Solitude Block Tales Novels & Stories

“IT’S JUST I HAD a different book in mind when ink spilled on this one, plus what’s left to do in a finished book?” They, of course, ignored me Completely probably deciding if I would not explain, they were just going to proceed. One of the three waved their hand above the inky darkness we were standing on, and instantly a book on a pedestal was in front of them on the floor. It showed off my title, ‘1001 Dark Tales’. I instantly held my breath, hoping they didn’t realize what that meant. But if they had, they said nothing. Instead, they just started flipping through the pages of the book, looking for which store to choose.

For the first time in his life, he’d begun to believe writer’s block might be a real thing, and he worried it might be a wall he could not break through. But now he felt the wall crumble, and he went back inside and found a notepad and pen by the phone in the front room. Taking these back to the deck, he settled in and began to write a short story about this expedition almost forty-thousand-feet below sea level. He didn’t think too hard about where he was going, just let the words flow, discovering the story as it poured out of the pen.

"It wants to tell everything. It has been silent for so long." Winter sat beside her. "The watcher has been silent for centuries. It can wait a little longer. You need to rest." Solenne shook her head. "If I rest, the stories might fade." Winter took her hand. "The stories will not fade. They are in the flowers. In the roots. In the watcher. You have written enough for now." Solenne's tears fell onto the notebook. "I am afraid that if I stop, I will never start again."

They woke from dreams they couldn’t remember, tears on their cheeks, Hearts beating faster. Then the mothers, then the fathers, then the lonely ones. In their dreams, they saw a woman made of light standing in an ocean of gold, singing the world awake. The Flow pulsed faintly through the ground, a whisper rising from deep beneath the streets. > thrum … silence … thrum … silence … The city sighed. And Solan, alone in his chamber, sat upright for the first time in centuries. His chest ached. A tear rolled down his cheek.

Just Sienna, the pack’s little mascot. Until now. I turned twenty last month, and something started shifting inside me. At first I thought it was imagination, my scents sharper, sounds clearer, a restless energy under my skin that makes me pace at night. The elders whisper about “latent bloodlines,” but no one says it to my face. Ronan notices, though.

This is just a scrap of poetry, and these are just stories. Stories. That’s all. I’m not a coward. I’m not. Still, I fold the piece of paper and stick it back into the box. *** Closing the door behind me and locking it, the early fall sun feels warm and friendly, helping to diminish the chills those crazy stories set loose in my bones. As a reader and writer I of course need solitude, but I also love being with my family. Right now, I want to be with them more than usual. The most haunting thing about those stories . . .

They sway slightly, trying to find balance. The plugs shift inside them with every tiny movement—deep, relentless pressure that keeps them on the razor edge of overstimulation. Now the sensory blindfolds—black silk, padded, complete blackout. I tie one over Isla’s eyes first. The moment the world disappears, her breathing turns ragged. Marlowe next. She whimpers the second the fabric settles—already lost without sight. Earplugs follow—soft silicone that dulls the world to a distant hum.

I muttered under my breath, stabbing the screen with my thumb as I finally blocked him. I didn't know why I hadn't done it before. It felt... good. Solid. Like deleting a virus. I scraped the last bite off the plate, barely tasting it. Still scrolling like a dumbass, still pretending the block button was enough. I chased it with the rest of my whiskey, let it burn its way down and pretend it could torch the ache out of my chest. Somewhere between scrolling and swallowing, the whole vibe of the bar had shifted. I hadn't notice how loud the room had gotten, how the air had shifted from dull and drunken to something out of control, until someone shouted.

His hand went to my stomach again, and this time, he didn’t let go. “He’s strong,” he whispered. Wonder. Awe. “My son is strong.” “We don’t know—” “I know.” We drove in silence. Nevada turned to Utah. Utah turned to Colorado. I fell asleep somewhere in the Rockies, despite myself. Exhaustion + pregnancy + terror = unconscious. I woke to Kieran carrying me. “Put me down,” I mumbled. “No.” We were at the Blood Moon border. The massive gates, carved with wolves, were open. The entire pack stood waiting. Hundreds of them. Warriors in front. Elders behind. And in the center, a woman in silver silk.

Norbert woke up with a splitting headache. His eyes and throat was sore, and he knew his voice was going to be even more hoarse. Someone was definitely banging a Zulu drum in his head, cos' it really hurt. He winced and shut his eyes again. Something warm was wrapped around him, and as he struggled to look... he realized it wasn't something. It was someone.. A female, a sleeping angel, so soft he didn't ever want to let go of her.. ever!!