They’d take from me if I were soft or kind,
The world rewards the ones who strike first blood.
So I arrive with fire in my mind,
And leave them crawling through the filth and mud.
I’ve learned to steal what no one freely gives,
To smile while taking what they’d never lend.
This is the law by which the monster lives—
The kind will lose; the ruthless always end.

But don’t mistake this armor for my skin,
I once was soft, a girl with glass in hand.
When no one came, I learned to hold it in—
To guard my tears, to draw a battle plan.
They left me cold in childhood’s shattered room,
With dreams that froze beneath a mother’s scream.
I built this shell to rise above the gloom,
And killed the girl who dared to hope or dream.

I wonder if there’s more than how I live—
A touch not meant to bruise, a kiss not lied.
Is there a world where I still learn to give,
Where beauty isn’t something used to hide?
At night, I dream I’m someone I don’t know—
She laughs with ease and loves without a mask.
But morning comes, and I must let her go—
For mercy is a blade I cannot grasp.

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The soil, once yielding, chokes upon his name,
Rejecting hands that once had tilled its clay.
The fields grow thorns, the sun withdraws its flame,
And shadows stretch to mark his darkened way.
For hands unclean may never grasp the sheaf,
Nor quench their thirst from fountains clear and bright.
Where blood is spilled, the ground recoils in grief,
And heavy silence swallows heaven’s light.
The wound remains, though time may shift the sand—
The stain of sin still lingers on his hand.

No home shall hold him, nor the hearth burn warm,
No walls shall rise to guard him from the night.
The howling wind shall take his name by storm,
And set his days adrift, devoid of light.
He walks alone, yet never shall he flee
The mark that binds his soul in bitter chain.
A name once spoken soft in infancy
Now echoes harsh with sorrow, guilt, and pain.
For mercy spares, yet bids him walk apart,
A restless wanderer with a broken heart.

The words still linger, cold upon the tongue,
A question wreathed in pride yet draped in sin.
Would heaven carve such bonds if they were none?
Would not the stars entwine the souls within?
O reckless hands that sever love with hate,
O bitter lips that dare deny their kin!
We are the keepers, bound by mortal fate,
Each life a thread the next must weave within.
No blood may fall unnoticed, nor unseen—
For love was made to mend where death has been.

The post The Keeper’s Lament appeared first on EDC Writers.

This land has borne the wars that shaped our souls,
Scarred since the birth of water, light, and sky.
Each muscle trained to fight or flee the storm,
Like those before, we choose the course we walk.
The marks of those long gone still guide our steps,
Their battles carved within what we become.

Within our hands, we grasp the word of God,
Its polished curves reflect the morning light.
A dome, though battered, guards what would have broke,
Forged in the fire as Christ endured the fast—
Forty days and nights of trial and grace.
Refined in flames, He hung upon the cross,
Not for His sins, but ours—a sacrifice.

The swing of swords resounds with ancient truth,
We cling to faith no larger than a seed.
It gleams before us, sharp as dawn’s first light,
Parrying loss with promises divine.
We tell our loved ones, “We shall meet again,”
As battlefields bear fragments of our youth.

For God so loved the world, He gave His Son.
We live and die with these words in our hearts.
Without His love, the darkness would consume,
But Christ has taught us how to forge our swords.
Through holy words and prophets, shields are shaped—
God’s children, armored in eternal grace.

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The post Let Morning Come appeared first on EDC Writers.

A young man exploded out of the train, wild-eyed and desperate. He shoved past an elderly man, sending him stumbling into a woman in heels, who crashed into a businessman carrying a briefcase. Like a line of dominoes, people toppled over each other, tripping, falling—spilling onto the cold subway platform.

Amelia shot up as the last and most devastating blow landed—the young man, the cause of all the commotion, was knocked off balance in the mess and lost his footing. He fell, hard. And then the weight of those he had shoved pressed down upon him. There was a sharp crack, a pained gasp—then nothing.

For a breathless moment, the entire station froze. Then the cries began. Amelia dropped her book and ran to the pile of tangled bodies.

 “Somebody call an ambulance!” she barked, already kneeling beside the motionless man.

A few others came to assist, helping people up, checking for injuries. A subway cop stepped off the train, scanning the wreckage with sharp, assessing eyes. “Move aside,” the officer ordered, pushing past the bystanders. But when his gaze fell on the young man sprawled on the ground, something changed. His jaw tightened, and instead of reaching for a radio, he pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

Amelia frowned. “What are you doing?”

The cop didn’t answer. He knelt beside the injured man, gripping his wrist with practiced force. The young man’s eyes fluttered open, pain and confusion etched into his face.

“Ezra Cain, you’re under arrest—”

“Are you serious right now?” Amelia snapped, pushing the officer’s hand away. “This kid is injured! He needs medical attention, not a jail cell!”

The officer looked annoyed but relented as she quickly assessed Ezra’s condition. His leg was twisted at an unnatural angle, swelling fast. A mild head wound bled sluggishly at his temple.

Ezra let out a weak chuckle. “You fight for criminals, too?”

“I’m fighting for a human being in pain,” Amelia corrected, calling for a stretcher.

As the paramedics lifted him into the ambulance—an officer still hovering nearby—Ezra reached into his pocket. With shaking fingers, he pressed something into Amelia’s palm.

“For your trouble,” he murmured.

She looked down. A necklace. An old, strange-looking charm, dark metal shaped like a snarling beast with hollow eyes. It was heavier than it should have been. Before she could ask about it, the doors shut, and the ambulance pulled away. Amelia rolled the necklace between her fingers, studying its odd engravings. She exhaled, slinging it over her neck, then walked back to the bench, retrieving her forgotten novel. Her train arrived moments later. She didn’t notice the way her breath hitched as she stepped inside. Didn’t feel the shift in the air. Didn’t hear the slow, deliberate rasp of something unseen settling onto her shoulders.

It started that night. A heaviness. At first, Amelia thought she was just exhausted. The long shifts. The stress. The adrenaline crash after the subway incident. But when she lay down in bed, something felt… wrong. As though she wasn’t alone. The darkness in her apartment seemed deeper than usual, the shadows pooling in the corners stretching unnaturally. When she finally closed her eyes, she dreamt of things she couldn’t name. Of hollow, sunken eyes. Of bone-thin fingers curling around her throat. She woke drenched in sweat, gasping for breath.

The next morning, her limbs felt heavier. Walking to work took effort, like she was wading through waist-deep water. The pallor of her skin was almost sickly. Her co-workers commented on it, but she waved them off. A cold. A bug. Something minor. But the weight didn’t go away. It only grew.

Days passed. Then weeks. Amelia deteriorated. Her appetite dwindled. Her body ached. It wasn’t just exhaustion anymore; it was something else, something far worse. Like she was carrying something unbearable, something suffocating. Every time she looked in a mirror, her reflection seemed dimmer. Sunken. And yet, she never once thought to take the necklace off. It felt fused to her. Like removing it would be peeling off her own skin.

One night, she sat on her bed, lightheaded and weak, staring at her hands. They trembled. Her body felt like it was crumbling under an invisible weight. And then—a breath that was not hers. She looked up. And saw it. A demon perched on her shoulders.

Its body was emaciated yet strong, its skin dark as a starless sky, its spine curved unnaturally as if it had spent centuries hunched in waiting. Its fingers were long, tipped with blackened claws that dug ever so lightly into her flesh. But its eyes—its eyes were the worst part. Glowing. Deep-set and endless. They watched her. And for the first time in weeks, Amelia understood.

This was no sickness. No simple fatigue. This was a curse. The necklace—Ezra’s “gift”—had never been meant for her. It had been meant for him. The weight of greed, the price of unchecked selfishness, the punishment meant for a man who had spent his life taking—had been passed to the wrong person. And the demon did not care. It would feast all the same.

Amelia let out a shaky breath. The glowing eyes did not blink. And the weight pressed down.

Harder. Heavier. Until she could barely breathe.

The post The Weight of Greed appeared first on EDC Writers.

The car crash had taken his mother and little sister three months ago. Since then, home had become suffocating. His father barely spoke. His older brother had disappeared into himself, eyes hollow and distant. They moved through the house like ghosts, unable—or unwilling—to see each other. Jace let out a breath, opened his eyes, and watched the golden light dance over the river’s surface. He didn’t go home until nightfall.

The porch light was on when he reached the front door. He pulled his key from his pocket and slid it into the lock. It didn’t turn. Frowning, he tried again. The key didn’t fit. Confused, he knocked. The door opened, and his father stood there. His expression was one Jace hadn’t seen in a long time—not grief, not exhaustion, but something far worse. Disinterest.

“Can I help you?” his father asked.

Jace blinked. “Dad…? What’s going on? My key isn’t working.”

His father’s brows drew together. “Who are you?”

Jace let out a nervous laugh. “Okay. Funny. Seriously, what’s going on?”

“Do I know you?”

The air turned sharp, cutting into Jace’s lungs. “Dad, stop messing around.”

Another voice came from within the house. “Who is it?”

Jace turned toward the sound, and his stomach plummeted. His mother stood beside his father, wiping her hands on a dish towel. His mother—who was supposed to be dead. Jace staggered back, eyes darting between them, breath coming too fast. “Mom?” His voice cracked. “Mom, it’s me! It’s Jace!”

Her face twisted in confusion, and before he could process it, another figure stepped into the doorway. Jace’s heart stuttered. It was him. The boy in the doorway had his face. His features. His expression of confusion, only more subdued. The boy had taken his place. Jace felt his mind snap under the weight of emotions flooding him—joy that his mother was alive, terror that his life had been erased, anger that this version of himself had taken everything from him.

He turned and ran.

Jace fled through the dark streets, past stores and glowing windows, until he skidded to a stop outside a shop. In the glass, his reflection stared back at him—same brown hair, same blue eyes, same scar on his chin from when he fell off his bike as a kid. He was still himself. So why didn’t they see him? Who was the boy in his place?

With nowhere else to go, he returned to the riverbank, curling into himself until exhaustion took him. Morning came with biting cold. He found a small café, scraped together enough for breakfast, and grabbed a newspaper from the counter. He unfolded it absently, eyes scanning the front page. Then his breath caught. The date. It was today. The day of the accident. A glance at the clock. One hour and twelve minutes until it happened. Jace shot up, heart slamming against his ribs. He threw money on the table and ran.

“Please, you have to listen to me!” Jace was frantic, his hands shaking as he stood on the front steps of his house. “You can’t go! If you get in that car, you’ll die!”

His father’s face darkened. “You need to leave.”

“Mom, please!” He turned to her desperately, but she only recoiled, fear creeping into her eyes.

“Who is this?” his older brother asked from the doorway.

Jace spun toward him. “Please! You have to believe me!”

His father stepped forward, voice low and warning. “If you don’t leave, I’m calling the police.”

Jace swallowed hard. “Dad, please—”

But his father pulled out his phone. Jace tried to push past him, but strong arms yanked him back. The last thing he saw before being forced into the police car was his family stepping inside the vehicle. The same vehicle that would crash.

Hours later, Jace sat in a jail cell. The walls were cold. The air smelled of rust. Then footsteps. He lifted his head as his father appeared at the cell door. Jace sucked in a breath. His father’s face was pale, streaked with tears. His shirt was stained with blood, his pants damp with it. And on his arm, a fresh burn. The same scar he’d always had. Their eyes met. And for the first time, his father saw him. Jace’s throat tightened. No words were spoken. None were needed. Because they both understood. They had lost them once. And now, they had lost them again.

The post The Boy Who Wasn’t There appeared first on EDC Writers.

One dove broke from the flock, descending in a measured, graceful arc. It landed upon the silver-rimmed wheel of a white and silver carriage that stood still at the edge of the pond. At its touch, the carriage stirred, shuddering as if waking from a deep slumber. The wheels creaked, the horses lifted their hooves, and the carriage began to glide forward, rolling over the icy ground as the dove lifted back into the air, returning to its kin.

Through the frost-kissed trees, the carriage moved, gliding along a glittering pathway that led to a grand castle rising against the dusky sky. Its spires gleamed with frost, and its towering doors loomed with an air of regal mystery. But as the carriage arrived at the entrance, something curious happened—out from the carriage stepped not nobility, but soldiers clad in shimmering silver and royal blue. They carried enormous platters, each laden with the most extravagant sweets and indulgences: towering sundaes, piles of frosted cupcakes, golden-fried delights, and candies wrapped in glistening paper.

More soldiers emerged, carrying yet more dishes—mountains of warm, syrup-drenched pancakes, rivers of chocolate, steaming trays of buttery popcorn, and an impossible array of treats, more than any carriage should be able to hold. One by one, they marched forward, up the polished steps to the castle doors.

With a great flourish, the grand doors swung open. On either side, resplendent butlers in crisp white gloves bowed low, their polished shoes gleaming under the candlelit chandeliers within. The soldiers filed in, carrying the impossible feast past gilded archways, velvet carpets, and gleaming banisters, deeper and deeper into the heart of the castle—

And into the bedroom of a six-year-old girl.

She lay on the floor, her legs bent at the knees, her pencil scratching furiously against a piece of paper. Around her were scattered crayon drawings of castles, skating princesses, and winged carriages.

“And dear Santa,” she whispered as she wrote, her tongue peeking out in concentration, “I want to eat as much as I want without getting a tummy ache. And I want a puppy, too. A white poodle with soft, white curls.”

She leaned back with a satisfied sigh, looking at the ceiling, already imagining the fluttering doves, the silver carriage, and the grand feast. With a smile, she folded her letter and placed it under her pillow.

Outside, in the hush of the winter night, a single dove landed on the windowsill.

The End

The post A Winter’s Wish appeared first on EDC Writers.

He looked up and froze.

Day 1

For a long moment, we just stared. Then, at the same time, we muttered:

“What the hell?”

A laugh burst out of me, startled and nervous. He smirked. “Well, this is weird.”

“You think?” I sat down across from him, drawn by a pull I couldn’t explain.

And just like that, we started talking.

Before we left, he grinned and said, “Same time tomorrow?”

I found myself nodding.

Day 5

The days passed in a blur of conversation.

Every afternoon, we met at the café, ordered the same coffee, and talked like old friends. The resemblance wasn’t just skin-deep. We had the same memories, the same childhood fears, the same way of tapping a rhythm on the table when thinking. But there were differences, too.

He had everything I wanted—a dream job, a house by the lake, a fiancée who adored him. I had the pieces, but they never seemed to fit together right.

“This is insane,” I said one afternoon after an hour of comparing lives. “I mean, what are the odds?”

“Maybe it’s a joke.” Alan grinned. “Or maybe the universe is screwing with us.”

I laughed. “If this is a cosmic prank, it’s a damn good one.”

He raised his cup in a mock toast. “To the multiverse.”

I clinked mine against his. Close—but not touching.

Day 12

“I used to think about running away,” Alan admitted, stirring his coffee. “Leaving my job, my life. Starting over somewhere else.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He shrugged. “I love them too much.”

I nodded. I understood. We joked about switching places. But it was just a joke.

Day 20

Without meaning to, we always sat at the center of the café.

I only noticed it one afternoon when I tried to slide my chair a little closer to his and felt… resistance. Nothing physical. Just a feeling, like stepping too close to the edge of a cliff.

Alan noticed, too. He frowned. “We never cross this line, do we?”

I hesitated. “Huh. Guess not.”

Neither of us tested it. Something about our meetings felt inevitable. Like two trains running parallel, never meant to intersect. Until the day we did. And the world stopped.

Day 25

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t special.

Alan reached out to shake my hand, the way friends do. Instinctively, I took it.

For the first time, we touched.

Time cracked. I could feel it—hear it—like a frozen lake splintering beneath my feet. The café, the people, the hum of the world—all fell into absolute stillness.

Alan’s hand was warm in mine, his grip just as firm as my own. His eyes widened in panic.

“What’s happening?” His voice didn’t echo, didn’t carry. It just hung in the frozen air, meaningless.

I tried to pull away.

Too late.

Light swallowed us whole.

Day…?

When I opened my eyes, I was sitting alone.

My coffee was still warm. The café buzzed with normalcy. Nothing had changed.

Except for me.

I had memories. Memories that weren’t mine—but were. A childhood by the lake. Late-night talks with a woman I loved. A job I thrived in. My mind reeled as two lives folded into one, like puzzle pieces snapping together.

I was Alan.

But which one?

I pressed a hand to my chest, my breathing uneven. Did I lose myself? Did I gain something greater? I didn’t know. But as I stood and walked away from the café—toward my home, my fiancée, my perfect life—one truth settled deep in my bones. I finally had everything I ever wanted. And I had no idea if that was a good thing.

The post The Man Across the Line appeared first on EDC Writers.

The water ran red, thick as blood. The earth trembled in rage. Cities crumbled under the weight of nature’s fury. The living, driven mad by fear, tore each other apart in the streets. And through it all, the ghost stood. No one knew who it had been in life, only that it appeared wherever the world cracked, whispering words no one understood. Its form shimmered, barely holding together, its mouth moving in a soundless chant: Cross the veil.

No one listened. No one could.

Until Layla.

She had lost everything—her mother to the riots, her brother to the disappearances. There was nothing left but survival, but what did that even mean when the world itself was dying? One night, as the sky burned with an unnatural fire, she saw the ghost again. It stood at the edge of a ruined street, its transparent form wavering between existence and nothing.

The words burned in her mind. Cross the veil. Layla swallowed hard, stepping forward as the last of the city collapsed behind her. The ghost didn’t react, didn’t move. But something shimmered in the air around it, like a ripple in glass. She reached out. Her fingers met resistance, pressing against something unseen yet solid. And then—

Light.

Blinding, warm, endless. She gasped, stumbling forward as the darkness behind her vanished. The air smelled of rain-soaked earth, of fresh grass and something impossibly sweet. The sky stretched vast and golden, untouched by ruin. Rolling fields spread in every direction, unmarred by time. And she was not alone.

People stood in clusters, staring at their hands, their feet, each other. Some she recognized—faces she had seen disappear without a trace. They were all here. Alive. She turned back. The world she had left was still there, a fading echo, unraveling like mist. She saw the ghost one last time, watching her with eyes that gleamed with something almost human. Then, it too, was gone. And Layla understood. The apocalypse wasn’t death. It was a door. And they had been given a choice.

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