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All The World Will Be Your Enemy 4: Dinner at 3B

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Beverly paused at the threshold of Angele and Joanna’s abode, her hand gripping the neck of a bottle of rich, ruby-hued wine. Even though she was in the hallway, the evening air was crisp with the first whispers of autumn, alive with a symphony of muted laughter, soft music, and the tantalizing scent of garlic mingling with fragrant herbs. The combination stirred something deep within her—a mix of longing and quiet trepidation.

She raised her free hand and knocked gently. Before she could withdraw, the door creaked open, revealing Joanna framed in the golden glow of the apartment. She was bohemian elegance personified, her flowing dress a cascade of colors that seemed to shift as she moved, her blonde hair catching the light like a halo.

“Beverly, welcome! Come in!” Joanna’s voice was a warm, lilting invitation, disarming in its sincerity.

As Beverly crossed the threshold, the world outside fell away, replaced by a cocoon of color, light, and quiet vibrancy. The walls of the apartment were painted a deep burgundy, the color rich enough to drink. The eclectic furniture—worn but comfortable—was a curated mix of eras, and the room was dotted with treasures that hinted at far-off places and lives fully lived.

Emerging from the kitchen, Angele appeared, wiping her hands on a floral apron that clashed endearingly with her effortlessly stylish attire. Her auburn curls were pinned haphazardly, a few rebellious strands falling into her eyes as she smiled. “Just in time,” she said, her voice low and welcoming. “Hope you’re hungry. Have we got a feast planned.”

Beverly offered the wine, suddenly unsure if it was appropriate for the occasion. Joanna reached out, taking the bottle with both hands like it was a gift of great importance. “Perfect,” she said with an approving nod. “This will pair beautifully. We’ll let it breathe. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Left momentarily alone, Beverly wandered the living room, drawn in by the space’s layered warmth. The air carried faint hints of lavender and beeswax, mingling with the spices from the kitchen. A faint hum of jazz—Ella Fitzgerald’s honeyed tones—wrapped itself around the room.

Her eyes landed on a large painting hung slightly off-center above the sofa. It was a riot of color and emotion, with abstract forms that hinted at storm clouds and restless seas. Shapes emerged as she studied it longer—wing-like curves, eyes staring from the chaos, and a suggestion of a figure walking away from a burning horizon. It whispered secrets she couldn’t quite grasp, yet the yearning to try was irresistible.

Nearby, a bookshelf stretched from floor to ceiling, its mismatched collection of books a testament to the eclectic minds that inhabited this space. Titles in foreign languages nestled alongside volumes on mythology, philosophy, and obscure histories. A dog-eared novel lay open on the coffee table, a cup of tea cooling beside it.

The clatter of dishes and the soft murmur of voices lured Beverly toward the kitchen. From the archway, she observed Angele and Joanna moving in unspoken harmony. Angele handed Joanna a bowl of something steaming, their hands brushing for a fraction longer than necessary. Joanna’s laugh—soft and genuine—filled the room.

They were a study in contrasts: Angele’s movements were deliberate and grounded, while Joanna glided as though her feet barely touched the ground. Yet together, they fit seamlessly, like two notes of a perfect chord.

Feeling like an intruder, Beverly turned her gaze to the dining area. The table was an artistic jumble of mismatched china, brass candlesticks dripping wax, and fresh sprigs of rosemary arranged in small glasses. The candles cast a soft, flickering glow that blurred the edges of the room, making it feel both intimate and otherworldly.

“Dinner’s ready!” Joanna’s voice broke the spell, and Beverly found herself seated at the table before she fully realized she’d moved.

The meal was a symphony of flavors: tender roasted chicken glazed with lemon and thyme, caramelized root vegetables, and a salad of figs, walnuts, and goat cheese. Angele and Joanna shared the stories behind each dish—recipes passed down, modified, or discovered during their travels.

The wine flowed as easily as the conversation. Beverly listened more than she spoke, her focus on the way they filled the room with their stories. Angele recounted their misadventures in a French countryside chateau, while Joanna described wandering through bazaars in Morocco. Their words painted vivid scenes, and Beverly felt as if she were traveling alongside them, tasting the dust of distant roads and hearing the laughter of strangers in faraway places.

As the meal wound down, the conversation took on a quieter, more reflective tone. “There’s something about sharing a meal,” Joanna mused, her chin resting in her hand. “It’s like inviting someone into your story.”

“Or writing a new one together,” Angele added, her gaze lingering on Beverly with an intensity that made her feel exposed and seen all at once.

When it was time to leave, Beverly found herself reluctant to step back into reality. Angele pressed the corked remainder of a wine bottle the pair had picked up from some uncharted island into her hands, Beverly felt as though she were carrying more than just a gift; she carried a piece of the evening, fragile and precious.

Exiting their apartment, Beverly paused briefly in the dimly lit hallway, the warmth of their laughter still echoing in her mind. The painting’s swirling colors and their enigmatic smiles lingered like a melody she couldn’t quite place. Something about the evening had tugged loose a thread in the carefully woven fabric of her reality.

Crossing the few steps to her own door, she glanced at the stars visible through a distant window. They seemed to burn brighter, or perhaps it was the wine still coursing through her veins. Either way, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this night had been the first chapter of a story far greater than herself.

Not. The. End.

Thirsty

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

John sat alone in the living room, the flicker of the television casting dull shadows across the walls. His wife, Leah, was away visiting her sister, leaving him alone in the house for the weekend. He switched off the TV, tired of the canned laughter and predictable punchlines, and the sudden silence made the house feel heavier. The only sound now was the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, a faint pulse in the stillness.

The fog outside pressed against the windows, dense and unyielding. It blurred the world into shapeless gray, swallowing everything beyond his yard. John stared into the haze, uneasy. It wasn’t the first foggy night he’d seen, but something about this one felt wrong—too thick, too quiet, like it wasn’t just obscuring the world but erasing it.

He poured himself a drink, savoring the quiet. The fog outside had swallowed the neighborhood in an impenetrable gray, and through the window, John could barely make out the shape of his mailbox. He wasn’t a paranoid man, but the fog unnerved him. It distorted the world, made everything seem closer than it should be.

He poured himself a drink, the clink of the ice against the glass sharp in the quiet. Then came the knock.

It wasn’t the polite rapping of a visitor, but a frantic pounding—desperate, erratic. John tensed, his fingers tightening around the glass. He listened, unsure if he had imagined it. But then it came again, harder this time.

“Please!” a voice cried out, muffled by the thick front door. “Please, help me! I’m thirsty. Please, let me in!”

John stood up, his heartbeat quickening. He walked toward the door but stopped a few feet away, unsure. The voice was that of a woman, her tone laced with a raw edge of panic. He peered through the peephole.

A woman stood on his front porch, her appearance so disheveled it sent a ripple of discomfort down his spine. Her long, tangled hair clung to her face, strands matted with dirt. She wore a filthy, ragged dress, caked in grime, her bare feet blackened from what looked like a long, brutal journey. She kept slapping the door with her palm, as if she didn’t have the strength to knock properly.

“Please, let me in!” she shouted, her voice cracking. “I’m so thirsty!”

John’s throat tightened. His first instinct was to open the door, but something in the pit of his stomach held him back. The way she looked, the frantic energy that radiated from her… it felt wrong.

“I-I’ll get you something,” he called through the door. “Stay there.”

He retreated to the kitchen, opening the fridge to grab a bottle of water. His fingers shook as he closed the fridge door. There was a strange weight in the air, like the fog outside was seeping through the walls. His instincts screamed at him to stay away from the door, but guilt gnawed at him—what if she was really in trouble? What if she just needed help?

When he returned to the foyer, everything was quiet. No more pounding, no cries of desperation. Just silence. John cautiously approached the door, the bottle in hand.

He stopped.

The woman was no longer outside.

A chill crawled up his spine, every hair on his body standing on end. His eyes darted around the room, his heart pounding in his ears. Slowly, he turned—and froze.

She was inside.

Standing in the living room, not more than ten feet from him, staring directly into his eyes.

“How…?” The words died in his throat. His legs felt rooted to the floor.

She smiled faintly, her cracked lips pulling back to reveal yellowed teeth. There was a strange calmness in her now, a slow, deliberate energy. The desperate woman from the porch had vanished, replaced by something colder, more focused.

“You’re kind,” she said softly, her voice brittle like dry leaves. “Thank you for the water.”

John watched, dumbfounded, as she stepped forward and plucked the water bottle from his trembling hands. But she didn’t drink it. Instead, she twisted off the cap and poured a small amount into her filthy palm, rubbing the water over her skin, washing away the caked dirt in slow, deliberate strokes. The streaks of grime thinned, but underneath her skin looked raw, almost bruised.

She took another swig of water—this time, not to drink. She swished it in her mouth and spat it out onto the floor, her eyes locked on his. “Thank you,” she repeated, her voice empty, hollow, devoid of real gratitude. “I needed that.”

John stumbled backward, his heart racing, but she took a slow step forward, closing the gap between them. Her movements were smooth now, unnaturally smooth, like she had shed her earlier desperation.

“What do you want?” he asked, panic rising in his voice.

She tilted her head, her hair falling to one side like a broken marionette. “Why are you afraid?” she asked, her tone dripping with mock innocence. “You’re safe in your home, aren’t you? And all I wanted… was a little kindness.”

“I’ll call the police,” John warned, his voice shaking.

Her eyes narrowed, but her smile widened. “Go ahead. I won’t stop you.” She moved closer, and the sharp tang of soil and rot hit his nostrils. “But you won’t make it, John. You know that, don’t you?”

“How do you know my name?” He hadn’t told her—he hadn’t spoken his name aloud. A lump of terror lodged in his throat.

She chuckled, low and soft. “I’ve known you for longer than you think.” She glanced down at the water bottle, now nearly empty in her hands. “You’ve been so generous. But this… this isn’t what I need.”

John felt the walls closing in, his vision narrowing. The air in the room seemed to grow heavier, thicker. The woman’s smile faded, replaced by a look of hunger so intense it made his skin crawl.

“I’m still thirsty,” she whispered, her voice now barely a breath.

John bolted for the back door, his body finally responding to the surge of adrenaline. He fumbled with the lock, the handle slick in his grip, and it felt like an eternity before it gave way. He burst outside, the fog swallowing him whole.

The porch light barely pierced the haze. The ground beneath him was damp and spongy, like it wasn’t solid anymore. But he couldn’t stop. He had to keep moving. Shapes were approaching in the mist, vague and shifting, and the air buzzed with whispers just out of reach.

“John,” her voice called, soft and mocking. “You can’t run. You know that, don’t you?”

He spun around, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but the house was gone—only fog surrounded him now. The whispers grew louder, overlapping, a chorus of hungry voices. Shadows closed in, their forms just beyond comprehension, and the cold grip of something unseen brushed against his skin.

He stumbled, his knees giving out. As he fell, the fog thickened, pressing into his lungs, his veins, his mind. And through the suffocating gray, her voice drifted close, a final whisper in his ear:

“You’ll always be thirsty, John. Just like me.”

The last thing he saw was her smile, wide and empty, as the fog consumed him.

All The World Will Be Your Enemy 3: An Unexpected Visit

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Beverly was just beginning to immerse herself in the familiar rhythm of her writing routine when an unexpected knock echoed through the quiet sanctuary of her home, derailing her train of thought. The sound, sharp and out of place, pulled her from the warm cocoon of her creativity. She cast a puzzled glance at the clock, its hands indicating an hour not typically reserved for visitors. Outside, twilight draped the world in a dusky blue hue, the faint glow of streetlights just starting to flicker alive.

Intrigued and unexpectant, she floated to the door, her curiosity piqued like the crescendo of a long-forgotten melody. Peering through the peephole, Beverly’s eyes widened in surprise at the sight of Angele and Joanna, their figures framed by the evening’s fading light. Angele’s curly auburn hair caught the last traces of the sun, while Joanna, slightly shorter, stood with an air of quiet confidence. Each held an offering—a bottle of wine and a book—like modern-day muses of inspiration and camaraderie.

Opening the door, Beverly’s lips curved into a quizzical smile, her voice tinged with warmth and surprise. “Hey there, neighbors. What brings you by?”

Angele, with the grace of a dancer, held up the book—a token from Beverly’s own realm of supernatural thrills, a piece of her soul bound in ink and paper. “We hope you don’t mind us dropping in unannounced,” Angele began, her voice a melody of excitement and admiration, “but we just finished reading this and had to tell you how much we loved it!”

Joanna’s agreement was a symphony of enthusiasm. “We found it at the used bookstore downtown. We had no idea you were a published author, Beverly. Your writing is incredible!” Her wide smile softened the otherwise sharp lines of her face, her dark eyes shimmering with sincerity.

A wave of pleasure, warm and vibrant, washed over Beverly, coloring her cheeks with the hue of modest pride. It had been ages since she had encountered souls who had wandered the paths she had created within her pages. “Thank you, that means a lot. Please, come in.”

Guiding them into the living room—a cozy haven of creativity and comfort—Beverly gestured toward the plush couch and armchairs. The scent of vanilla lingered faintly in the air from a candle she had extinguished earlier. A bookshelf stood as the room’s centerpiece, crammed with novels, notebooks, and framed photos that hinted at a life rich with stories.

Angele and Joanna transformed the space into a salon of sorts, with the wine and book now centerpieces on the coffee table. Angele grinned, her energy infectious. “We thought we could celebrate your literary prowess with a little impromptu wine and cheese night.”

Beverly hesitated for a moment, her gaze flicking to her silent laptop, a sentinel of her solitary craft. Yet the allure of shared laughter and discourse, of human connection woven through the appreciation of her art, beckoned her to embrace the spontaneous. “Let me just grab some glasses and a cheese board,” she conceded with a burgeoning smile, her heart lightened by the prospect of shared moments.

As they nestled into the evening, the room came alive with the clinking of glasses and the soft laughter that dances between newfound friends. The wine, a smooth red with earthy undertones, mingled with the sharp tang of aged cheddar and the creamy richness of brie. Beverly marveled at how easily conversation flowed, like an old song rediscovered.

Angele and Joanna dove deep into Beverly’s narrative sea, their insights surfacing hidden treasures and depths even Beverly hadn’t consciously navigated. Joanna, with the contemplation of a philosopher, admired the seamless fusion of the supernatural with the intricate psychology of the characters. “It’s like your story pulls back the veil, revealing the shimmering unknown that dances at the edges of our reality,” she mused, her fingers tracing the book’s worn spine.

Angele’s curiosity shimmered as she leaned forward, her wine glass cradled delicately in her hand. “How did you come up with the idea for these creatures? They feel so real, as if you’ve glimpsed them somewhere and brought them back to us.”

Beverly, her imagination kindled by their curiosity, shared her fascination with realms that lay just beyond the veil of understanding. Her words carried a spark of excitement, her creative spirit a bridge to the unfathomable.

Yet, within the flow of conversation, a subtle current of mystery ebbed between Angele and Joanna. Shared glances and unfinished sentences hinted at secrets cradled close to their hearts. Once, Beverly caught Angele hesitating mid-sentence, her gaze darting to Joanna as if seeking permission to continue, only to change the subject with a laugh. Another time, Joanna adjusted her scarf nervously, her fingers brushing against a small, faintly glowing pendant at her neck.

As the evening wove its way into the tapestry of night, Beverly found herself magnetized by her enigmatic guests. They spoke of stories as if they were keys to unlocking the doors between worlds, their insights painting the mundane with strokes of the miraculous. She felt the pull of their presence, a whisper of adventure tinged with the extraordinary.

When they finally departed, leaving behind a trail of inspiration and empty wine glasses, Beverly stood at the window, watching their figures retreat into the shadows of the street. For a moment, as they passed beneath the flickering streetlight, she thought she saw a shimmer, like moonlight dancing on water, but when she blinked, it was gone.

Returning to her laptop, Beverly found her soul aflame with stories yearning to be told, her craft infused with a newfound vigor. Watching Angele and Joanna disappear into the night, she marveled at the serendipity of their visit. They were as if conjured from her own imaginings—mysterious, enigmatic, bearing secrets that whispered of adventures yet to unfold.

In their departure, Beverly sensed the opening of a door, leading her into realms of inspiration where reality and fantasy entwine, promising the birth of tales as enchanting and profound as the night’s unexpected visitors.

Not. The. End.

The Weight of Shadows

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

A cold sliver of morning light slipped through the heavy curtains of Abigail’s apartment. She hadn’t left in months. The world outside had become a distant memory—a place of hurt, rejection, and suffocating expectations. Inside, her world was quiet, the boundaries drawn by the walls of her small apartment and her mind’s slow unraveling.

Abigail’s days blended together in a gentle haze. She read books, watched the sun crawl across the floor, and sometimes let herself wander through memories of a time when she was not so alone. She lived through the screens of her laptop, venturing into the virtual world only when necessary. No visitors. No conversations. She had even stopped answering her phone.

The isolation felt comforting, like a heavy blanket she could pull over her head to block out the world. But it was not without its costs. There were days when the silence was deafening. Nights when her thoughts twisted into dark corners, wrestling with the deep sense of loss she hadn’t dared name.

It started subtly, this fixation with the shadow. One afternoon, as she sat in her usual place on the floor by the window, she noticed the way the light caught her figure, casting her silhouette on the pale wall. At first, it was just an outline, a companion in the stillness of the apartment. But the more she looked, the more she began to notice details—the way the curves of her body played out on the wall, the sharp angles of her elbows, the delicate contour of her face.

Abigail had never thought of herself as beautiful. She had always been practical, focused, indifferent to her appearance. But the shadow, her shadow, felt different. It was more than an extension of her; it was a presence, a quiet reflection of a self she hadn’t explored.

Over the next few days, she found herself watching it more often. In the morning, the soft light would stretch it long and elegant. In the evening, when the light dimmed, it would grow sharper, more defined, almost bold. She started talking to it—at first just absentmindedly, then with a growing intensity, as if it could answer back.

She would trace its outline with her fingers, feeling a strange warmth spread through her at the thought of her hand brushing against this shadow-self. There was a comfort in it, a growing sense of intimacy. In its silent form, it listened to her, reflected her, became her.

One night, lying awake, Abigail felt a strange ache in her chest. It was a sensation she hadn’t felt in years—desire. She didn’t recognize it at first, dismissing it as a fleeting moment of loneliness. But the more she tried to push it away, the more it grew. She couldn’t stop thinking about the shadow, the way it moved in rhythm with her, the way it felt close, familiar, yet untouchable.

But how could she desire something that wasn’t real? How could she long for a shadow?

The days became a blur of confusion and yearning. She started spending more time by the window, letting the light play on her skin, watching as her shadow danced along the walls. Sometimes, when she moved, it seemed as though the shadow moved independently, stretching towards her, beckoning her closer.

And then one day, something changed.

The shadow didn’t just move with her—it shifted, morphing slightly as the light bent in a peculiar way. Abigail blinked, unsure if what she was seeing was real or a figment of her imagination, but there it was: the shadow had taken on a new form. A figure, still her silhouette, but different, softer—feminine, undeniably female.

Her breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t just her shadow anymore. It was another. A reflection of something she hadn’t yet faced. She reached out, tentatively, letting her fingers trace the shape of this new form. There was something in the way the light held it, in the way it seemed to curve toward her. The sensation was electric, a quiet thrill that made her heart race.

The attraction was undeniable. But it was more than physical. It was a longing for something unspoken, something she had buried for so long that she hadn’t realized it still existed. The shadow, this female figure, was the embodiment of her unacknowledged desire, the reflection of a love she had been too afraid to explore in the outside world.

Abigail had always known, deep down, that she was different. As a child, she had dismissed her feelings toward other girls as a phase. As an adult, she had pushed herself into relationships with men, hoping they would fill the void. But they never had. And now, alone in her apartment, shut off from the world, she had found something real, something that pulled her toward a truth she couldn’t ignore.

The realization came slowly, but with it came clarity. She wasn’t falling in love with a shadow. She was falling in love with herself, or rather, with the parts of herself she had suppressed for so long. The attraction she felt wasn’t for an imagined figure on the wall, but for the woman she had always been.

In the weeks that followed, Abigail’s relationship with her shadow deepened, but so did her understanding of herself. The shadow, once a reflection of her isolation, had become a mirror for her soul. It was a love story, yes, but one that transcended the boundaries of flesh and light. It was a story of self-discovery, of acceptance, of awakening.

And as the days grew longer and the light in her apartment changed with the seasons, Abigail found herself ready to step back into the world. Not because she had found someone else, but because she had found herself. And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.

All The World Will Be Your Enemy 2: Coffee And Conversation

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The words refused to come. Beverly sat before the glaring beacon of a blank document on her laptop screen. The cursor blinked back at her, a rhythmic pulse that seemed to mock her. Each flash was a reminder of every untapped idea that refused to spill onto the page. The novel she had been nurturing for months now seemed to wither in the drought of inspiration.

With a sigh heavy with unspoken stories, she closed her laptop, her fingers brushing over the smooth surface like a farewell. Her gaze wandered to the soft morning light filtering through the sheer curtains of her living room, and her heart whispered for a change of scenery—a breath of life outside the confines of her condo, a place where words might find her again.

The Coffee Nook beckoned just a block away from Willow Creek, a sanctuary of warmth and nostalgia. She had fallen in love with its vintage charm: the mismatched armchairs that bore the imprints of countless visitors, the wooden tables scarred with the histories of conversations long past, and the intoxicating aroma of freshly roasted coffee beans that lingered like an old, familiar friend. It was her refuge, her muse.

Stepping inside, Beverly was greeted by the soft hum of activity—the hiss of the espresso machine, the muted chatter of patrons, and the occasional clink of ceramic mugs meeting saucers. The air was thick with the scents of cinnamon, cocoa, and the faint musk of aged wood. She smiled at the barista, a lanky young man with a friendly grin, as she queued for her usual: a cappuccino with an extra dusting of cocoa and a warm blueberry scone that promised comfort in every bite.

As she waited, a flicker of familiarity caught her eye. Her new neighbors, Angele and Joanna, sat in a cozy corner, their heads bent together in what appeared to be an intense yet animated conversation. Their presence added an unexpected note to the symphony of her morning—a curiosity she couldn’t quite place.

Angele’s golden hair shimmered in the muted sunlight streaming through the window, her laughter a soft, bell-like sound that floated above the ambient noise. Joanna, with her cropped dark hair and expressive emerald eyes, leaned closer to whisper something that made them both smile conspiratorially.

It was Angele who noticed Beverly first. Her face brightened with recognition, and she lifted a hand in a graceful wave. “Hey there, neighbor!” she called out, her voice carrying easily across the space.

Caught off guard but pleasantly so, Beverly returned the wave, her cheeks warming. With her cappuccino in one hand and her scone balanced precariously on a saucer in the other, she approached their table.

“Mind if I join you?” Beverly asked, her voice tentative but hopeful.

“Of course not!” Angele’s smile widened, and she gestured to an empty chair. Joanna nodded in agreement, her smile a touch more reserved but no less welcoming.

Settling into the chair, Beverly found herself enveloped by their warmth. The scent of Angele’s floral perfume mingled with Joanna’s faint trace of citrus, a sensory marker of their vibrant yet distinct personalities.

“We keep running into each other, don’t we?” Joanna said, her tone light with a hint of amusement.

“Seems like fate,” Beverly replied, smiling as she stirred her cappuccino.

Conversation flowed as effortlessly as the coffee in their cups. Beverly learned that her neighbors had only just begun unpacking the chaos of their move. Angele joked about the “monumental task” of organizing their shared library, while Joanna teased her about hoarding travel guides from places they might never visit again.

When the spotlight shifted to Beverly, she hesitated, then confessed her struggles with writer’s block. “The Coffee Nook has always been my go-to spot when I need to shake things loose,” she said, her fingers tracing absent patterns on the rim of her cup.

“A writer!” Angele’s eyes lit up. “What kind of stories do you write?”

“Mostly fiction,” Beverly replied. “I like to explore the small, quiet moments in life and how they connect to bigger truths. Lately, though, the words just… aren’t coming.”

“Maybe you’re waiting for the right spark,” Joanna said, her gaze steady and thoughtful. “Sometimes inspiration finds you in the most unexpected places.”

Beverly nodded, taking in the quiet wisdom of Joanna’s words.

The conversation meandered into their travels. Angele spoke with sweeping gestures of places Beverly could only dream of—deserts under endless skies, ancient cities whispering secrets through cobblestones, and forests alive with colors that defied the imagination. Joanna, in contrast, offered fewer details, her stories hinted at rather than told, as though guarding something too precious or too perilous to reveal.

“Maybe you’ll write about us one day,” Angele said, her smile playful yet strangely pointed.

“Maybe,” Beverly replied, feeling the tug of intrigue once more.

As the morning stretched on, Beverly found herself drawn deeper into the orbit of her new neighbors. Angele’s openhearted charm and Joanna’s quiet intensity were magnetic, and their stories—half-told and half-hidden—seemed to promise not just friendship but a world of inspiration waiting to unfold.

By the time they parted ways, Beverly’s heart was lighter, her mind alight with possibilities. In the warmth of The Coffee Nook, amid conversations laced with the ordinary and extraordinary, she felt the first stirrings of a spark. Perhaps Angele and Joanna were the key to unlocking not just the next chapter of her novel but something far greater—a story that hadn’t yet revealed itself.

Not. The. End.

Ghost Biker (Non-Bizarro Fiction Version)

Posted by Madd_Fictional on
silhouette-of-cyclist

The first time Samantha Lancaster saw the Ghost Biker, she was on her way home from Sarah Kawazu’s funeral.

The streets felt heavier that night, the air soaked with rain and regret. Her best friend, gone—crushed by a delivery truck on a road the city promised to make safer years ago. Samantha couldn’t stop replaying Sarah’s last message: “There’s something you need to see. Meet me tomorrow. It’s important.”

She never made it.

Now, cycling through the same streets that had stolen her friend, Samantha noticed how dark the bike lanes were, how jagged the pavement felt beneath her tires. At the corner of 11th and Pine—the crash site—she stopped. Her breath came in sharp bursts, the sting of loss catching in her throat.

That’s when she saw it.

A white bicycle. Ghostly pale, luminous under the hazy streetlights. It moved silently through the rain, slicing between shadows like a blade. Samantha froze. There was no rider. Or maybe there was—a figure blurred by the downpour, indistinct, almost spectral.

She blinked, and it was gone.

The next morning, Samantha’s editor tossed a stack of papers onto her desk. “Cycling deaths are spiking. Think you can spin it into something that sells?”

Her hands trembled as she flipped through the reports—accidents, injuries, fatalities. A dozen faces stared back at her from grainy photos, lives snuffed out in the blink of an eye. And all of them, according to witnesses, had seen the same thing: a white bicycle.

The Ghost Biker.

Whispers of the figure had been circulating for years—an urban legend, a warning to cyclists and drivers alike. But Samantha wasn’t chasing a ghost. She was chasing answers.

And Sarah’s death had made it personal.

Samantha’s investigation led her to the underbelly of the city’s cycling community—a tight-knit, scrappy network of messengers, advocates, and late-night riders who saw the Ghost Biker as both savior and curse.

“He’s a vigilante,” one cyclist told her, his voice tinged with reverence. “Keeps people on edge. Makes them careful.”

“He’s a murderer,” another countered, showing her the scars on his leg. “Chased me into oncoming traffic. I barely got out alive.”

The deeper Samantha dug, the more contradictions she found. The Ghost Biker didn’t fit neatly into any box—hero or villain, real or supernatural. But one name kept surfacing: Alex Stone.

A cycling advocate, Stone had died five years ago in a horrific crash. The city had blamed him for running a red light. His friends claimed otherwise: a faulty intersection design, ignored safety warnings, blood on the city’s hands. His death had sparked protests and reforms.

Reforms that never came.

One night, Samantha followed the rumors to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, where she found a makeshift memorial: a white bicycle mounted on a pedestal, surrounded by candles and photos of fallen cyclists.

“It’s not him, you know.”

The voice startled her. She turned to see an older man leaning against the wall, his face weathered, his eyes sharp. “Alex,” he continued. “The Ghost Biker. It’s not him. People just want to believe it is.”

“Who is it, then?”

The man shrugged. “Maybe it’s no one. Maybe it’s everyone.”

Samantha frowned. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one that matters.” He gestured to the memorial. “You think this city cares about us? About them? They’ll let us die until someone forces them to pay attention. That’s what the Ghost Biker is—attention.”

“By scaring people? By causing crashes?”

The man’s expression hardened. “By making them see the blood on their hands.”

The final confrontation came on a foggy stretch of road just before dawn. Samantha, camera strapped to her chest, pedaled furiously after the Ghost Biker, who weaved through traffic with an ease that defied logic.

She pushed harder, her lungs burning, until the fog swallowed them both. When it cleared, the white bicycle was waiting at the end of the road, its rider dismounting slowly.

“You’re chasing the wrong story,” the figure said, removing their helmet to reveal a woman—grizzled, defiant, her face lined with grief and fury.

“Who are you?” Samantha demanded.

“A warning.”

The woman stepped closer, her voice low and venomous. “Every crash you write about, every life lost, it’s because this city let us down. I ride because someone has to remind them. You want the truth? Write that. But don’t call me a killer.”

Samantha’s hands shook as she aimed her camera, capturing the woman’s face, the battered white bicycle, the bloodstained pavement beneath their feet.

The article broke the city open.

“Ghost Biker Unmasked: The Fight for Safer Streets” became a rallying cry. Protests erupted, cyclists taking to the streets in droves, demanding accountability.

But the Ghost Biker vanished.

Samantha couldn’t decide if she felt relief or regret. She kept cycling, though—through rain and fog, past memorials and freshly painted bike lanes. And sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, she thought she saw a pale figure in the distance.

Watching.

Waiting.

Because the fight wasn’t over.

Author’s Note: This story is a reimagining of an earlier version (found here: https://maddfictional.com/2024/09/16/ghost-biker/). While the first version experimented with absurdist and surreal elements, this new telling takes a more traditional approach. Though I deeply appreciate bizarro fiction as a genre, I felt I could better serve this particular piece through conventional storytelling techniques.

Let’s Talk About “My Surfer Scientist Secret Wife” – MaddFic Deep Dive Novel Podcast

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Get your copy here: https://amzn.to/4gI31jF

Two highly professional and well-established podcasters, Donna Talmadge and Ross Tamecko, take a deep dive into my latest novel, “My Surfer Scientist Secret Wife.”

Description: When perfectionist pastry chef Ira Sea agrees to a marriage of convenience with NixonNina—a daring surfer with a penchant for secrets—his life takes a surreal turn. NixonNina isn’t just a thrill-seeker; she’s an undercover scientist on a mission tied to a mysterious rift in reality.

As the Sea & Sugar bakery becomes a hub for otherworldly phenomena, customers claim the pastries reveal glimpses of alternate dimensions, rival bakers launch sabotage campaigns, and interdimensional chaos brews just beyond their small coastal town.

Together, Ira and NixonNina must unravel the secrets of the rift, outwit shadowy figures intent on its exploitation, and perfect a croquembouche that might just save reality itself.

Quirky, thrilling, and irresistibly heartwarming, “My Surfer Scientist Secret Wife” is a genre-bending tale of love, adventure, and embracing the beauty of imperfection. Perfect for fans of romance, supernatural suspense, and absurd adventures with a touch of pastry magic.

All The World Will Be Your Enemy 1: New Neighbors

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Beverly Anderson had grown accustomed to the solitude that gently wrapped around her life like a well-loved shawl. At 35, she had woven comfort into the quiet routines that painted her days in the quaint embrace of Willow Creek Condos. Her mornings blossomed with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee on the balcony, swathed in the tender caress of the early sun. Evenings unfolded like a sacred ritual, her body moving in harmony with the shadows on her living room floor during yoga, her spirit aligning with the tranquil symphony of twilight. Nights were a silent communion with the souls entwined in the pages of a good book, each story a whisper in the vast expanse of her quiet world.

But change, with its unpredictable heart, was drifting toward Willow Creek, heralded by the arrival of new neighbors.

Beverly first caught sight of the moving van on a radiant Saturday morning, its rumbling engine breaking the tranquil rhythm of her weekend. From her balcony—her sanctuary—she observed the scene below. The movers moved like ants in orchestrated chaos, hefting boxes and furniture, the occasional sharp clang of metal against pavement punctuating the crisp autumn air. She tightened her cardigan around her shoulders against a slight breeze as her gaze zeroed in on the duo standing amid the bustling scene.

They were an arresting pair, as if plucked from the pages of a novel too peculiar to shelve neatly into any genre. One was ethereal, tall and willowy, her long blonde hair cascading in a golden waterfall that seemed to drink in the sunlight. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as though she existed on a wavelength apart from the frenetic energy of the movers. The other was her foil: petite and vivid, a storm compacted into a human frame. Her dark pixie-cut framed sharp, mischievous green eyes that darted about with an intensity that made Beverly wonder if she was taking notes on every detail of her surroundings.

As if some invisible thread connected them, the petite woman’s eyes suddenly snapped upward, locking onto Beverly’s. The contact was startling, as though a spotlight had been swung her way. The woman’s lips quirked into a sly grin, and she leaned toward her taller companion, nudging her with an elbow and tilting her head toward Beverly’s perch.

Beverly froze, her coffee mug paused halfway to her lips. Caught in her unintentional voyeurism, she scrambled for a response, raising a hand in a small, awkward wave. It felt inadequate—an anticlimax to the electric charge of the moment.

The blonde looked up as well, her smile warm and bright, smoothing away any potential awkwardness. Her voice carried easily across the courtyard, light yet commanding. “Hello, neighbor! We’ll have to introduce ourselves properly once we’re settled.”

Beverly’s answering smile was hesitant but genuine. “Welcome to Willow Creek!” Her voice sounded higher than she intended, and she cleared her throat, trying again. “It’s a great place to live.”

The shorter woman grinned wider, her green eyes glinting with what Beverly could only describe as playful knowingness. With a casual wave, she grabbed a box and disappeared through the open doorway, her taller counterpart following with a glance that lingered just a moment too long.

When the door shut behind them, Beverly exhaled and leaned on the balcony railing. She had seen neighbors come and go over the years, but none had ever struck her quite like this. There was something magnetic about them, a presence that didn’t quite fit the serene mundanity of Willow Creek.

Her gaze lingered on the now-empty courtyard, where the movers bustled with the remnants of the duo’s belongings. A peculiar chill brushed against her skin, though the sun still shone brightly. Shaking it off as her imagination, she returned to her coffee, savoring its warmth while her thoughts danced around the newcomers.

Yet, as the day wore on, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. The air itself seemed heavier, humming with possibilities she couldn’t name. It was as if the arrival of these two strangers had struck a chord deep within the heart of the condo complex, a note of intrigue reverberating through its walls.

Not. The. End.

The Final Flicker: Gigi’s Cinematic Farewell

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Armageddon arrived on a Tuesday, as if the universe itself adhered to a grim schedule. An asteroid the size of a city struck Earth with unrelenting fury, shattering continents and unleashing a shockwave that raced ahead of the firestorms. By noon, the sky was a cauldron of ash and flame. By dusk, the world had surrendered to chaos.

In a small suburban house on Ashworth Lane, the Glomb family made their decision. While neighbors screamed and scattered, clutching at frantic escape plans, the Glombs stayed. They barricaded themselves in their living room, a fortress of ordinary comforts in a world turned unrecognizable.

It was Gigi’s idea to watch a movie. At eleven years old, she had spent half her life curled up on this couch, staring at this screen, spinning dreams from flickering images. Tonight, she wanted one last dream.

“Pick something happy,” her father murmured, his voice shaking just enough to betray him. He fiddled with the remote, hands clumsy with adrenaline.

Gigi’s small fingers brushed his. “This one,” she said, holding up the Blu-ray case. The edges were frayed from love, the cover smeared with fingerprints. Her favorite.

Her mother glanced at it, lips pressing into a thin line, then nodded. “Perfect choice, sweetheart.”

Outside, the dying sun burned crimson through the curtains, bathing the room in an otherworldly glow. The air smelled faintly of smoke, though the flames hadn’t reached their street yet. The distant thunder of collapsing buildings was a steady drumbeat, a reminder that time was running out.

The movie began, its cheerful theme song cutting through the heavy silence. Gigi curled between her parents, her head resting against her mother’s shoulder, her legs draped over her father’s lap. She giggled at the opening scene—a goofy character tripping over his own feet. Her laughter was bright, incongruous, and achingly precious.

Her father glanced down at her, his jaw tightening. “She doesn’t understand, does she?”

“She understands enough,” her mother whispered, stroking Gigi’s hair. “But she still believes in happy endings.”

He nodded, his throat working as he swallowed hard. The movie’s colorful animation reflected in his glasses, a stark contrast to the destruction creeping ever closer. He wanted to believe in happy endings too, for her sake.

An explosion rocked the street. The windows trembled, and the family froze. Gigi’s fingers tightened on her mother’s arm, but she didn’t cry out. Her parents exchanged a glance—fear darting between them like an electric current—but neither moved.

“It’s okay, Gigi,” her mother said softly. “We’re safe here.”

The lie hung in the air, fragile but necessary. Gigi settled back against her, trusting, her gaze fixed on the screen.

Her father ran a hand over his face, then leaned toward his wife. “Maybe we should’ve—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted, her voice firm. “We made the right choice. Together.”

He hesitated, then nodded. His hand found hers, their fingers intertwining. They sat in silence, watching their daughter laugh again as the movie’s hero triumphed over absurd odds.

As the film neared its climax, the heat became oppressive. Sweat beaded on their foreheads. The faint scent of smoke had grown acrid. The red glow outside the windows pulsed like a heartbeat, steady and inescapable.

“Mom?” Gigi asked, her voice soft. “Do you think... we’ll see Grandma and Grandpa? You know... after?”

Her mother’s throat constricted, but she forced a smile. “I think so, sweetheart.”

“Good.” Gigi smiled back, her face serene, her innocence unshaken. “I miss them.”

Her father leaned down, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “They’ll be so happy to see you.”

The final scene of the movie played out, a burst of music and color that seemed to defy the destruction outside. Gigi clapped her hands, her eyes shining with joy. “That’s my favorite part,” she whispered.

The power flickered. The TV screen dimmed and sputtered, then went black. The room plunged into silence, save for the distant roar of flames.

Gigi frowned. “Did the power go out?”

Her mother pulled her closer, burying her face in Gigi’s hair. “It’s okay, baby. Just close your eyes.”

Her father wrapped his arms around them both, his voice cracking as he murmured, “We’re right here, Gigi. We’ll always be right here.”

The flames reached the house, their heat searing, their roar deafening. But inside the cocoon of their embrace, the Glomb family clung to each other. Together, they faced the end, wrapped in love and the memory of a movie that made them forget, for a little while, that the world was dying.

As the fire consumed them, their silhouettes lingered in the flames, a fleeting echo of humanity’s light against the void.

Novus – A (sort of) New Year’s Tale

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Tempus is unlike any other planet in the universe. Here, time doesn’t merely pass; it lives, breathes, and shapes the destiny of its people. The planet’s rhythms govern the cosmos, its heart pulsing with the essence of every year gone by and every year yet to come. At the heart of Tempus stands the Great Hall of Epochs, where a sacred ritual marks the turning of the year.

Tonight, the hall thrums with anticipation. Thousands of citizens crowd the vast chamber, each holding a glowing orb close to their chest. These orbs are no ordinary objects; they carry the weight of dreams, regrets, and aspirations—a year’s worth of life distilled into fragile light. High above them, a towering hourglass looms, its shimmering sands spiraling downward, each grain a moment slipping into history.

Eris, a young artist with paint-stained hands, clutches her orb tightly. She’s poured her heart into it: the longing to finally create something worthy of her late mentor’s praise. Beside her, Darian, an aging farmer with weathered hands, shifts uneasily. His orb contains the hope of a bountiful harvest, something he hasn’t seen in years. Around them, murmurs ripple through the crowd—excitement, nervousness, and the faintest edge of fear.

“What if Novus doesn’t come?” a child whispers, tugging at her mother’s sleeve. The mother hushes her, but the question lingers in the air.

The final grains of sand cascade through the narrow neck of the hourglass. A hushed silence falls over the hall. Then, in a burst of brilliant, kaleidoscopic light, the New Year emerges.

Novus steps forward, its form radiant and ever-shifting, a living kaleidoscope of color and energy. Its voice resonates like a symphony, at once tender and powerful: “I am the blank page, the unwritten story. I am the opportunity for change, for growth, for new beginnings.”

One by one, the citizens approach Novus, their orbs glowing brighter as they near. Eris is among the first. She hesitates, her fingers trembling, before placing her orb in Novus’ outstretched hands. The light from her orb merges with Novus, and for a fleeting moment, she sees a vision: her hands painting something magnificent, something that takes her breath away. Tears streak her cheeks as she steps back.

Darian is next. He places his orb into Novus’ grasp, and his vision comes not as a picture, but as a sensation—the warmth of sunlight on his back, the scent of fertile soil, the joy of abundance. He exhales, his shoulders lighter than they’ve felt in years.

Not everyone steps forward. Near the edge of the crowd, a figure cloaked in shadow clutches their orb tightly, refusing to let go. Rumors swirl about them—a dissenter who believes the ritual is a lie, that Novus is nothing more than an illusion. Their defiance casts a subtle tension over the gathering, but Novus pays no mind, its focus unwavering.

As the last orb is offered, Novus begins to expand. Its light floods the Great Hall, spilling into the streets of Tempus and beyond. The planet itself responds: cracks in ancient buildings mend, withered trees sprout new leaves, and rivers run clearer than they have in decades. For a moment, all scars—physical and emotional—begin to heal.

But the dissenter steps forward at last, their voice cutting through the light. “What of those whose hopes were shattered? What of dreams unfulfilled? Is this endless cycle not a cruel joke?” They hurl their orb to the ground, shattering it. The crowd gasps, their joy faltering.

Novus pauses. Its light dims slightly, and for a moment, silence reigns. Then, it speaks, its voice softer but no less resonant: “The past cannot be erased, nor should it be. Each shard of regret, each splinter of pain, adds to the mosaic of who we are. Even broken dreams can be woven into something beautiful.”

From the shattered orb, Novus gathers the fragments, its light knitting them together into a brilliant constellation that floats above the dissenter’s head. The figure’s defiance melts into awe, and they fall to their knees.

With its task complete, Novus ascends into the sky, becoming a radiant beacon visible from every corner of the galaxy. Its light carries a message, rippling across the stars: every end is a new beginning, and the power to shape the future lies within each of us.

As the people of Tempus erupt into celebration, Eris looks up at the beacon, her heart brimming with hope. “This year,” she whispers to herself, “will be different.” And she believes it.

From the heart of Tempus, the spirit of Novus spreads, reminding all who witness it that the courage to change, to grow, and to create something extraordinary begins with a single step forward.

As the clock strikes twelve and the year turns anew,
I pause to reflect and to think of you,
My readers, my friends, my constant companions,
Through the joys and the sorrows, the triumphs and canyons.

You've been there with me, through each word and each line,
Your support and your love, a treasure divine,
Your feedback, your thoughts, your encouragement true,
Have lifted me up and seen me through.

As we stand on the cusp of a brand-new year,
I want you to know that I hold you all dear,
Your presence, your spirit, your unwavering light,
Have made this journey a pure delight.

So here's to the New Year, to the chapters ahead,
To the stories unwritten, the tales yet unsaid,
May your year be filled with love, laughter, and cheer,
And may all your dreams come true, my friends so dear.

Thank you for being a part of my story,
For sharing your time, your hearts, and your glory,
I am grateful for each and every one of you,
And I can't wait to see what the New Year will do.

So let's raise a glass to the days yet to come,
To the challenges faced and the victories won,
Together we'll write the next pages with glee,
In this grand adventure, we'll set our hearts free.

Happy New Year, my readers, my friends, and my muse,
May your pens never falter, your words never lose,
Their power to touch, to heal, and inspire,
And may your passion for life never expire.

Here's to you, and to all that's in store,
In the year that awaits us, and so many more,
With love and with gratitude, I bid you adieu,
Happy New Year, my friends, and thank you... thank you.