9 Stitchpunks Novels & Stories

Amber glanced at me as if to check if I was following, satisfied I was, she continued. “ one interesting fact too, each daughter name was also engraved on it as well." “ like?" I asked. “ her name's Alina Taylor, and her daughter name was Amara Lawson. Meaning her daughter name would be engraved on the needle as she passes it on and non till it gets to the current " “ why does it sound crazy? " “ because it's important. I know it's weird but that's the way it's been done. Note that I also said when the daughter was old enough to understand the importance of the needle."

It wasn't a moon or a wolf. It was a vertical slit. An eye. "I am the one who made the Stitcher," Ashford said quietly. "I wove the roots from the hair of the women I scoured. I am the Architect of the Silence, Amara. Not you." He twisted the knife. The Stitcher let out a high-pitched, metallic scream. Its root-body began to unravel, the river-stones falling from its chest like heavy, grey tears. The entity collapsed into the churning water, dissolving into a pile of mud and dead leaves.

TORREN POV I’m caught. Standing in plain sight on the screen. With my ghost mask and black clothing of course. The shot is taken from the corridor camera angle I thought I’d handled. Clearly hadn’t handled well enough. Not that last night’s search wasn’t already an indication. Apparently destroying their gloves, their pucks, their dignity, and hitting two of them with paint balls warranted an assembly where teachers are absent and the heirs handle us like we're not age mates. It seems I truly rattled the preppy heirs and they're showing us Michigan Prep’s version of justice: gather everyone into one room and perform authority from a raised platform.

She also had a brow piercing, nose piercing and as if that wasn't enough places to poke a needle in her body and push a metal ring through, she had another one on her lip. "Here at St Patrick, we have hierrachy. You don’t jump the line or poach another’s man." Man? Again, they were all seventeen year olds. Most of them have never had a damn stubble in their life, so how the hell did the word man qualify? Again, I kept my skepticism to myself and gazed back quietly. They had to tire themselves out soon, right? In the meantime, I have to try and figure out what my next line of- The world rotated violently.

I remember tearing them off the moment I stepped inside like I could not breathe. Yet the image of Ellis wouldn’t leave my head. I’m halfway through pouring another glass when my phone vibrates loudly, startling me. I frown and grab it from the table. Two Missed calls and three texts,all from my PA. I open the message and it contains a link from a fashion blog. BREAKING: Hawthorne Group Accused of Design Theft My heart beats fastly I tap the article.The page loads and the images pop up arranged in two columns,each with sets of sketches pointing out the ‘copied’ parts.

Everyone said my wife, Zoey Harper, was an amazing wife and mom who'd do anything for me and our son, Leo. Leo's doctor warned us three times that he might not make it. Then he died. Zoey claimed she was overseas for work. She wasn't. She'd invited Peter Cole—the first love she'd never gotten over—and his family to our apartment for dinner. I came home carrying Leo's urn, ready to confront her. Instead, she tossed my luggage into the hall. "We have guests, and we're out of rooms. Go stay somewhere else for a few days."

As if something rotten had been carved out of the air. The horses were still where we left them. Miraculously. Probably because no sane animal would go near the Tower. They stamped and snorted as we approached, but didn’t flee. Arielle stroked the flank of her mare absentmindedly. “I dreamed of them.” “The horses?” She shook her head. “The other seams.” I stiffened. “There are others?” She nodded. “Not many. But they exist. People—maybe not even mages—who became stitches the way we just did. Each of them anchoring a different corner of the Weave.”