A Tattered Web Novels & Stories

she whispered to the empty room. She let herself fall backward, sinking deep into the plush mattress. There was no school. There were no lockers, no cheerleaders with cruel smiles, no suffocating clouds of dust. Just Saturday. Wide, unhurried, and entirely hers. She lay there, staring at the ceiling fan, waiting for her pulse to return to a normal cadence. The lingering ghost of Thursday’s asthma attack still made her chest feel tight whenever her heart rate spiked, a grim reminder of her own fragility—a fragility she despised.

Her voice, once sharp and panicked, dissolved into a soft pleading tone, “Honey, you completely misunderstood me. I was just terrified for us, my love. The thought of seeing you stripped of the status you worked so hard for broke my heart for a second. I don't care about the money for myself, but I want you to have the world. I can’t bear the thought of those company shares going to your half-brother, Elias. Darling, don't be angry with me for being a frightened girl for one minute. Please believe me, I love you with all my heart. I will…….”

Max snapped in anger. “How am I so sure that she doesn’t recognize me? I mean, look at my handsome face and tell me why she won’t recognize me,” I smirked at him. “Is our boss okay?” Betty asked, confused is evident in her voice. “No, he’s not okay. We are supposed to count ourselves lucky for seeing the good side of him, but right now, it’s just so ridiculous,” Max grunted. “I can hear you, Max.” The internet is not helping matters. I’ve been searching for Sydney Talker for five good minutes and no positive result yet. I even had to include keywords like blonde and divorced but instead, a couple of old women’s profiles pop out of nowhere.

"What's so mysterious?" I reached out and lifted the lid. Nestled inside was an exquisite suit. Under the sunlight streaming through the windows, every thread shimmered with an ever-shifting rainbow of colors, and countless micro-diamonds were meticulously embedded into every seam and detail. My breath caught in my throat. I had genuinely believed that the billion-dollar custom tuxedo I had commissioned was the pinnacle of luxury and elegance, but compared to the masterpiece before me, it suddenly looked dull and utterly outclassed.

The screen froze on Vivienne’s face, bruised, backlit in red stage light. And just beneath it, a watermark: Velvet_Stage9/RecoveredArchive. Stage 9? There was no Stage 9. Or so she thought.

Destiny's POV I took another sip from my glass, my tired feet screaming for much-needed rest as my social battery continued to decrease with every passing second, but sadly the ability to deal with exhaustion was a requirement for my occupation. I was left to mingle and create business relationships at least two times every month, and now my interactions had become rehearsed which meant the conversations held less and less excitement, in the end leaving me to want to leave before I even arrived. "Is he the one who wrote Dreaded?" Mr Teri asked directing the question to me and I forced a smile.

he will be one of the world's heroes that tries to keep them from completely falling apart. I don't realize, as a young child, that computers are so sensitive. These computers are centuries old, incredibly fragile, and terribly susceptible to contamination. At least with their protective covers removed. That one instance of me wandering in there without being decontaminated, spreading cookie crumbs everywhere, introduced all kinds of organic goodies that got deep into the system and wrought absolute havoc in a short period of time.

Proceed" He spoke curtly. His attention shifted to the laptop screen and I did the same, a deep sense of fear pitted in my stomach. The screen was completely dark, soon enough, that changed when the lights flickered on. It looked like a storage room, there was an unmoving figure on the ground, I almost didn't recognize him. Derek! My heart lunged to my throat, he was wounded, both of his eyes were swollen, there was dried blood on his nose, it was situated at a weird angle like it had been broken. He was naked except for a torn pair of trousers. The same he had worn yesterday morning.

The silence was punctuated only by our quiet murmurs, our shared yearning for a past we never knew, a future we desperately wished for. Later, amidst the twisted metal and rubble, James stumbled upon a tattered book, its cover mostly torn away, revealing only a few words—'The Chronicles of Atheria'. The title alone conjured images of a world far removed from our own, a place of magic and wonder, of brave knights and epic quests. The pages, brittle with age and decay, contained fragmented stories, glimpses of a civilization that had flourished before the catastrophe. It spoke of vibrant cities, of advanced technology, and of a society that lived in harmony with its environment.

And it’s coming apart at the seams. We land. Or something approximates landing. The ground beneath us isn’t solid. It’s shifting planes of fractured light and geometric nonsense that hum with discordant notes. Gravity tugs in five directions at once. The air tastes like burnt metal and ozone, thick with psychic static that scrapes against my teeth. Overhead, instead of sky, a vast, shimmering tapestry stretches into infinity – the Weaver’s work. But it’s ravaged. Huge rents gape like wounds, edges fraying into dissolving threads. Through the tears, I see… nothing. Not black. Not void. An absence that hurts to look at. And it’s hungry.