Crossing Writing Novels & Stories

"The place knows no balance. It is a domain of the pagan spirits. I have heard the people of this mysterious tribe call it many names - the Spring, the Oasis, the Abyss, and the Well of Horns, or simply just the Well. The first time I saw it, I described it as more like a Well of Teeth. Now I have only one name for it. The Crossing." Just below the last paragraph was a simple location within the book: Page 47. Already intrigued beyond control, Lyda hastily flipped through the book until she came to page 47. It was difficult to make out some of the page numbers because of how faded they were, but Lyda knew she had found the right page when she read the title of the new passage at the top: The

He laughed to himself and steeled himself even more. After what felt like a few years of walking to him he finally saw it. The crossroad. The roads were dusty yellow with a few cracks travelling through them. The man stood on the left side of the road where at the edge of it stood an old wooden sign post that threatened to fall at any moment. The signs were pointing towards a direction with the names on them. The forwards, left, right arrows read ‘NOWHERE’, while the last arrow which pointed towards the road that he came from read, ‘MAYBE SOMEWHERE’.

The morning sky stretched wide and soft, painted with streaks of gold and delicate clouds. It was the kind of morning that whispered promises—of joy, of love, of forever. Inside Charlotte’s house, laughter filled the air like music. The scent of flowers and faint notes of vanilla-scented candles danced in the corners of the bridal room.

"Are we ready to start?" He asked the Lord and Lady, who were taking small sips from their tea cups. The couple nodded in affirmation in reply to the Editor's question. Mr. Cuffe took his wand out again and pointed it to the dicta-quill, which got up from its resting place and stood on the top of the parchment, ready to write everything said.

Heather sniffed, a pitiful sound escaping her lips as she pleaded, "I'm so cold. Please, come in and hold me." He stood still, his posture rigid, his silhouette sharp against the dim light, a picture of untouchable elegance. Barefoot, Heather slipped off the bed, her thin gown barely clinging to her body as she approached him. There was something both desperate and seductive about her movements, like a ghost haunting her target. Her voice dripped with temptation as she whispered, "Jason, you've liked me ever since we were kids, haven't you? Back when we were still in school, you always waited until the last minute to head home, just so we could walk together. Isn't that true?"

“Just trying to be a good boyfriend.” With a slight laugh, Ceanna reached for her door handle. “How’s that going to work when you find your mate?” she asked him drily. Mrs. Greens asked each student to stand up and present the opening statement for their term paper. Ceanna was a little nervous about hers, but when the time came she stood and read out her first few paragraphs. “Well done for not approaching the assignment as most of the class is. It’s good to see someone not looking at the top level of leadership within a pack. I look forward to seeing the paper outline in the coming week.”

The city was quiet past midnight, the usual hum of traffic softened to distant murmurs. In her flat, Amara sat cross-legged on the edge of her bed, a stack of cream-colored stationery spread before her, pens scattered like weapons in a war she fought silently. Outside the window, streetlights spilled pools of gold across the damp pavement, reflecting the tumult of thoughts in her mind. Tonight, she would write to Liam, not with emojis, not with fleeting texts, but with words that bled from her soul, raw and unfiltered.

She liked her world like this; controlled, immaculate, and hers. Her assistant had just left the report on the collaboration between Duval Holdings and CrossTech, and Clarisse skimmed it with the cool efficiency of a surgeon. Numbers, timelines, projected returns, upcoming brief, it was all there. Damon Cross, as always, delivered results with a surgeon’s blade.

And once a leader’s image starts to crack, it doesn’t stop until the whole thing falls apart. I called for a scribe.“One word,” I said. He dipped his quill, waiting. Agreed. Two days later, I took Kyle and one other soldier and together, we headed to the meeting point. REDD CROSSING. The land stretched wide and empty under a low gray sky. The air was cold enough to sting my cheeks. Each breath came out as a pale cloud, drifting and fading into nothing. We passed bare trees stripped down to bone, their branches scratching at the sky like claws. Once, we crossed an old bridge where the boards groaned under the weight of the car. The river below moved slowly and dark, swallowing the light.

And they're finally learning to cross it. End of Chapter 179