The dynamic between the Noxthorne sisters—Eirielle, Eirynia, and Eivey—is as complex and volatile as the realms they control. Each sister’s personality and abilities shape their relationships, often bringing them to the edge of conflict, even as they rely on one another.

Eirielle, the eldest, is the steady force. As the guardian of the Dreamworld, she’s calm and responsible, often burdened by her...

It beats, not for love, not for sorrow, but because that’s what it was built to do.

Four chambers, working in sequence— a rhythm older than thought, older than language.

It pulls in blood, pushes it out. Feeds the lungs, the liver, the long corridors of muscle that carry us through our days.

It doesn’t pause to wonder. It doesn’t argue with its cyclical task.

Even when we’re still, it is not...

You took what I had. Held it like it weighed nothing. Now I’m the one crushed....

Once cherished, Adisa walked in bloom, With healer’s hands, dispelling gloom. Her name, a melody soft and clear, Echoed gently to those held dear.

With herbs she healed, with whispered care, Easing pain with touch and prayer. A sister’s laugh, vibrant and bright, Anchored her world in pure delight.

Yet whispers stirred where shadows crept, Of magic deep, of secrets kept. Nobles feared what could...

Two languages colliding: your body’s rough syntax, my heart’s messy grammar. Both saying: stay. Stay for what comes next.

Stay for the way light bends through my blinds at dusk, for the heat caught between our skin and my sheets, for the dull ache that lingers a bit longer than it should, the kind you stop noticing until it starts to hurt again.

We write stories for each other in fingerprints an...

Yeah, a score I never signed up for. Doctors love the word fine. It’s clipped, dismissive, and vaguely authoritative—like a slammed gavel closing out a difficult case—_fine. _Full stop. Even as I’m sitting here, in a hospital by the way, sweat prickling at the back of my neck, feeling like something scraped from the bottom of a shoe. That’s where I’m at: David Marshall, age forty-five, being tol...

They don’t remember how they got here. There isn’t really a “they”—just scattered voices, a splintered awareness drifting through endless, twisted neon walls that pulse and flicker like a heartbeat. The maze stretches out in every direction, woven from raw thoughts, hidden fears, and secrets buried so deep that even the mind itself recoils. The air is thick, pressing in on them, as colors throb li...

Micah doesn’t just move; he infiltrates. His presence lingers before it’s seen—a chill that prickles your skin, though you dismiss it as mere unease. Watching him is like watching a cat study a bird: silent, poised, almost elegant in his restraint. Yet his intent is unmistakable. He doesn’t ever strike outright. Instead, he waits, gauges, and catalogues what pulls you in, finding the cracks....

while chasing your ghost, i became one myself— translucent as morning fog, the space between breaths, or like the clatter of a dead-end street after midnight.

you were always good at hollowing things out: rooms, promises, the space behind my ribs. now i practice your art in reverse, carving myself thin enough to follow.

i grew into the absence you planted, let it fester, untamed, in the darknes...

We are born as broken pieces, Fractured stars, Clutching our corners, Thinking the world ends at the edges Of our own skin.

In quiet moments, We hear the hum Of something larger Whispering beneath our ribs.

Our hands, when they touch, Are maps unfolding In the dark.

Alone, we are notes In a forgotten melody— A sound so small It vanishes on the wind.

But together, we rise. We become the song Th...