The Writer Circle

The Writer Circle presents....Re:Visions!

We are excited to announce a collaborative project our collective has been quietly working on for the past two months…

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14 days ago · 6 likes · The Writer Circle

Fuel For a Comeback Story

by

Hallie is a neurodivergent creator who enjoys telling stories flavored with heart, humor, and a healthy heaping of nerdy flair. She shares her short fiction and poetry (as well as a bit of every chaos) on her Substack, Fabled Lines. When she's not writing, she can be found at home spending time with her spouse, kids, and pets.

IG & Threads @halliejtwrites TikTok @halliejuleswrites

The Smouldering Steed is the main destination for after work pints and a hearty five o’clock stew, but look what lies just around the corner! Tired of the same grub and the same crowds? You know where to go.

Ursula Petit

Ursula Petit is a storyteller who lives in Northern Alberta with her partner and their very large dog. As a writer, poet, and visual artist she finds inspiration in the everyday. When she’s not creating, you can find her with her nose stuck in a book, playing outside, or trying to make her husband roll his eyes at her dad jokes.

SS: @ursulawritesthings - https://substack.com/@ursulawritesthings

A Reluctant Rescuer’s Guide to Getting Your Guy

By

Kate E.W. Norris

Nothing was as it seemed, which is precisely what Leanora expected when she stepped through the shimmering illusion warbling at the cave’s mouth. Fae. Everything with them was so insufferably dramatic. Just once, she’d love to walk into a cave that was just a cave. Not some glamoured, sexy hidey-hole for blood-crowned tyrants.

Leanora huffed, exasperated. If her Elder Lord (whom she called E.L., much to his annoyance) were here, she’d already be mid-rant about how the Fae were all spectacle, no substance. He’d laugh, call her his “funny little human,” and flash that infuriating grin. The thought tugged at something raw inside of her. Something she didn’t have the time, nor the coping skills, to deal with at the moment.

No. She had to stay on task. And that task was rescuing her boss from the depravity of the Iron Realm Fae, in whose Deepkeep Leanora now stood.

This was so not in the job description.

Ten months ago, she’d been desperate, very poor and very desperate. The only acceptable reason a human would enlist in the servitude of an Elder Lord. In Fae territory. With no backup plan. As far as ideas went? Easily one of her top five worst. As confirmed by her current surroundings.

The Deepkeep was very on brand for the Iron Realm Fae. Iron threaded through the bones of craggy rock like veins, eliciting the eerie impression that the walls themselves were weapons. Sharp-toothed Fae drank themselves into stupors, toasting E.L.’s capture. Leanora rolled her eyes. This place was like a parody of itself. Evil try-hards.

All that magic, and not one glamour to mute the cave stench!? Or, gods forbid, some damn windows? No wonder they were all pale and pissy.

Leanora’s reflection stared back at her from the glassy onyx floor. Short. Stout. Pitifully human. She jerked her gaze away, pulling her crimson cloak tighter. The same cloak E.L. gave her for her birthday, despite her insistence that such a gift was inappropriate, as he was her boss. She cast her eyes down. Find the dungeons. In and out. How hard could that be?

“Aerika?” A drunken Fae slurred behind her. “Where you been, baby?”

Leanora walked faster. The drunkard grabbed her arm hard, forcing her to face him. She flinched as the Fae’s breath, sour with hops and onions, washed over her. She gagged.

“C’mon, I’ll make it up to you,” he slurred, clutching her shoulder, his meaty paw cementing her in place. “Whatever you want. Just say the word,” he grinned.

She staggered under his weight as he leaned harder into her for balance. Crowns above this guy was shit-faced. She noticed his uniform, and her stomach bottomed out. Iron Guard. Shit. She did not travel a grueling six days just to be dispatched by a drunk guard.

A very…very drunk guard.

“Take me to the dungeons,” Leanora whispered, low, breathy. An erotic proposal. It was a huge gamble, assuming this guy was so sloshed he couldn’t tell the difference between his girlfriend’s voice and that of a stranger. And that he wouldn’t question why his girlfriend was asking for a romantic stroll to the prison below.

His brow furrowed. Leanora covertly reached for her dagger, knowing it was of little use here, surrounded by enemies, facing a Fae his size. If he wanted, he could pick her up and toss her like a pixie. He staggered closer. She tensed. Then—he burped. Loudly. “Hot. Let’s do it.”

He clutched her hand and dragged her along, a sack of spoils on parade. She let him and allowed herself one small moment of triumph. Maybe, just maybe, she could pull this off.

The deafening revelry faded behind them as they made their way through echoey corridors of gnarled rock, the blue-flame torchlight casting crooked shadows as they traversed deeper into the keep.

Without warning, the guard stopped short and shoved Leanora up against the wall, jagged stone biting into her back.

“Don’t need to go all the way to the dungeons to be alone,” he breathed, pinning her wrist above her head.

She panted, a scream climbing its way up her throat. Her dagger out of reach, she slapped him with her free hand. The effect like a toddler swatting a tree trunk. Laughable. His eyes gleamed.

“I like you feisty,” he growled, leaning in for a kiss. Leonora jammed her fingers into his mouth, yanking his cheek like a fishhook.

“No touching ‘til the dungeons, babe,” she slapped him again. For good measure. He shivered, his erection visibly fighting his trousers, a buried man clawing to the surface for air.

“Yes, my queen,” he purred, ushering her to lead the way.

She stormed ahead. Fear, rage, and sheer annoyance guiding her. The smell of fetid earth and forgotten things hit her nostrils first. There it was. The dungeon, yawning before her, a cruel mouth waiting to swallow her whole. If she didn’t successfully rescue E.L., she hoped it would.

The guard fumbled the keys, scraping the edge of the keyhole, missing several times. When the key finally plunged into the rusted lock, he wiggled his eyebrows at Leanora suggestively and pulled the key back out. Then in. Then out.

She had reached the absolute end of her patience.

In one swift move, she slashed the Fae’s thick forearm with her dagger. He looked down at the thin line of blood, his confusion turning to rage. His eyes met Leanora’s and promised violence. Her bones turned gelatinous. She stumbled back. The guard lumbered toward her and then—collapsed, face-first on the cave floor, centuries of dust wafting around Leanora’s feet.

Her heart thundered in her ears. Her vision swam. Still, she compelled her body forward, stepping over the incapacitated guard. The paralytic wouldn’t last long. She had to move. Fast.

The iron door groaned open. Inside: cell after cell after cell. Blast. How was she supposed to find E.L.? She rushed past each barred cage, eyes on a swivel. The stench of blood, urine, and something rotten grew stronger the deeper she went.

“Leo,” a faint rasp stopped her cold. Leanora turned. There he was. A huddled mass in filthy, tattered rags. Chained and bloodied. Almost unrecognizable save for those brilliant blue eyes. Her Elder Lord. E.L.

A white-hot rage cindered her bones. What had they done to him? Her eyes burned. She unlocked his cell and sank beside him, wanting to touch him, afraid to hurt him.

“You wound me,” he croaked. “Do I look that bad?”

She blinked through tears. “No worse than normal, Sir.”

He grinned that infuriating grin, and she huffed a laugh. Gods damn him. He reached up to wipe a tear from her cheek, his wrist catching on the iron cuffs.

“When I fantasized about one of us tied up,” he said, flashing a crooked grin, “this wasn’t what I had in mind.”

Leanora rolled her eyes. His grin widened. She attempted to unlock the cuffs with little luck. She looked around the cell, her gaze snagging on a loose boulder.

“Hold out your hands,” she ordered. She hoisted the massive rock above her head.

He yanked the chains taut. “Worst case, you shatter both of my hands,” he encouraged.

“Sir, please shut up,” she panted, then brought the rock down—hard. E.L. held his hands aloft, the broken chain dangling.

“Here I thought I was the master of breaking things,” he smiled, rubbing at his wrists.

“I learned from the best,” she replied with a triumphant smile.

She helped E.L. to stand, her hand lingering on his chest. A little too long. They locked eyes. There was so much she wanted to say. Needed to stay. “Tell me once we make it out of here,” he said. She nodded.

They made their way up the winding stairs.

“You found my note, then,” he asked.

Leanora exhaled sharply, “You’re lucky I did.”

“I knew my trusty Steward was nosy enough to dig through my trash, and attentive enough to recall I’d given up elder wine for Veilfast.”

“Before I saw the note hidden inside the bottle, I was ready to scold you—”

“I should have liked to hear it,” he replied, his voice a low, sensual promise that had her stomach clenching. They kept climbing.

The din of debauchery from the main hall drew nearer as they reached the top landing. E.L. paused briefly, turning to Leanora, “In the event we die in these next few minutes, I’d like to thank you for—”

“You would have done the same,” she argued.

“Yes,” he replied, “But I live for chaos. Whereas you abhor adventure and even the slightest scheduling deviation. The gesture is not lost on me.”

“Sir—”

“E.L., if you don’t mind,” he said, pushing a loose strand of mousy hair behind her ear. Her breath caught in her throat. He touched his forehead to hers.

“Leo,” he whispered tenderly. And then— he was pulling away. Footsteps thundered below. The Guard. They ran for the main hall.

Leanora shucked off her cloak and thrust it at E.L.

“Take this!” She shouted. He frowned.

“Now hardly seems the appropriate time to rehash this argument—”

“Put it on!” She shouted. They rounded another corridor, the cavernous hall now in view. E.L. threw the cloak over his shoulders, the hood falling over his eyes.

“This will fool them,” he said.

“Do you have a better idea?!” she spat, stopping to cast her hands to her hips. E.L. yanked her onward. They stepped onto the endless mirror ball floor, the saturnalia still in full swing. Leonora snagged an iron goblet of ale, sloshing it about and singing off-key. E.L. leaned into her, limping along.

“I should throw more parties,” he whispered, enthralled, “I enjoy watching you pretend to revel.”

They reached the lip of the cave just as the guard from the dungeons burst into the hall shouting, “The Elder Lord—he’s escaping!” Every head in the hall turned their way. Leanora and E.L. didn’t bother looking back as they leapt through the gap, a magical shield slicing down behind them, severing the last few inches of the crimson cloak.

Leanora felt practically weightless with the absence of the glamour. E.L. stood taller now, the oppression of the iron-laced walls no longer tempering his power.

“Can you make the jump?” Leanora asked, panicked.

“We’re about to find out,” he said, offering his hand. She grabbed hold, taking a deep breath. As Iron Guards poured out of the cave, Leanora and E.L. disappeared in the blink of an eye. Headed home.

Sweet grass and honeysuckle enveloped Leanora as her body thumped hard into the earth outside the manor. Oh, how she longed to magically transport place-to-place without falling flat on her ass. Before she could stand and brush herself off, strong arms scooped her up and pressed her against a warm, firm chest. As E.L. carried her toward the house, Leanora nuzzled her face into his neck. She pulled back slightly, daring a glance at him.

“Hi,” she whispered, suddenly shy.

Maybe this overwhelming surge of emotion was nothing more than post-traumatic stress. Maybe the perilous adventure had addled her brain. Or maybe… Leanora was done pretending. Done fighting the inevitable, regardless of the consequences.

“Hi,” he replied softly, brushing his nose against hers. The gesture was so intimate and tender that any remaining doubts evaporated.

“I think I might love you,” she sighed, “Which is really going to annoy Gabriel in H.R.”

E.L. barked a laugh so loud, Leanora flinched. He tilted her chin up, smiling.

“Funny little human,” he said, “My funny little human.” And he pressed his lips to hers. She melted into the kiss, into him, into this new reality. She was his. And if she was being honest, she had been from the moment she set foot in that manor.

Maybe nothing in this place would ever be as it seemed, but Leanora thought she could live with that.

Kate E. W. Norris

Kate is a professional screenwriter in Los Angeles. She is a TV staff writer on a yet-to-be-released Roku Original mystery rom-com series and is writing her first Lifetime thriller feature. You can watch her recent film, A Vineyard Christmas, on Netflix. Kate is excited to be venturing out of TV & Film and into the world of romantic fiction writing.

SS: @katewritesalot

Write. Romance. Repeat

Chronicling the glamorous life of writing romance and comedy (sometimes both at once.)

By Kate Writes A Lot

TT: @katewritesalot
IG: @katiewilbert
Website: www.katiewilbert.com

If you liked what you read today, subscribe so you don’t miss the next release of submissions to our anothology project Re: Visions; Igniferous, the fire within!

The Fighting Flame

A figure stands with her back facing the viewer, blocking the forces that would seek to extinguish her warmth and light. Representing the flame within, she shows the fight to keep your inner spark alive against those that would want to dim your light.

is a storyteller who lives in Northern Alberta with her partner and their very large dog. As a writer, poet, and visual artist she finds inspiration in the everyday. When she’s not creating, you can find her with her nose stuck in a book, playing outside, or trying to make her husband roll his eyes at her dad jokes.

Stains

Written by: J. M. Mulders

Shirt steamed, pants pressed, sink wiped, and coffee brewed at the optimal temperature of one hundred ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit. The final steps of my morning routine completed in exactly twelve minutes and forty-two seconds. No more. No less.

You’ve outdone yourself, Kara Clark.

I glance at the large diamond on my right hand and smile. Soon to be Mrs. Kara Knowles.

No one understands the dedication it takes to be at the top. How to be prepared for any event, or hire the right people to get the small jobs done. It’s one of the reasons Daniel chose me. I smile in the bathroom mirror, examining each tooth for any imperfections, wiping my tongue over the enamel before grabbing my red light mask.

Each second counts, especially today of all days.

Daniel, my lovely, handsome, extremely successful fiancé, is having his parents over this evening, and it could make or break our relationship. They are top-tier. The creme de la creme of socialites in our city. It’s a new world for me to explore and I have no desire to leave it. Not when things are just starting to take off. Not when I have worked so hard to get to this point.

I have several appointments this morning in preparation for tonight. Nails need to be filed and re-geled, my hair trimmed and a proper blowout, my tailored clothes need to be picked up, and, oh, the private chef for tonight needs final confirmation of the menu. Daniel specifically said his mother adores halibut, so halibut she will get.

Fuck. I should do that now.

Through the glow of my red light mask, I text Chef Aaron a final thumbs up. One thing off the list.

There is still the decorator to deal with. Linda had been recommended by a friend, but to be honest, I am not impressed. How hard is it to find white tulips? Not red, not pink, and not cream. White. It’s Daniel’s mom’s favorite color. It has to be white! I type a furious text to Linda to confirm their color. The three dots appear, their wave movement flying like a flag. They stop, but no message comes through. Come on Linda, get it together. Confirm the fucking flower color!

As I removed the red light mask, my phone pings. Linda has sent a single thumbs up emoji. What a bitch.

I let out a slow, steady breath. The lines on my forehead look like canyons. This stress can’t be good for my skin. I add an extra layer of moisturizer to my face. Maybe I should have ordered an IV drip this morning.

Pulling my makeup bag from the cabinet, I get to work on my casual day look while running through my list once more to find the optimal use of my time. It will take about twenty minutes to drive to the salon and, if Tal’s isn’t busy, perhaps I could pick up the clothes on the way there. I can make this work. I can be the woman Daniel and his family need me to be.

Once my makeup is finished, I slip on the pair of dark corduroy pants I pressed this morning and the freshly steamed shirt. Spraying this year’s latest spring scent and fastening my fourteen-carat gold bracelet, a gift from my favorite jewelers, I still have about forty minutes till the first salon appointment.

As I walk down the stairs, I curse at the vacuum Daniel didn’t put away last night. He insisted on helping clean the house for tomorrow. As if I couldn’t handle the responsibility of a house. It’s not helpful if there are things still left to do. I haphazardly collect the cord, chucking the vacuum into the broom closet.

In the kitchen, an old cup of coffee sits next to the sink. Not in it. Next to it.

I swallow my curses as I give it a quick rinse and load it into the dishwasher. At least another won’t sprout up while I am out. With my car keys and designer purse in hand, I head towards the garage, coming to a halt as I pass the large hallway mirror.

What the hell is that?

Glaring at the small, black stain over my heart, I lift it to my nose to sniff it. It has no smell, which I guess is good, but I can’t go out like this. What if the ladies at the salon saw me like this?

I toss my bag onto the bench in the hall, running up the stairs and into my closet. With the shirt now off, I examine it closely. It isn’t coffee: the color is too dark. Oh my god, is it mold?! I search the ceiling of my closet for any signs of water damage, feeling a sense of relief and confusion when I can’t find anything out of the ordinary.

The stained shirt lands on the edge of the hamper as I flip through my other clothes, stumbling upon a similar colored shirt. Though the shade is a tad off, it will do.

My Cartier watch reads 9:15 am. I am going to have to skip Tal’s. I collect my bag from the hallway bench and jog to my car as the garage door opens. Do they not make these things go any faster? The Audi purrs to life, and I am on my way, only taking some traffic laws into consideration as I speed to my appointment.

Morning appointments always mean actual parking spots by the door, and today is no exception. I pull into the first spot I see. At least something is going right today.

I am through the salon door by 9:50 am. The five minutes late scratches at my skin as I take note of the receptionist’s judging eye. I lift my chin higher as I approach and state, “Appointment for Kara Clark.”

She gives me that Gen Z blank stare for a moment, and I consider going straight to the stylist’s chair without another word. The computer mouse clicks and slides across the desk, her expression unchanging. Bethany or Courtney, whatever her name is, finally looks up at me. “Sadie will be with you shortly.”

Thankfully, I don’t have to wait too long as Sadie bounds into the waiting room. Her strawberry blonde hair pops against her all-black attire. Sadie is the best in town at blowouts. If anyone can get me ready for tonight, it’s her.

She ushers me to the chair, and the small talk settles in. Nothing notable. Just the usual ‘oh did you hear about…’ and ‘I can’t believe she wore that’ talk. I don’t retain any of it, and as she prattles on and on about some hardship from last week. By the end of it, Sadie runs her well-manicured fingers through my newly styled hair. The curls are fabulous, exactly what I wanted, and they bounce every time her fingertips reach the ends.

I look exactly as I need to for tonight. Effortless.

“All set!” Sadie declares, unsnapping the salon cape and moving it in a way the clippings don’t land on me. She is always so detail-oriented, which is why she is the best in town.

“It’s perfect, Sadie,” I say, looking at the mirror as I tousle my locks. Then I notice it, a stain on my shirt. Same color and location as the stain I found at home. “What on earth!?”

I grab at the salon cape, inspecting it for the culprit. Maybe some stray hair dye or something. Sadie’s expression is one of confusion and concern.

“Don’t you see what it did to my shirt!”

“Kara, I don’t see anything on your shirt. Not even a wrinkle,” Sadie says, dumbfounded by my outburst. The whole salon shares her expression. “Perhaps it is the lighting? A shadow from the overhead light?”

I stare at the stain on my chest and back up to my reflection in the mirror. It’s too dark to be the lighting, and yet, Sadie doesn’t see it. I bottle my panic way down inside, brushing it off as if nothing happened. Because to everyone else, nothing happened, except my crazed outburst.

Sadie’s worried gaze follows me as I drop the cape on the chair and go to pay my bill. The need to get out of here overwhelms me so much that I don’t bother making my next appointment. My shoes clip against the sidewalk as I return to my car, stopping just short when a gleam catches my eye.

The window to my left houses an array of brooches. The gaudy kind grandmas wear. I pick the least gaudy piece, a peacock curved into a ‘C’ shape. Its tail feathers fan out in the center, leaving no holes for the spot to show through its intricate metalwork. I fasten it over the stain as soon as the register beeps.

If anyone I know sees me, I am telling them it’s ‘casual brunch chic’.

I am off to the next stop on my list. This time with less parking luck and even less luck when I notice the line at Tal’s is long. I use the time to answer my messages while I wait. When I look down at my phone, I see it: A trail of dark ink peeking out from under the brooch.

The stain is spreading.

This day cannot get worse.

A ping from my phone draws my attention. It’s the maid: “Sorry, Miss Clark. I’m sick today.”

Oh, I guess it can get worse. At least my shirt is already gross.

I hastily reply that I hope she gets well soon and ask where the extra vacuum bags are. Soon, I have my dry cleaning and am on my way home.

With my hands full, I struggle into the house, flopping the hanger bag over the soft curve of the banister. I pass the kitchen, where a ceramic menace sits next to the sink. The shine of its coating taunting me, like a stain, perhaps. Juggling the mug with my one free hand, I place it into the top rack of the machine. Am I the only one who knows what this appliance is for?

I get to work wiping down the counters, fluffing the decorative pillows, dusting the shelves, and pulling the fine china for Linda to use. And finally, vacuuming the first floor. It’s the last thing on my list before things really start to come together. The roar of the vacuum is so loud I almost miss Linda, who is frantically waving through the front door window while she balances cream tulips in her other arm.

My eye twitches as I give her a welcoming smile. Let her decorate the whole room with cream for all I care.

I adjust my brooch as I walk to the door, checking that the stain is well contained for now. To my surprise, it looks….smaller? If that is even possible. I open the door, stepping to the side to let Linda in.

“Hi, Linda,” I say, more sheepish than I would have liked. “I need to go upstairs and clean up a bit, but you know where to go, right?”

“Yes, I have a few things to bring in, and then we will be…”

I don’t bother stopping to listen as I make my way up the stairs, grabbing the hanger bag from the railing. She can have her cream colored tulips, but she can’t have my remaining patience. Not at this point.

The dress I picked up from Tal’s looks great. It’s an A-line dress with a sweetheart neckline. The royal blue color will look stunning on me. It has no wrinkles in sight, but I hang it on the door in my bathroom as I shower, just in case. I strip off my dirty shirt and pin my hair up, careful not to get it wet as I scrub off the dust from cleaning.

As I step out of the shower, I see my pile of clothes on the floor. The stained shirt at the top, only this time, it bears no stain. Okay, now I have for sure lost it. Or it truly was the lighting, as Sadie had said. I grab the first stained shirt from the hamper. This one absolutely had a stain, so I pause when it too shows no trace of the inky substance.

It’s a mystery I am fully prepared to put behind me, only further confirmed when I hear Linda calling my name from downstairs. I quickly get dressed, smoothing the fabric of my dress, and head down to tame whatever surprise the universe has in store for me.

Linda bombards me with questions. Some of which I am certain we discussed at the last meeting, but I answer them anyway, careful not to stare at the cream flowers for too long. Thankfully the doorbell rings, signaling the arrival of Chef Aaron.

He shuffles in with his sous chefs. A rush of relief runs through me as they cart in a box labeled: Halibut.

Take note, Linda. TAKE. NOTE.

I show his staff where everything is, and before I can finish, they are in full kitchen mode. That’s when I see it, its ceramic sheen looking at me. A mug. Not in the sink. Next to the sink.

“Linda. Why is there a mug on the counter?”

“Huh? A mug? That was there when we arrived.”

Now I have hit the end of my rope because that mug was not there when I was cleaning, and the only ones here are me, Linda, and her assistant, who is currently hiding behind the table centerpiece.

“Everyone, listen up. I am only going to say this one time. Everything needs to be perfect. Not almost perfect. Not kinda perfect. It needs to be fully perfect! That means no loose ends, no half-assed attempts, and no used mugs left on the countertop! What do you think the dishwasher is for?”

The room is dead silent, which I am hoping means they get the picture. I let out a deep sigh.

“Any questions?” I ask. They collectively shake their heads ‘no’ and get back to work. A headache begins to make its appearance, and I pinch the bridge of my nose as a reflex. Looking down to see a dark ink stain on my royal blue dress.

“No. No, no, no, no, no, not my dress!” I shriek. Storming out of the kitchen and upstairs, where I slam my bathroom door so hard, the house trembles. This has to be some sick joke. I reach for the zipper at the back, sliding the dress off and chucking it onto the floor.

The dark, inky stain covers the entire left side of my chest. From my collarbone to just below my rib cage. I take deep breaths to center myself and close my eyes.

You can do this, Clark. YOU. CAN. DO. THIS.

Caught in my downward spiral, I miss Daniel’s footsteps on the stairs. His voice startles me into a masked state.

“Hey, babe, the decorators had a question for you. You good?” Daniel asks from the other side of the door.

“I’m fine,” I call out, steadying my voice so he can’t tell I am crying. “Tell the decorators they can do whatever and see if Chef Aaron needs anything. I’ll be down in a few.”

“Ok, babe.” I hear him plod down the steps, blissfully unaware of my dilemma.

I face the mirror and open my eyes, where I am confronted by the same dark coloring on my skin. It looks less like ink on my flesh and more like a horrid, sickly bruise. My fingertips rub furiously at the mark, but nothing budges. Not even residue gets on my hands, meaning it is inside me.

The thought makes my skin crawl.

I rub harder and harder. Tears welling in my eyes before I can start my calming breaths again. This can’t be happening! Why is this happening? How is this even possible?! The tears worsen as they pick up my makeup and go on a World Tour around my face. I am the definition of a mess. Nothing a vigorous luffa scrubbing and a good ol’ shower cry can’t fix.

The faucet squeaks as I turn the handle, water bursts to life, and steams up the room. I carefully pin my hair back once more and strip the remainder of my underwear off, until I am bare in front of the mirror. For a moment, I wonder if the stain is growing, or…pulsing? Should I go to the hospital? I don’t have time for the hospital. Not today.

Careful not to get my hair wet, I step into the hot water and lather my hands with soap before rubbing the stain on my chest. The soap does nothing but hide the stain under its suds. The dark color peeks through the larger bubbles. I take a break to clean my face, ridding it of the haphazard eyeliner and rivers of mascara, before returning to the stain.

I worked so hard for this day. Made sure everything was perfect, and it was. It was at almost every step except this one. The one that really mattered. My tears are full force again, and my legs begin to wobble as I focus on my breaths. I slowly sink to the shower floor, wrapping my arms around my tucked legs.

I realize I am thoroughly soaked when I hear the clunk of my hair clip falling out onto the tiles. All the time preparing. All the money spent. All the times I had to stop to take calming breaths because Linda can’t tell the difference between white and cream! And for what?

The warm water on my back makes this curled position rather nice. It soothes and unravels my spiral the longer I sit there like I am a little fetus in a womb, unbothered by flower colors, meal plans, and stains.

Again, I don’t hear Daniel coming up the stairs.

“Kara, are you okay? The decorator left, and my parents have arrived,” he says. The bathroom door handle jiggles. “Kara? Are you in the shower still?”

“I’ll be out soon! Tell Aaron to start the appetizers. There is white wine in the fridge.”

“Okay. You sure you’re good?”

“Yup. Dandy.”

His steps sound more hesitant this time. I muster the strength to get out of the shower, not bothering to look in the mirror as I dry myself off. In my closet, among the designer clothes and shelves of shoes, I find it. A cotton pajama set I bought my junior year of college. The legs and sleeves are long with a repeated design of dumplings throughout.

Using a towel, I pat my hair dry as much as I can and pull the old scrunchy from the top drawer. I make the messy bun extra messy. It seems to favor the left side of my head, popping out as if it will tumble free, which it probably is. My fluffiest robe calls to me from behind the door, and I pull it on before I can second-guess myself.

I stare at myself in the mirror for a moment. The epitome of ‘not today’. A modern take on the Venus statue.

Taking a deep breath, I unlock the bathroom door and head downstairs. Daniel and his parents are laughing at the table, and I hear the tink of thin glass as they share a bottle of wine. I emerge from the dark hallway and into the fully lit dining room. Their voices halt when they notice me.

“Oh! Kara!” his mom gasps. Daniel’s father stares in shock, while Daniel scrambles to rise from his chair.

“Sweetheart? You okay?”

“Yup.” I clop my way over to my place at the dining room table. Adjusting my robe as I sit down. Chef Aaron walks out of the kitchen with his staff and plates full of bruschetta. Before anyone can make an additional inquiry, I ask, “May I have some wine, please?”

It’s only Daniel’s mom who moves to grab me a glass, filling it generously. There is a nonchalance about her movement, like this isn’t the first time she has experienced a moment like this. She waves over the kitchen team, signaling permission to place the bruschetta.

“Kara, what happened to the dress you bought?” Daniel asks, unconvinced by my original declaration of being ‘okay’.

His mom reaches over, patting his arm. “She is fine, Daniel. Enjoy your meal.”

Everyone is silent for a moment, slow to begin eating until I pick up a toasted slice and bite into its acidity.

“You should have told me this was a pajama party, Kara,” she says, again as casual as can be. His mom looks at me with a knowing look in her eyes. “These Spanx are killing me.”

And I realize then that this is enough. Being here, being present, is all that was needed.

J. M. Mulders

Jackie is an epic fantasy writer working on her debut novel. She has a fascination with morally grey characters and how different mythologies influence one another across the globe.

https://www.instagram.com/j.m.mulders_author

Trigger Warnings: Panic Attacks

We are excited to announce a collaborative project our collective has been quietly working on for the past two months.

Re:Visions is half anthology, half short story challenge.

This flagship project will take place over 2026 and culminate in a digital release in early 2027. It will be comprised of short stories, poetry, and art created by our members.

Re: Visions aims to mirror the drafting-to-publishing journey and hone in on what the Writer Circle does best— improving craft through peer critique and feedback.

HOW IT WORKS

Each year a theme for the publication is selected and each quarter a prompt is issued.

Shorts must utilize both the overarching theme and quarterly prompt.

Here’s what makes this anthology unique: during the three month quarter, writers upload their piece to a shared drive to receive alpha feedback from the collective (just like we do within our writing groups every month) before submitting the final draft for a proofread. At the end of each quarter we will slow release the pieces here on Substack before announcing the next prompt!

Art and Poetry are accepted on a rolling basis and must incorporate elements of the theme, while the prompt is optional.

Here’s what makes this anthology even more unique: because writing is re-writing, writers continue to gather feedback and work on their piece during the remainder of the year with the opportunity to re-submit an edited version before the final deadline in December. That final version is the one to be incorporated into the digital publication!

Our goal for this anthology is to create and collaborate across the server, utilizing the same critique and support style that is so successful within our writing groups, and to make something we’re proud of, together!

2026 THEME + Q1 PROMPT

Apropos of everything happening here on planet Earth—lost in the behemoth energetic clashes of inevitable consequence while just trying to carve out time with your keyboard, anyone?— the Chinese zodiac deemed 2026 the Year of the Fire Horse, which caught our collective attention. The fire horse embodies bold action, rapid forward movement, and disruption of the existing order. It is an energy that paves the way for new patterns, growth, change, and prosperity.

In a year where we haven’t stopped talking about Main Character Energy, like recognize like.

This year’s theme,

‘IGNIFEROUS: the fire within,’

honors the internal flame we carry within us, a burning ember with the potential to light beacons, burn bridges, and raze corrupted empires to the ground. We are all fire-bearers.

Fires are be destructive, but transformational. What often lies in the wake of destruction is an opportunity for new growth and new power structures to emerge, and our quarter one prompt sets up your characters to navigate that power.

The possibilities are endless!

Q1 Prompt: Side Quest

Take a character on an unexpected or spontaneous side quest. You can start from scratch or give us a taste of a character from a current WIP! The side quest prompt gives you the opportunity to explore the “why” behind character choices. Play with quirks and personality tropes while developing concise backstory, strong motivation, and clear stakes that make your character an active rather than passive agent.

How will your characters meet their call to action and transform challenges along their journey?

We can’t wait to find out!

Q1 shorts, poetry, and art will be released here on our Substack over the next two weeks so keep an eye out…

and happy writing everyone!