Whistling Mine Novels & Stories

Without her realizing it, her long-buried grievances seemed to be easing away. Her eyes turned watery. The lyrics were a bunch of simple and straightforward words, yet she found herself completely absorbed in them. "Whisper of the Silence." Danise smiled. "Lovely song, isn't it?" "Whisper... of the Silence?" A glimmer appeared in her lifeless gaze. "Such a beautiful name. Is this your latest work?" "How I wish. It's Kyle." Staring into her eyes, he continued, "He composed it with hopes that it could reach the ears of somebody he misses."

Low murmurs broke out between wolves as I passed them. I caught the words "slut" and "whore" as I walked. I simply ignored them. Thankfully, Crescent Moon had trained me to have thick skin. As I approached the mail room, I caught sight of a beehive hanging from one of the trees outside. Someone should really do something about that. It could easily be a hazard. I shook my head and stepped into the mail room, where a familiar pair of girls turned toward me. Gina and Jenette Jones, or Jay for short.

"Get your gear. We’re going to the canyons." "He'll kill us for disobeying," Grant said, though he was already standing up. "He can try," I replied. "But only if he survives the afternoon." The Whispering Canyons lived up to the name. The wind bit through the rock formations, creating a low, whistling frequency that mimicked the sound of a thousand voices. It tasted of dry dust and a faint, metallic tang of iron. We crouched on a ledge overlooking the northern pass. Serena held a pair of binoculars, her knuckles white. Grant checked the chamber of his rifle, the click of the metal sharp in the thin air.

(ZILO’S POINT OF VIEW) "Will you stop whistling? That tune is three hundred years out of date and it’s vibrating right in my inner ear!" Zilo shouted, his head buried in the wiring of a portable resonance-detector. He was huddled in the corner of the hub, his tools scattered around him like the bones of a dead bird.

Corin The journey to the mines passed in tense silence. The sound of the horses’ hooves on the frozen ground was the only rhythm that broke the quiet of the forest. Mason rode in front, his shoulders tight, his eyes scanning the trees as if Glacier’s killers could be hiding behind every bush. My mother, Vanessa, rode close beside me, and Silas followed at the back like an ancient shadow. As the land grew harsher and the cliffs rose high above us, we finally saw the entrance. The old mine opened in the side of the mountain like a dark wound. The air was colder there, and a strange metallic scent filled the space, the smell of old magic and deep stone.

Like he could see something inside me I’d buried a long time ago. “Thank you,” he whispered, picking up the spoon. I turned my head away. Because if I didn’t, I’d do something stupid. Like smile. And this wasn’t a N*****x teen drama.

The quiet returns, full of the hum of the fridge and the neighbor upstairs dragging a chair across the floor as if he’s trying to redraw his kitchen from scratch. Work. I need work. I open a fresh document and type a sentence I don’t hate: Some storms don’t pass; they just learn your name. I stare at it too long, then backspace it into nothing. Writing today feels like whistling into a stairwell—your breath comes back at you, altered, unhelpful. I stand instead. The chair legs scrape and my shoulders go up as if someone else made the noise behind me.