Scratch Marks Novels & Stories

Almost delicate. Three slashes. Straight and even. And right beneath them is a spiral. So small it’s almost invisible, unless you know where to look. I trace it with shaking fingers. It isn’t just marking me. It’s writing something on me. And I don’t know what story I’m becoming part of. But the forest does.

"This is Equuleus." He looked down. There, on the rail, someone had made some markings in the wood. His eye probably would have passed right over them, mistaking them for weathering or normal wear and tear, but now that he was taking a closer look, he could see they were more deliberate. It almost looked like someone had taken a knife and chipped out three small pieces of the plank. Penny's finger traced the pattern they made. Three dots, two on top and one below, like a reversed number "7" with an extra-long tail.

Hope knows I am not a morning person, and I need to be coaxed. I flop over on my back, kick off my blanket, "I'll be right down. Leave me some coffee, or someone might die." I hear a laugh, "No worries, we already know." I hear Hope's footsteps heading down the hall. I pull myself out of bed and into the bathroom. Time to get the day started. I turn on the shower and undress. I catch a glimpse of my mate mark in the mirror. Looking at myself naked makes me cringe because that damn mark is staring back at me. It has been about a month since "The Fight," as it's called now. I have healed completely and have minimal scarring, considering the extent of my injuries. It was primarily cuts and brui

It was Reyes who found it first, crouched near the room's single support beam, his flashlight catching something that shouldn't have been there: faint, careful marks scratched into the concrete's dusty surface, low near the floor, exactly the height a person might reach while seated on that thin mattress, working quietly and patiently while pretending to simply exist. "Damian," Reyes said, his voice tight. "Look at this." Damian crossed the room quickly, kneeling beside him, and felt his breath catch at what the flashlight revealed: careful, deliberate scratches, made with something small and sharp, forming letters and numbers pressed painstakingly into decades-old grime. R-E-D H-O- The mark

But the moment my fingers touched the edge of the broken ground, my whole body suddenly went rigid. In the dark gaps of the crack, it didn’t look like natural damage from the building’s weight. There was a neat, sharp pattern scoring the walls of the crack. I brushed away the dust with my fingertip, and that’s when I saw it. Small, very sharp, and deep claw marks.

"What, is Mom not as important as some junk locket? You know what happens if her condition worsens." "I know." I cut him off, my voice cracking as I crouched on the floor. "No one knows better than me when she loses it." My old scars burned as I recalled it. Like a volatile child, she'd speak kindly one moment, and the next, brand me with a hot poker. The smell of scorched flesh haunted my nightmares. Andre fell silent, knowing how diligently I had cared for Evelyn, but a moment later, he hardened again. "I got it, you don't want her to get better."

He scratched his name across the line, but a fat drop of blood fell from his chin onto the paper, smearing the signature. Scar's hand cracked across the back of his head. "You can't keep messing it up." They started over. Scar produced another copy from his jacket—prepared for exactly this kind of complication. He held it steady while Mitch tried again, his hand shaking so badly the pen skittered across the page. This time, the signature was clean. Scar examined it, nodded, and handed it to Tarzan. Without another word, Tarzan stepped out, and Scar followed, leaving Mitch alone in the dark room.

Danika I traced the raised edge of the brand with my fingertips first. Kazimir was still buried inside me, chest flush against my back, the cold glass of the balcony door pressing against my breasts. Snow drifted past the floodlights outside in thin, silent sheets. His breathing had gone shallow the moment I touched the mark. Under the thin layer of ink the scar tissue was too deliberate, too evenly burned, too deep. Not a surgical cut. Not an accident. A brand. I turned my head, found the place with my mouth, and dragged my tongue slowly across the raised edge.

The man was covered in blood that oozed out of his neck that he has slit. We all looked silently at his dead body. While I was staring at him I saw a tattoo. This one stood out from all the black ink tattoos this one looked like a scorpion on his right hand, I looked closely at it. I even went forward and wiped the blood from the area to look at it closely. Adam came to see what I was staring at. I looked at him. "Are you thinking what I am thinking?" I asked him

"The rejection mark. Marcus burned it into me because my body was fighting the sequence. It's proof I'm a failure." "Look at it." The Template’s voice was fading. "Look at the mark, boy. Really look at it." I ripped my shirt open. The jagged 'R' on my chest was still red, still angry. But under the harsh fluorescent light of the lab, I saw it. The scar tissue wasn't just a burn. It was a pattern. Small, raised dots that followed the curve of the letter.