"Echoes of Silence"
0 Points
0
I’m driving—a battered sedan, coated in fryer fat, sweat, and bandit cigarette smoke. The stench chafes, almost gives me blisters in my nose, but I clench my teeth and drop the window for a rush of salty city wind. Beneath that, blood—rusted spots on the floor mat from our escape. Old gunpowder in the air vents. Adrenaline makes me itch. I clench tighter.
Next to me is him—free at last. His breathing is shallow, heart staccato-quick. I hear everything. The stress, the disbelief in every exhale. He stares ahead, jaw working; hands wrapped in sleeves to hide the trembling. I keep my eyes forward on the slosh of headlights and neon. He’d seen too much, stayed too long with the wrong crew. Now he’s out. Now he’s my problem.
The sea appears—slick, black except where streetlight glitters and the high-rises’ reflections break the waves into teeth. The coast is empty at this hour. I brake hard, skidding the bandits’ car near a tangle of scrub and dumpsters. I imagine the warmth of embers still drifting up from the cigarette burned into the seat back. We leave them behind, two ghosts on the sidewalk.
He tugs at my arm—a pause, a wordless plea—and I know what it means, the way he looks down at his blood-wet shirt under the overshirt, the torn pants that reek of ash and fear. His old clothes: reminders. I nod, steering us toward a slouch of shops along the waterfront.
The clothing store smells like synthetic fabric and cheap deodorant, but it’s clean enough, and no one’s looking. I keep my hood low as I scan for cameras. I can feel every fiber rub across my skin—every tag, every seam—but the pain distracts me from the gnaw of memories: the clank of chains, bandits’ laughter, my fists slick with their blood and not healing fast enough.
He picks what he wants. I grab some for myself—dark, plain, not pretty but hard to spot in a crowd. I catch the reflection in a warped security mirror: my eyes, cooler than usual, the scars over my brow, the way my lips twist when I move too fast. Always the same chill under my skin, no matter how many lives I burn through.
Between two buildings, I lead us to the alley. I strip off my bandit-stained jacket and dump it, then stuff the car keys in my pocket. My hand clenches around them. Useless now. They might come after their car, but by then, we’ll be dark and far.
We walk the rest—sidewalks painted with sodium gold, the city noise a rat’s scrabble of footsteps and distant engines. I hear people fighting three blocks away, someone crying two houses down. His footsteps shuffle, almost rhythmic. He’s trying not to limp.
We reach it: an herbalist’s, the lights low, the door wedged with a sliver of soap so it doesn’t ring. I sense her heartbeat—owner, guardian, worry thudding slow. As we enter, her scent—tobacco, sage, honey—overlays the chlorophyll stink of crushed leaves. She shoots me a glare, hidden beneath a kindness-smile. She doesn’t want men in her place—she’s told me before—but I fix her with a look she understands: brother, help, rest. Not a word spoken, but all the same, her worry slows. The promise of safety, burned quietly into the silence between us. A hand shields my friend from suspicion.
Down the narrow steps, I count every rise, memorized. My healing factor means I never forget damage, but I also never forget comfort. The basement is cool, the herbalist’s herbal musk mixing with the sleep-dust in the corners. Our hideout: crates for chairs, a cot for my friend, a stack of moth-eaten blankets. Safe enough.
He slumps down and begins to talk, words pouring from him—like untangling a knot, frantic, hungry for sense. I pull a chair over, lean back, arms crossed. Every shift of his body whispers tension. I taste fear on the air, mixed with guilt and hope, sharp and sour. I react without words—a narrow-eyed grimace, a wrinkle of my nose. I think of my own quiet, my preference for silence. Words always make me want to retreat, small inside myself, listening instead of engaging.
He tells me things—I hear names, places, betrayals. He scrubs at his arms, his hands. Shame deepens his voice. I watch him. When his voice cracks, I make my face blank, then let my mouth tighten, just a little. It’s enough. He sees the reaction, pauses, breathes, steadies himself because he knows there’s someone hearing him. Someone alive and present, even if she barely speaks.
I count the passing moments by my pulse, fast and slow—ratcheted down by the safe walls, spiked by the words my friend can’t help spilling. I think of the bandits’ car, still warm, with its history of run and blood and smoke. I think of the shop owner upstairs, nervous but loyal. And I think of my friend’s heart, beating louder and steadier as he talks to me in the dark.
I am still. I am listening. I am the shadow at the side of the flame. Everything that happens now, I’ll remember—every wound and scar, every word unsaid between us. My silence is its own kind of answer, echoing back down the corridor as the city sleeps above us and the sea beats its slow, patient rhythm beyond.
This story was generated by user vereena93 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Write a very long story about how a mutant with heightened senses and a healing factor was driving in a car stolen from bandits with her friend, whom she had freed. When they reached the coast of the city, her friend told her to stop at a clothing store and they bought some clothes. Then the woman abandoned the car and they went on foot to the hideout. When they went inside, the owner of the herbalist's didn't seem happy that the mutant had brought a man, but explained to her that he was her brother and needed help and needed to rest. Finally, the herbalist agreed and let the mutant's friend stay. They went down to the basement, which was their hideout. When her friend started talking, the mutant just listened and sometimes reacted to his words with grimaces. She was known for being quiet and didn't like to talk much. Describe it in the form of a mutant's thoughts without any dialogues.
Response: I’m driving—a battered sedan, coated in fryer fat, sweat, and bandit cigarette smoke. The stench chafes, almost gives me blisters in my nose, but I clench my teeth and drop the window for a rush of salty city wind. Beneath that, blood—rusted spots on the floor mat from our escape. Old gunpowder in the air vents. Adrenaline makes me itch. I clench tighter. Next to me is him—free at last. His breathing is shallow, heart staccato-quick. I hear everything. The stress, the disbelief in every exhale. He stares ahead, jaw working; hands wrapped in sleeves to hide the trembling. I keep my eyes forward on the slosh of headlights and neon. He’d seen too much, stayed too long with the wrong crew. Now he’s out. Now he’s my problem. The sea appears—slick, black except where streetlight glitters and the high-rises’ reflections break the waves into teeth. The coast is empty at this hour. I brake hard, skidding the bandits’ car near a tangle of scrub and dumpsters. I imagine the warmth of embers still drifting up from the cigarette burned into the seat back. We leave them behind, two ghosts on the sidewalk. He tugs at my arm—a pause, a wordless plea—and I know what it means, the way he looks down at his blood-wet shirt under the overshirt, the torn pants that reek of ash and fear. His old clothes: reminders. I nod, steering us toward a slouch of shops along the waterfront. The clothing store smells like synthetic fabric and cheap deodorant, but it’s clean enough, and no one’s looking. I keep my hood low as I scan for cameras. I can feel every fiber rub across my skin—every tag, every seam—but the pain distracts me from the gnaw of memories: the clank of chains, bandits’ laughter, my fists slick with their blood and not healing fast enough. He picks what he wants. I grab some for myself—dark, plain, not pretty but hard to spot in a crowd. I catch the reflection in a warped security mirror: my eyes, cooler than usual, the scars over my brow, the way my lips twist when I move too fast. Always the same chill under my skin, no matter how many lives I burn through. Between two buildings, I lead us to the alley. I strip off my bandit-stained jacket and dump it, then stuff the car keys in my pocket. My hand clenches around them. Useless now. They might come after their car, but by then, we’ll be dark and far. We walk the rest—sidewalks painted with sodium gold, the city noise a rat’s scrabble of footsteps and distant engines. I hear people fighting three blocks away, someone crying two houses down. His footsteps shuffle, almost rhythmic. He’s trying not to limp. We reach it: an herbalist’s, the lights low, the door wedged with a sliver of soap so it doesn’t ring. I sense her heartbeat—owner, guardian, worry thudding slow. As we enter, her scent—tobacco, sage, honey—overlays the chlorophyll stink of crushed leaves. She shoots me a glare, hidden beneath a kindness-smile. She doesn’t want men in her place—she’s told me before—but I fix her with a look she understands: brother, help, rest. Not a word spoken, but all the same, her worry slows. The promise of safety, burned quietly into the silence between us. A hand shields my friend from suspicion. Down the narrow steps, I count every rise, memorized. My healing factor means I never forget damage, but I also never forget comfort. The basement is cool, the herbalist’s herbal musk mixing with the sleep-dust in the corners. Our hideout: crates for chairs, a cot for my friend, a stack of moth-eaten blankets. Safe enough. He slumps down and begins to talk, words pouring from him—like untangling a knot, frantic, hungry for sense. I pull a chair over, lean back, arms crossed. Every shift of his body whispers tension. I taste fear on the air, mixed with guilt and hope, sharp and sour. I react without words—a narrow-eyed grimace, a wrinkle of my nose. I think of my own quiet, my preference for silence. Words always make me want to retreat, small inside myself, listening instead of engaging. He tells me things—I hear names, places, betrayals. He scrubs at his arms, his hands. Shame deepens his voice. I watch him. When his voice cracks, I make my face blank, then let my mouth tighten, just a little. It’s enough. He sees the reaction, pauses, breathes, steadies himself because he knows there’s someone hearing him. Someone alive and present, even if she barely speaks. I count the passing moments by my pulse, fast and slow—ratcheted down by the safe walls, spiked by the words my friend can’t help spilling. I think of the bandits’ car, still warm, with its history of run and blood and smoke. I think of the shop owner upstairs, nervous but loyal. And I think of my friend’s heart, beating louder and steadier as he talks to me in the dark. I am still. I am listening. I am the shadow at the side of the flame. Everything that happens now, I’ll remember—every wound and scar, every word unsaid between us. My silence is its own kind of answer, echoing back down the corridor as the city sleeps above us and the sea beats its slow, patient rhythm beyond.
Post your own comment or use AI: