless you’re ready to grow up.”

He stared at the note for a long time, the weight of her absence settling over him like a heavy blanket.

***

The weeks that followed were a blur. Jaxon told himself she’d be back. She always came back. But as the days stretched into weeks, the apartment grew quieter, emptier. The mess piled up, and even his games lost their allure.

One night, his brother Duke showed up unannounced.

“Man, this place smells like a frat house,” Duke said, wrinkling his nose. “What the hell happened?”

“Karla left,” Jaxon muttered, slumped on the couch.

Duke arched a brow. “And you’re surprised?”

Jaxon glared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’ve been coasting, Jax,” Duke said bluntly. “You act like life’s a game and everyone’s just supposed to deal with your crap.”

“Don’t start with me,” Jaxon warned.

Duke didn’t back down. “You know what your problem is? You’re just like Mom.”

Jaxon shot to his feet. “Don’t you dare compare me to her.”

“Oh, I dare,” Duke said, folding his arms. “She ran away from her responsibilities. You do the same thing, just in a different way.”

“That’s not fair,” Jaxon snapped.

“Isn’t it?” Duke countered. “You’ve been blaming her for years, but at some point, you’ve got to take responsibility for your own choices.”

***

Duke’s words hit harder than Jaxon wanted to admit. He spent the night tossing and turning, memories of their mother surfacing like old ghosts. Her promises to come back, the nights they waited by the window, the sound of the door slamming shut.

He wasn’t like her. He couldn’t be.

The next morning, Jaxon woke up early for the first time in months. He cleaned the apartment, throwing out trash and scrubbing surfaces until his hands ached. He signed up for therapy, swallowing his pride as he scheduled the first appointment.

***

Linda, his therapist, didn’t pull punches.

“Why do you think Karla left?” she asked during their first session.

“Because I’m a mess,” Jaxon admitted. “I took her for granted.”

“And why do you think you do that?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe… maybe because I don’t think I’m worth much.”

Linda nodded. “You learned that somewhere. Tell me about your mom.”

At first, he resisted. But as the weeks went on, the stories spilled out: the abandonment, the anger, the hollow ache of being left behind.

“I hated her,” he admitted one day, his voice shaking. “But now I’m scared I’m turning into her.”

Linda leaned forward. “Acknowledging that fear is the first step. The next step is deciding what kind of person you want to be.”

***

Over the next year, Jaxon’s life slowly began to change. He picked up a part-time job at a hardware store, then enrolled in night classes at the community college. He reconnected with Duke, apologizing for his years of selfishness.

One afternoon, while organizing shelves at the store, a customer caught his eye.

“Excuse me,” she said, holding up a book. “Do you have more of these in stock?”

The book was The Alchemist. Jaxon smiled. “Good choice. Let me check.”

The woman—Tessa—smiled back, and something about her warmth tugged at him.

***

They started dating a few months later. Tessa was patient but firm, unafraid to call Jaxon out when he fell into old habits.

“You’re not a project,” she told him one night. “I’m with you because I see the man you’re becoming, not the boy you used to be.”

Her words became a touchstone, a reminder that growth wasn’t about perfection but persistence.

***

One day, Jaxon ran into Karla at a bookstore. She was with a man who made her laugh in a way that lit up her whole face.

For a moment, Jaxon felt a pang of longing. But then he saw her glance his way, a flicker of recognition passing between them. She gave him a small, genuine smile before turning back to her companion.

Jaxon smiled too, a quiet peace settling over him. Karla was happy. And for the first time, he realized he could be happy, too.

***

The man who grew up.

Jaxon didn’t become perfect. He still had bad days and moments of doubt. But he learned to face them, one step at a time.

He wasn’t the boy who never grew up anymore. He was something better: a man who chose to.

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The Bench by Olivia Salter | Literary Fiction | Short Fiction

 

The Bench

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,180

Miss Bright’s favorite bench was taken.

It wasn’t just any bench. It was her bench, the one shaded by the sycamore tree, perfectly positioned with a view of the fountain and the bustling paths of the park.

Now it was occupied by a young couple, oblivious to the invisible claim Miss Bright had staked on that spot. They leaned into each other, their laughter soft but insistent, like the hum of bees on a summer afternoon.

She stood a few feet away, gripping her handbag with both hands, her usual composure faltering. This bench wasn’t just a place to sit; it was part of her ritual, her anchor in the rhythm of her Sundays. Losing it left her adrift.

With a barely audible sigh, she turned and walked further into the park, her polished loafers crunching against the gravel path.

***

She finally found another bench near the carousel. It wasn’t the same. Here, the screaming of children spun endlessly like the carousel itself. The metallic jingles of its music mingled with the high-pitched cries of excitement and the occasional frustrated wail of a child denied a second ride.

Miss Bright sat anyway, smoothing her wool coat and adjusting the scarf around her neck. Her fingers brushed the brooch she always wore, a silver filigree piece her late mother had given her decades ago. It anchored her, a small piece of stability in an afternoon that already felt off.

From her new vantage point, she watched the park as she always did. The young mother chasing her toddler, her face a mixture of love and exasperation. The jogger in neon leggings, her pace slowing as she checked her phone. The saxophonist, eyes closed, pouring his soul into a tune Miss Bright couldn’t name but felt deeply.

And then, a group of teenagers sprawled on the grass caught her attention. Their laughter was sharp, their movements lazy but purposeful.

“She’s here every week,” said a boy in a gray hoodie, his voice just loud enough to reach her ears.

The girl beside him snorted. “What’s she even doing? Just sitting there like some park weirdo.”

Miss Bright stiffened. She wasn’t weird. She was observing. There was a difference.

Still, their words clung to her like a sharp music note.

***

She adjusted her scarf, a quick, nervous motion, as if the fabric could shield her from their judgment.

The park had always been her sanctuary. It was where she came to escape the suffocating silence of her apartment, to surround herself with life without having to participate in it. She had always believed that watching others was enough.

Lately, though, cracks had begun to form in that belief. The bench wasn’t just a spot to sit—it was a stage from which she observed the world. Without it, she felt exposed, unsure of her role.

The saxophonist shifted into a slower tune, his notes mournful, as if echoing her thoughts. She glanced toward the fountain, where an elderly man in a worn tweed coat fed pigeons. She recognized him—he was always there, scattering crumbs with the same slow, deliberate movements.

Today, he caught her eye. He nodded.

Miss Bright hesitated, then quickly looked away, pretending to adjust her handbag. Her heart fluttered uncomfortably in her chest. What if he tried to talk to her?

***

The carousel’s music screeched to a halt, drawing her attention. A boy, no older than six, ran past her, his red balloon bobbing behind him. He tripped, sprawling onto the gravel with a sharp cry.

“Tommy!” A woman in a beige trench coat rushed to him, her face tight with concern. She knelt, brushing dirt from his knees while he clutched the balloon string, tears streaking his cheeks.

“I told you to slow down,” the woman said, her voice a mix of frustration and worry.

Miss Bright felt an inexplicable urge to help. She reached into her handbag, fingers brushing against a folded handkerchief. But the thought froze in her mind. What if the woman didn’t want her help? What if she thought her interfering?

Instead, she stayed rooted to the bench, watching as the mother consoled her son. Their bond felt like something tangible, a connection Miss Bright had never known.

The woman glanced up, her eyes brushing over Miss Bright without recognition, and then turned back to her child.

The sharp pang in Miss Bright’s chest was unexpected.

***

Miss Bright couldn’t sit still any longer. She stood abruptly, smoothing her coat as if to erase the discomfort that clung to her. She walked toward the fountain, each step purposeful but unsteady, as though she were propelling herself forward without a clear destination.

“Leaving already?”

The voice startled her. She turned to see the man in the tweed coat watching her, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. His expression was kind but curious.

“I—” she began, her voice faltering. She wasn’t used to being addressed here.

“I see you here every Sunday,” he said, nodding toward the bench she had just vacated. “You always seem… thoughtful.”

“I like to watch,” she said, clutching her handbag tighter. “The people. The park.”

He smiled faintly. “It’s a good place for that. Mind some company?”

***

They sat together on the bench by the fountain, the pigeons scattering around their feet. The late afternoon sun bathed the park in gold, softening the edges of everything.

The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but heavy with possibilities.

“You know,” he said after a while, tossing a few crumbs to the pigeons, “I come here for the same reason. Watching. Listening.”

She glanced at him, surprised. “You do?”

He nodded. “It’s easier here. Out there”—he gestured vaguely toward the city skyline—“it all feels too fast, too loud. Here, it slows down. People slow down.”

She found herself nodding. “I used to teach. English. But since I retired…” She hesitated, the words catching in her throat. “It’s been quiet.”

“Quiet can be heavy,” he said simply.

They talked then—about small things. The pigeons. The saxophonist’s music. The way the park changed with the seasons.

His name was Mr. Lowry, and he had been coming to the park for years, ever since his wife passed.

***

As the sun dipped below the trees, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, Mr. Lowry stood. “Well, Miss Bright,” he said, brushing crumbs from his coat, “it’s been a pleasure. Same time next week?”

She looked at him, startled by the question. She wasn’t used to being invited. But there was something about his voice, his presence, that felt like an open door.

“Yes,” she said finally, her voice soft but certain. “I’d like that.”

He smiled, tipping his hat slightly before walking away.

Miss Bright stayed on the bench for a while longer, watching the last of the children leave the carousel and the saxophonist pack his instrument.

The park felt different now. Not just a stage, but a part of her story.

For the first time in years, she looked forward to next Sunday.

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Letting Go by Olivia Salter | Short Story | Anti-Romance

 

Letting Go

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 2,038

Naomi’s refusal to let go of her ex-fiancé Caleb blurs the line between love and obsession. As her attempts to win him back cross into dangerous territory, she begins to unravel, forcing her to face the ghosts she’s clinging to—and the person she’s becoming.

***

The ring sat at the bottom of a drawer Naomi hadn’t opened in months, buried beneath a clutter of receipts and old ticket stubs. Caleb used to call it the “junk graveyard,” though back then, it was more of a playful tease than a critique. Now, the drawer’s name felt like prophecy. Their engagement was dead, but she couldn’t bring herself to bury it completely.

She stared at the drawer, her chest tightening. Somewhere, her phone buzzed—a text, probably from Kendra—but Naomi didn’t move. She didn’t want advice. She didn’t want pity. She wanted him.

Finally, she pulled open the drawer, the familiar box nestled against a frayed envelope. She ran her thumb over its velvet surface before snapping it open. The diamond caught the dim light, cold and unfeeling.

***

Across town, Caleb was laughing in the golden glow of a late afternoon. He stood on the patio of a brewery, a drink in hand, his body angled toward a woman with dark curls who gestured animatedly as she spoke.

The moment froze in Naomi’s mind. She stared at the photo, her stomach twisting. The post had gone up an hour ago.

She closed Instagram and dropped the phone onto the couch as if it had burned her.

***

Kendra let herself in twenty minutes later, takeout in hand and a look that said, I’m about to drag you.

“Naomi, it’s been six months,” she said, dropping the bags on the coffee table. “How are you still in this space? I thought we were burning sage and starting over.”

Naomi crossed her arms. “I’m not in any space.”

“Oh really?” Kendra shot her a pointed look. “You’ve been doomscrolling Caleb’s Instagram all day. Don’t even try to deny it.”

“I just…” Naomi faltered. “I want to understand.”

“There’s nothing to understand,” Kendra said, softer now. “He ended things. It sucks. But you can’t keep punishing yourself like this. It’s not healthy.”

Naomi sank into the couch, the weight of the past six months pressing down on her like lead.

***

That night, Naomi cracked open a bottle of wine and spent hours staring at Caleb’s social media. She analyzed every detail of the photo—his relaxed posture, the way the woman leaned toward him. Did she know how he used to trace patterns on Naomi’s back when they were curled up together? Did she know his laugh was louder when he drank IPAs?

The room felt too quiet, the walls too close. She picked up her phone and opened his email. Her fingers trembled as she typed in his password—a habit she hadn’t broken, even after the breakup.

When the inbox loaded, a rush of guilt hit her. She knew this was wrong, but she couldn’t stop.

And then she saw it:

Subject: Dinner Friday?

Her pulse quickened as she opened the email.

Looking forward to seeing you again. 7:00 at Magnolia’s. Can’t wait.

Her stomach churned.

***

On Friday evening, Naomi found herself outside Magnolia’s, her coat pulled tight against the cold. The glow of the restaurant’s sign cast shadows on the sidewalk, but she stayed back, hidden near the corner of the building.

Her heart raced as she watched the door.

Caleb arrived first, his shoulders relaxed, his phone in hand. He stood near the entrance, glancing around until the woman from the brewery approached. Her laugh carried across the street as she hugged him, her curls bouncing under the streetlights.

They walked inside together, disappearing through the frosted glass doors.

***

Naomi hadn’t planned to go inside. She’d told herself she’d just watch, gather her thoughts, and leave. But before she knew it, she was at the hostess stand, her hands clammy as she asked for a table at the bar.

She didn’t order anything. She just sat there, her eyes locked on their corner table. They were laughing, leaning close, their heads nearly touching.

Her breath came in short bursts as she stood abruptly and walked over. Caleb looked up, his face paling when he saw her.

“Naomi?”

Her voice shook as she said his name, "Caleb," louder than she intended. His companion glanced between them, confused.

“Who is this?” the woman asked, her voice sharp.

“She’s leaving,” Caleb said quickly, standing and blocking Naomi’s path. He grabbed her arm and led her toward the entrance, his grip firm but not rough.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed.

“I needed to talk to you,” Naomi said, her words spilling out in a torrent. “You won’t answer my calls, and I saw the email. I just—”

“You what?” His voice was low but dangerous.

“I had to know, Caleb. You’ve been ignoring me, and now I see you with her? What am I supposed to think?”

“That we’re over!” he snapped, his frustration boiling over. “This is exactly why I left, Naomi. You don’t know when to stop. This? Right here? This is why.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. She felt the stares of other diners as Caleb released her arm and stepped back.

“Go home, Naomi,” he said, his voice flat.

***

That night, Naomi dreamed of the ocean. The waves were endless, pulling her under no matter how hard she fought. Caleb stood on the shore, his back to her, walking away.

She woke gasping, the dream clinging to her like seaweed. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand—a message from Kendra.

“Naomi, this has to stop. Call me. Please.”

She stared at the screen, her chest tightening.

***

Two days later, Kendra showed up unannounced, dragging Naomi out of bed and shoving her into the car.

“You’re going to therapy,” Kendra said, her voice brooking no argument. “I’ve already made the appointment.”

Naomi slumped in the passenger seat, too tired to protest.

***

The therapist’s office smelled faintly of lavender, the walls painted a soothing gray. Naomi sat stiffly on the couch, her hands twisting in her lap.

After she recounted everything, the therapist leaned forward slightly.

“It sounds like you’re grieving,” she said gently. “But not just Caleb. You’re grieving the version of yourself you thought you were with him.”

Naomi frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Letting go isn’t just about him,” the therapist explained. “It’s about making space for the person you want to become. The one who doesn’t need someone else to define her.”

Naomi left the session feeling raw, as if a dam had cracked inside her. But for the first time, she also felt… lighter.

***

Naomi hadn’t opened Instagram in weeks. She deleted Caleb’s contact, blocked his number, and finally tossed the engagement ring into the river. She stood on the bridge for a long moment after, the cold wind biting at her cheeks, watching the tiny ripple where it had disappeared.

It felt like exhaling after holding her breath for too long.

Kendra was right: this wasn’t about Caleb anymore. It was about her.

***

On a sunny afternoon, Naomi sat at her dining table with a cup of tea and a stack of blank index cards. At her therapist’s suggestion, she was mapping out her goals—small, manageable steps toward rebuilding her sense of self.

The first card read: Revisit painting.

She smiled, remembering how Caleb used to tease her about the splattered drop cloths that seemed permanently glued to their living room floor. She hadn’t picked up a brush in years, but the thought of it stirred something warm in her chest.

The second card was harder to write: Forgive myself.

Her hand shook as she wrote the words. Forgiveness felt distant, like a foreign language she didn’t know how to speak. But she added the card to the pile, determined to try.

***

Three months passed. Naomi started painting again, filling her small apartment with canvases of sunsets and tangled forests. She joined a local art group and made friends who didn’t know her as Caleb’s ex.

One evening, as she was cleaning her brushes, her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, her stomach dropping when she saw Caleb’s name.

She hesitated before opening the message.

“Hey. I heard you’ve been doing better. Can we talk?”

Her chest tightened, the old ache threatening to resurface. She sat on the couch, staring at the screen for what felt like hours.

***

Kendra arrived the next day, uninvited as usual, with her arms full of groceries. “You’re cooking dinner with me tonight,” she declared, unloading bags of vegetables onto the counter.

Naomi blinked, startled. “What? Why?”

“Because you’ve been spending too much time in your own head,” Kendra said, waving a carrot like a wand. “And because I have tea.”

Naomi narrowed her eyes. “What kind of tea?”

Kendra grinned. “Caleb texted me. Said he reached out to you.”

Naomi sighed, leaning against the counter. “I don’t know what to do. I haven’t answered.”

“Good.” Kendra set down the carrot, her expression softening. “You don’t owe him anything, Naomi. Not a reply, not closure—nothing. You’re allowed to put yourself first.”

***

A week later, Naomi’s strength cracked. She was sorting through old art supplies when her phone rang. Caleb’s name flashed on the screen.

She stared at it, her heart pounding. Then, against her better judgment, she answered.

“Naomi,” his voice was soft, almost tentative. “Hi.”

“What do you want, Caleb?” She said, surprised at how steady her voice sounded.

“I just… I’ve been thinking about you,” he said. “About us. I feel like we left things unfinished.”

Her fingers tightened around the phone. “We didn’t leave anything unfinished, Caleb. You ended it.”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I wasn’t ready back then, but I’ve changed. I miss you.”

Her stomach twisted. For months, she had dreamed of hearing those words. But now, they felt hollow.

“I can’t do this,” she said, her voice breaking. “I can’t go back to that place.”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “I just want a chance to prove—”

“No, Caleb.” Her throat burned, but she forced the words out. “This isn’t about you anymore. It’s about me. And I deserve more than being someone’s second choice.”

The silence on the line was deafening.

“Goodbye, Caleb,” she said softly, hanging up before he could respond.

***

Naomi spent the next few days painting furiously, pouring every emotion she couldn’t put into words onto the canvas. She worked late into the night, her brushes moving with a life of their own.

When she finally stepped back to look at the finished piece, she felt tears prick her eyes. It was a self-portrait—raw and unpolished—but it was her. The version of herself she was learning to love.

She brought the painting to her art group the following week, her hands shaking as she unveiled it. The room fell silent, and for a moment, she worried she had made a mistake.

Then someone said, “That’s powerful.”

The floodgates opened, and soon, her group was buzzing with compliments and questions. Naomi felt a warmth she hadn’t experienced in years—pride, not for someone else’s approval, but for herself.

***

Months turned into a year. On a crisp autumn morning, Naomi walked through the park where she and Caleb used to meet. The leaves crunched under her boots, their fiery colors painting the ground.

She paused by the bench where they had once planned their future, her breath misting in the cool air. For the first time, the memory didn’t sting. It felt distant, like an old photograph tucked away in a box.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A message from Kendra.

“Brunch tomorrow? You’re buying.”

Naomi smiled and slipped the phone back into her coat. She had places to go, people to see, and a life that was finally her own.

As she walked away, the wind carried the faint scent of lavender—a ghost of what she had lost and the promise of what lay ahead.

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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 Surge by Olivia Salter | Short Story | Disaster Fiction

 

The Silent Surge

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 2,491

The emergency alert screamed through the sun-bleached sedan speakers, cutting through the hum of the engine like a knife:

“A 7.0-magnitude tsunami has struck the California coastline. Residents must evacuate to higher ground immediately.”

Devon’s foot hovered over the gas pedal, the car coasting at a crawl as his gaze remained locked on the rearview mirror. The horizon, once a stretch of peaceful blue, had transformed into a jagged, furious wall of water. It surged toward them like an unstoppable beast, a humongous mass, swallowing everything in its path—palm trees, cars, entire buildings—all devoured by the ocean’s rage.

Simone slapped the dashboard with a force that startled him out of his trance. “What the hell are you doing?” she shouted, her voice high-pitched with panic. “Drive! Now!”

Devon's knuckles paled as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his foot remaining firmly pressed against the brake. His mind was a storm of confusion and guilt. The tsunami was right there, swallowing everything he knew. And yet—something held him back. Something gnawed at him.

“Devon!” Simone’s voice cracked, and her hand shot out to yank at his sleeve. “What are you waiting for? We need to go!”

“I can’t just—” His words trailed off, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. His eyes flicked again to the rearview mirror, watching as the ocean swallowed the horizon, its dark wall reaching farther in every second.

Simone’s voice was sharp with disbelief. “What are you waiting for? The water’s already here! People are dead, Devon!”

The words stung more than he’d expected, and he jerked his head toward her. Simone’s face was a portrait of fear, but there was something else behind her eyes too—anger. Desperation.

“I can’t just leave them,” Devon muttered, his voice low, like he was trying to convince himself. His heart beat harder now, his chest tight. “There might still be someone we can help.”

Simone’s laugh was bitter, an empty sound. “Help?” she scoffed. “It’s over, Devon. You think you can just turn back time? You think you can save them? The water’s here, and you’re still trying to be some kind of damn hero.”

Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. They weren’t just words—there was history behind them. Her voice was laced with the venom of years of anger he couldn’t quite place. She was still so young, but in that moment, Simone felt older than him. Wiser, even.

Devon looked back toward the darkening sky, the roaring ocean now so close he could almost feel the cold spray in the air. Every second counted. But in his chest, there was a knot—a twisted sense of duty, of guilt. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t make himself leave behind whatever fragments of hope still clung to his heart.

“Devon…” Simone’s voice softened, but it was a softness with an edge. “We can’t save everyone. We have to save us.”

She was right, and it sliced through him like glass. Devon’s throat tightened, the words getting stuck behind a wall of regret. But his heart—his heart wasn’t done. It didn’t know how to give up. Not yet.

“I can’t just turn my back on them,” he muttered. The truth was heavier than he wanted to admit. He wasn’t sure if he was still chasing a need to redeem himself for some past mistake or just the damn need to believe that there was something more to this life than running away when it got hard.

“Mom left us,” Simone said, the words cold and sharp. Her hands gripped the armrest with such force that her knuckles were white. “She left us because she couldn’t fix anything. You’re just like her.”

His chest tightened, a wave of heat flooding through him. He flinched as if struck, but there was no strike, just the raw truth of it sinking in. His mind reeled. His mother had left when he was just a kid, and though he’d tried to pretend it didn’t matter, there was a wound in his chest, one he could never fully close.

Simone’s eyes locked on him, and for a moment, the tension between them was unbearable. She didn’t need to say another word. She had laid it bare. He wasn’t just running from the ocean. He was running from the parts of himself he couldn’t fix. From the guilt that had lived with him for as long as he could remember.

“You think you can fix everything,” she went on, her voice barely above a whisper. “But you can’t. You didn’t fix Mom. You won’t fix this.”

Her words sliced through the air, sharp and jagged. Devon jerk back, as if struck by something solid. His hands trembled on the wheel, the guilt—a thing that had once felt small, manageable—now roiling in his gut, the tsunami at his back forgotten for a moment.

“Simone…” His voice was small. “I didn’t—I didn’t fix anything. But I can’t leave them. I can’t.”

The roar of the wave behind them grew louder. Devon turned back toward the rearview mirror, his heart beating in his throat. The wave was closer now, towering over the buildings, blotting out the sun, blotting out the world behind them. It was here.

Simone’s breath came in ragged gasps. “Devon, we’re not gonna make it.” Her voice cracked, the walls she’d built finally breaking down. “Please. You’re not going to fix it. You’re not gonna fix us.”

Her words lodged deep in him. He had always tried to be the one to fix things. Fix people. But maybe… maybe she was right. Maybe this time, there was nothing left to fix.

Devon’s foot hovered over the pedal for a second longer, time stretching, the weight of everything crashing in on him. The world was falling apart, and he didn’t know what to do. The desperate cry of his sister, the pulse of the wave pushing forward—he couldn’t escape either.

“Please,” Simone whispered, her voice raw. “Please, Devon. Just go.”

Her words hit him harder than the tsunami’s roar. The love, the frustration, the understanding between them—it all coalesced in that moment. She wasn’t just telling him to drive; she was telling him to stop trying to save something that was already lost.

His hands fell to the wheel, and for the first time, he let go.

The engine roared to life, tires squealing as he slammed his foot on the gas. The car surged forward, the world around them becoming a blur. As they tore through the streets, racing to escape the inevitable, a part of him—the part that had clung to some foolish hope—was finally, slowly, letting go.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the drive. The sound of the wave swallowing the world behind them was a constant roar in the distance, a reminder that the world had changed forever, and they were just two people trying to outrun something they could never truly escape.

Devon’s gaze was fixed on the road ahead, but his mind was still reeling. Still trying to reconcile what he couldn’t fix. What he had never been able to fix.

But as the wave crested in the rearview mirror, the realization settled deep in his chest. He hadn’t saved anyone. But maybe—just maybe—he had saved himself.

The road ahead blurred as Devon gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles lacking color. The windshield wipers swiped at the mist that clung to the glass, but it wasn’t enough. The world outside felt distorted, a strange and frightening mirror of the chaos that had consumed their lives.

The wind howled, throwing the scent of saltwater and panic into the car. Waves of dread rushed through Devon’s chest. Every mile they put between themselves and the tsunami felt like a small, fragile victory—but it wasn’t enough. The reality kept setting in, slow and suffocating. The wave would hit soon. If it hadn’t already. The buildings, the people, the memories—they were all gone. And somehow, he was still alive.

Simone didn’t say anything. She sat with her arms crossed, her gaze out the side window, staring at nothing. Her eyes, once sharp and defiant, were now hollow. She had let out all the anger, but there was nothing left but a quiet emptiness. She wasn’t looking at him anymore. She wasn’t even looking at the road.

They were so close to the mountains now, the jagged peaks of the hills impending ahead, their dark silhouettes framed against a sky darkening by the second. It felt wrong, like the earth itself was holding its breath, waiting for the moment when it would all crash down.

Devon’s foot eased off the gas, his hands trembling on the wheel. He could feel Simone’s gaze shifting, like she was finally seeing him again, but the weight of everything between them made it hard to even breathe in the same space.

“Devon…” she whispered, her voice distant.

He didn’t answer, but his heart clenched at the sound of her voice. It wasn’t the frantic shouting from earlier, the panic that had kept her moving. This was softer. Something that barely made it past the storm of emotions they had both been battling.

“Do you think we can stop it?” She asked, her eyes narrowing toward the mountains, as if expecting an answer from the jagged peaks themselves. “Stop what’s coming?”

Devon didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he thought of the tsunami crashing over everything they had ever known—the homes, the streets, the faces of strangers he could never save. He thought of their mother, gone before they had a chance to understand her, before they could fix the space she had left behind. And now, here they were—two kids still fighting for something that felt as unreachable as the safety that seemed so distant.

The weight of the question hung in the air, a slow-moving poison.

“No,” he finally said. His voice was quiet, but there was a sense of finality to it. It wasn’t just the tsunami anymore. It was everything. The past. The guilt. The anger. The memories of long-forgotten moments he could never take back.

“We can’t stop it,” he repeated, this time to himself more than to Simone. “What’s happening... it's too big. Too much.”

Simone let out a shaky breath, like the air itself had finally escaped her. For a long time, she didn’t say anything. The silence between them stretched like a taut rope, the tension so thick it could snap at any second.

“I didn’t want to be like her, you know,” Simone muttered suddenly, her voice soft and almost lost in the roar of the engine. “I didn’t want to leave. But then, I didn’t know how to stay either. She left. And I just—” Her voice broke, and for the first time, Devon saw it. The crack in her armor. He didn’t speak, but the words sat heavy in the car. Simone swallowed, her gaze shifting down to her lap. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to stay when there was nothing left.”

Her words hit him like a shockwave. For so long, he had carried his own guilt, thinking of how their mother’s departure had left them both in pieces. He had always believed it was his fault somehow. That if he’d been better—more of a man, more dependable—maybe she wouldn’t have left. But hearing Simone’s voice tremble, hearing the hurt in her words, cracked something deep inside of him.

“I didn’t know how to stay either,” Devon whispered, his voice raw. The weight of everything they had lived through together seemed to collapse around them. Their mother’s absence, the broken promises, the quiet fights. All of it. It wasn’t just that she had left them. It was the things that were left unsaid, the things that Devon never realized he had carried. He had stayed, yes, but he had never known how to stay.

Simone let out a deep breath, her shoulders slumping as if some invisible weight had lifted. “We’re not going to fix anything, are we?”

The question wasn’t meant to be answered. It was the acceptance hanging between them, like the end of a road. There was no point in pretending anymore, no point in holding on to something that couldn’t be saved.

The car kept moving forward, the tires screeching slightly as they navigated a winding road that curved sharply upward into the mountains. The distant rumble of the wave seemed to fade with every passing second, swallowed by the heavy sound of their own thoughts.

Devon’s eyes stayed focused on the road, but inside, his mind was racing. Simone’s words kept echoing through him. We’re not going to fix anything. He had thought that he could, once upon a time—fix their broken pieces, hold everything together. But now, it felt like the only thing he had control over was the next second, the next breath. And that wasn’t much.

As the car finally crested the ridge, they could see it—the full devastation of the coast behind them. In the distance, a smudge of white foam crashed against the dark silhouette of a city. The black water stretched out into the horizon, a monstrous wall of destruction that could have swallowed the world whole.

Simone shifted in her seat, her gaze distant but not as cold as it had been. “Do you think they’re all gone?”

Devon took a long breath, trying to steady his pulse. “I don’t know. But it’s over. We can’t fix it. Not anymore.”

The truth hung there, suspended in the air, as heavy as the mountains approaching around them. They had always believed they could fix the world—fix their lives, fix each other. But now, in the face of this incomprehensible destruction, they understood something deeper. Maybe that was the hardest thing to accept—that sometimes, the world just happens, and there’s no fixing it.

The silence stretched between them again. But this time, it didn’t feel heavy with blame. It felt like acceptance.

They kept driving, leaving behind the destruction. Not because they thought they could outrun it, but because it was the only thing left they could do.

They didn’t look back again.

Not for the cities. Not for the people. Not even for the shattered remnants of their own pasts.

The only thing left was the road ahead.

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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.

Lupus by Olivia Salter / Poem

Lupus

By Olivia Salter

It starts with a twinge, a creeping ache,
A war inside you that won’t break.
Your body, your own, turns on its kin,
A quiet storm that rages within.

They call it the wolf, but it doesn’t howl—

It creeps, it gnaws, it stalks, it prowls.

No scars to trace, no wounds to find,
Just battles waged in flesh and mind.

The butterfly blooms on fragile skin,
A mark of beauty and ache within.
It whispers softly, “This is your fight,”
A fleeting glow in the endless night.

Some mornings feel like a heavy chain,
Each joint a knot, each step a strain.
You swallow the pills, their bitter trace,
A quiet hope in a weary space.

“They say you look fine,” but they can’t see,
The pain that’s locked where no one can be.
You fake a smile, deflect their care,
But the wolf is there, it’s everywhere.

Doctors talk in measured tones,
Their answers vague, their charts unknown.
You wait, you nod, you play the game,
But the wolf still prowls—it’s never tame.

It’s not just the pain; it’s what it steals,
The stolen time, the life it repeals.
The dreams delayed, the plans undone,
The moments lost before they’ve begun.

Loneliness cuts like a jagged blade,
A sharp reminder of what’s been frayed.
But then you find others who know this fight,
Who share their strength, their flickering light.

Some days, the wolf will pull you low,
Its shadow dark where hope won’t grow.
But even in darkness, there’s still a spark,
A stubborn flame that defies the dark.

You learn to cherish what the wolf can’t take—
A laugh, a walk, a moment to wake.
These little victories, small but true,
Become the strength that carries you.

It’s not fair, it’s not right, it’s never clear,
Why some endure year after year.
But still you rise, despite the cost,
To claim the life the wolf thought lost.

Some days you cry, some days you rage,
A battle fought in a wordless cage.
But even in tears, you still remain,
A quiet force against the pain.

The wolf is fierce, but so are you,
You learn to fight with what you do.
Through grit and grace, you find a way,
To turn the dark into your day.

This is for those who carry the weight,
Who rise each morning to face their fate.
Your fight, your fire, your quiet might,
Outshine the wolf with endless light.

The wolf may prowl, but it cannot claim,
The spirit burning in your name.
For every battle, every tear,
You’re proof that hope can persevere.

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.