E K Stokes

In that case I'll try wrapping things up with a suitable, if a little vague, kind of ending, with, of course, the prompt... The disused rail tracks, rusted and overgrown with hardy coastal weeds, snaked along the cliffs, a skeletal reminder of a bygone era. Zelt, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, followed them, the salty air stinging his eyes, the wind whipping his hair. The tracks led him to a secluded cove, where an old wooden shack, weathered and grey, clung to the edge of the cliff. He approached cautiously, his footsteps muffled by the sand. The shack was silent, save for the rhythmic crashing of the waves against the rocks below. He pushed open the creaking door, and there he was, Sam, standing by the window, his red hair a vibrant splash of color against the grey backdrop of the sea. He turned, his eyes widening as he saw Zelt. A mixture of emotions flickered across Sam's face – relief, sadness, a hint of something he couldn't quite decipher. "Zelt," Sam whispered, his voice hoarse. "Sam," he replied, his voice barely a breath. An awkward silence fell between them, the weight of their unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. "I got your message," Zelt said, stepping closer. "The tracks... the sea." Sam nodded, his gaze fixed on the turbulent waves. "I needed to be here," he said, his voice trembling. "I needed to get away." "Away from me?" Zelt asked, his voice laced with a hint of pain. Sam hesitated, then looked up at him, his eyes filled with tears. "Not from you," he said softly. "From... everything. From the city, from the memories, from the fear." "I understand," Zelt said, reaching out to touch Sam's arm. "I've been away too. I needed to get better. I needed to find myself." "And have you?" Sam asked, his voice barely a whisper. Zelt nodded. "I'm trying," he said. "I'm trying to be the man you deserve." Sam reached out and took his hand, his touch sending a wave of warmth through him. "You've always been the man I deserve, Zelt," he said, his voice filled with emotion. "I just needed you to see it too." They stood in silence for a moment, the only sound the crashing of the waves and the gentle sigh of the wind. Then, Sam stepped forward into his arms, and Zelt held him close, the feeling of his warmth a comforting presence after so long. "I missed you," Zelt whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I missed you too," Sam replied, his voice muffled against Zelt's chest. They stayed there for a long time, holding each other, A warm silence filled the room, unspoken words of love and forgiveness. The sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the sea. "I'm so pleased," Sam said, pulling away slightly. "This was only meant to be a temporary refuge, but we can spend the night." They stood hand in hand in the middle of the shack, looking out the window back towards the old rail tracks, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. They held each other. Zelt imagined the train rumbling along the tracks, the rhythmic clatter a familiar comfort. Together, they watched the train leaving the station. A single sunbeam broke through the heavy clouds and flashed over the last wagon before it vanished in the early morning mist.

I haven't finished with it yet, so if you post the whole story can you leave me to carry on to the end? Three months later... The apartment was a ghost. Dust motes danced in the pale afternoon light filtering through the grimy window, illuminating the stark emptiness. The familiar scent of Sam's musky perfume, once a comforting presence, was gone, replaced by the sterile, vacant smell of a place long uninhabited. Zelt stood in the doorway, the train ticket crumpled in his hand, a cold dread creeping up his spine. The familiar furniture was gone, replaced by the bare bones of the apartment: the faded wallpaper, the scuffed floorboards, the lingering echo of a life that had been packed away. He walked through the rooms, his footsteps echoing in the silence. The kitchen, once a hub of shared meals and late-night conversations, was stripped bare, the cupboards empty, the fridge unplugged. The bedroom, their sanctuary, was a hollow shell, the mattress gone, the closet doors gaping open. He found a single, faded photograph lying discarded on the bare floorboards in the living room. It was a picture of Sam, his red hair ablaze in the sunlight, his smile radiant. On the back, in his familiar handwriting, were two words: "Find me." A wave of panic washed over him, a cold, suffocating fear. Where was he? Why had he left? Had he given up on him? He sank onto the floor, the photograph clutched in his hand, his mind reeling. He remembered the promise he had made, the vow to get better, to return to him. Had he failed him? Had he lost him forever? He stood up, his resolve hardening. He wouldn't give up. He wouldn't let him disappear. He would find him. He left the apartment, the empty space a heavy weight on his chest. He walked through the familiar streets, the city a blur of faces and sounds. He went to the café where Sam had worked, but the barista behind the counter shook her head. "Sam? He hasn't worked here in months. He just...left." He asked around, showing the photograph to anyone who would look, but no one recognized the face. He felt like a ghost, wandering through a city where he no longer belonged. He returned to the apartment, the photograph his only clue. He studied it, searching for any detail, any hint of Sam's whereabouts. He noticed a faint smudge in the background, a glimpse of a familiar building. He remembered a small art gallery they had visited together, a place Sam had loved for its eclectic collection of outsider art. He remembered him saying, "This place feels like a secret world, a place where anything is possible." He went to the gallery, his heart pounding with anticipation. The gallery was closed, a sign hanging on the door: "Closed for renovation." But a dim light shone from a back window. He knocked on the back door, and a moment later, it opened. A woman with kind eyes and paint-stained hands peered out. "Can I help you?" He showed her the photograph. "I'm looking for Sam," he said, his voice trembling. "He used to come here." The woman's eyes widened. "Sam? Yes, he was here. He helped us with the renovation." "Where is he now?" Zelt asked, his voice urgent. The woman hesitated, then stepped aside. "He left a message for you. He said if you came, I should give you this." She handed him a small, folded piece of paper. He opened it, his hands shaking. Inside, a single sentence was written in Sam's handwriting: "The tracks lead to the sea." He looked up at the woman, his eyes filled with questions. "The tracks?" he asked. "What does that mean?" The woman smiled, a knowing smile. "He always loved the coast," she said. " He said it was where he felt most free. There are old, unused rail lines that run along the coast. He said he'd be waiting where they end." Zelt's heart pounded with renewed hope. He knew where Sam was. He knew where to find him. He would follow the tracks, the tracks that led to the sea, the tracks that led to the guy he loved.

I know I am kind of monopolising this, but I'm wrapped up in the story and no one else is continuing it. You can, you can take it in any direction you like, for myself now, I'm exploring the relationships, focusing here on Sam and Zelt. Read on... The memory of Sam, a vibrant splash of colour in the monochrome landscape of his past, began to surface more vividly. He remembered the day they met, a chance encounter. Zelt, lost in the pages of a worn copy of Kerouac, had bumped into him, sending a cascade of papers tumbling to the floor. "Oh, I'm so sorry," he'd stammered, his cheeks flushed. Sam, his eyes sparkling with amusement, had laughed. "Don't worry about it. It's not a important." They'd spent the next hour talking, their conversation flowing effortlessly from literature to music to their shared disdain for the stifling conformity of their small town. Sam, with his fiery red hair and rebellious spirit, was a breath of fresh air, a whirlwind of energy that swept Zelt away from the shadows of his past. Their connection was immediate and intense. They spent a lot of time together, exploring hidden corners of the town, sharing whispered secrets under the star-drenched sky. They found solace in each other's company, a refuge from the loneliness that had haunted them for so long. Later, both older, they decided to move to the city together, a sprawling metropolis where they could escape the judgmental eyes of their hometown. They found a small, cramped apartment in a run-down building next to the railroad tracks, a place they could call their own. It wasn’t much, but they filled it with their dreams and their love. Sam worked as a barista in a bohemian café, his vibrant personality a hit with the regulars. Zelt, fueled by Mr. Davies's encouragement, pursued his writing, spending his days hunched over his laptop, crafting stories that reflected the darkness and beauty of the world around him. They dreamed of a future filled with art and adventure. Sam, with his passion for photography, envisioned travelling the world, capturing the raw beauty of humanity. Zelt, with his gift for words, dreamed of writing novels that would challenge and inspire. They talked about opening their own bookstore café, a haven for artists and dreamers, a place where they could share their love of literature and art with the world. They imagined long nights filled with poetry readings, live music, and stimulating conversations. They talked about children, about building a family, about creating a home filled with love and laughter, a home unlike the one Zelt had grown up in. They painted a picture of a future bathed in sunlight, a future where the shadows of their past would no longer haunt them. But the shadows were persistent. Zelt's past, his unresolved trauma, his fear of abandonment, cast a long shadow over their relationship. He struggled with his inner demons, his anxieties manifesting in bouts of anger and withdrawal. Sam, despite his unwavering support, began to feel the strain. The weight of Zelt's pain, the constant fear of his unpredictable moods, began to take its toll. He loved him, but he couldn't carry the burden alone. The telegram, the news of his father's heart attack, was a catalyst, a stark reminder of the unresolved issues that threatened to consume him. He knew he had to face his past, to confront the demons that haunted him. He knew he had to do it for Sam, for their future. He remembered the last time he saw him, the tears in Sam's eyes, the unspoken words that hung heavy in the air. He’d said, “I need you to get better, Zelt. For you, for us.” He remembered the promise he made to him, a promise he desperately wanted to keep. Now, in the sterile confines of the facility, he clung to the memory of Sam, his love a beacon in the darkness. He knew he had to find his way back to him, to the life they had dreamed of. He knew he had to heal, to break free from the chains of his past. He knew, with a certainty that pierced the haze of his medication, that he had to fight for their future, for the future they had built together.

The medication, a dull, pervasive hum beneath his skin, allowed Zelt a strange sort of clarity. Not the sharp, focused clarity of a healthy mind, but a softened, almost nostalgic recollection. Memories, usually jagged and fragmented, flowed with a deceptive smoothness, like a river carrying debris downstream. He remembered his childhood home, a sprawling Victorian house with peeling paint and a sprawling garden. His father, a man of imposing stature and volatile temper, ruled the house with an iron fist. Zelt, a quiet, introspective child, often found solace in the garden, hiding amongst the overgrown rose bushes and whispering secrets to the wind. His mother, a gentle, ethereal woman, was a constant source of comfort. He remembered her soft hands, her soothing voice, the way she would hum lullabies as she tucked him into bed. She was a painter, her canvases filled with swirling landscapes and vibrant portraits, capturing the essence of the world as she saw it. But the peace was fragile, easily shattered by his father's outbursts. Arguments echoed through the house, his father's booming voice clashing with his mother's tearful pleas. Zelt would cower in his room, clutching his teddy bear, the sounds of conflict seeping through the walls. He remembered the day his mother left. It was a cold, grey morning, the sky mirroring the emptiness in his heart. She had packed a single suitcase, her face pale and drawn. She knelt before him, her eyes filled with tears, and whispered, "I'll always love you, Zelt. Always." Then, she was gone, leaving a void that his father's anger could not fill. The house grew colder, the garden more desolate. His father, consumed by bitterness, became even more distant, his affection replaced by a cold indifference. Zelt found refuge in books, immersing himself in stories of adventure and escape. He dreamed of faraway lands, of heroes and heroines, of a world where love and kindness prevailed. He yearned for a life beyond the confines of his father's house, a life where he could be free. He excelled in school, his intelligence a sharp contrast to his quiet demeanor. He found a mentor in his English teacher, Mr. Davies, a man with a passion for literature and a gentle understanding of Zelt's troubled soul. Mr. Davies encouraged his writing, recognising the spark of creativity that flickered within him. He recalled his teenage years, a period of rebellion and self-discovery. He experimented with drugs and alcohol, seeking a temporary escape from his pain. He found solace in the company of other outcasts, misfits who shared his sense of alienation. He met Sam in his last year of high school. He was a vibrant, free-spirited boy with a contagious laugh and a rebellious streak that matched his own. They spent long nights talking, sharing their dreams and fears, their hopes and disappointments. Sam understood his pain, his longing for escape, his need for connection. He remembered their first kiss, a tentative exploration of shared vulnerability. He remembered the feeling of his hand in Sam's, the warmth of his presence. He thought he had found a way out of the darkness, a path to a brighter future. Then came the telegram. The news of his father's heart attack shattered his fragile sense of hope. He felt a strange mixture of grief and resentment, a tangled web of emotions he couldn't unravel. He knew he had to go back, to face the man who had shaped his life, who had cast him into the shadows. He remembered the train journey, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels a constant reminder of the passage of time. He remembered the feeling of dread as he approached his childhood home, the weight of the past pressing down on him. He remembered the confrontation, the final, bitter exchange with his father. The words, sharp and cruel, cut through the years of silence, leaving wounds that would never heal. He remembered the feeling of emptiness as he walked away, the realisation that he had lost not only his father, but a part of himself. Now, in the sterile confines of the facility, the memories flowed like a film reel, a disjointed narrative of a life lived in the shadows.

Zelt blinked, the train station's gritty reality snapping back into focus. The fading rumble of the departing train echoed the hollow ache in his chest. He looked at the nurse, a young man with tired eyes and a clipboard held too tightly. "Meds?" Zelt echoed, the word tasting like ash. "Right. The meds." He reached into his pocket, his fingers fumbling with the small plastic bottle. He popped the cap and swallowed a pill dry, the bitter taste a familiar companion. He looked back at the empty tracks, the memory of his parents, the telegram, the rush, all blurring into a chaotic montage. "It's just..." he began, his voice trailing off. "It's hard to tell what's real sometimes." The nurse nodded, a practiced gesture of understanding. "I know. But that's why we have the medication, right? To help you stay grounded." Grounded. Zelt scoffed inwardly. He felt anything but grounded. He felt like a leaf caught in a whirlwind, tossed and turned, unsure which way was up. The train station, the telegram, his father's heart attack—it all felt like a fever dream, a distorted reflection of a reality he couldn't quite grasp. "Where are we going?" Zelt asked, his voice barely a whisper. "To the facility," the nurse replied, his voice gentle but firm. "It's going to be okay, Zelt. You'll get the help you need." "The facility," Zelt repeated, the phrase echoing in his mind. He imagined sterile white walls, locked doors, and the constant hum of fluorescent lights. A place where the lines between reality and delusion were even more blurred. He looked around the station, the bustling crowd now a distant blur. He saw faces, but they were all strangers, their expressions unreadable. He felt a profound sense of isolation, a feeling of being adrift in a sea of unfamiliar faces. "Will they have trains there?" Zelt asked, his voice laced with a strange urgency. The nurse paused, his eyes searching Zelt's face. "Trains?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral. "Yeah, trains," Zelt said, his voice rising slightly. "Trains that go somewhere. Trains that take you away." The nurse placed a hand on Zelt's shoulder, his touch surprisingly firm. "Let's go," he said, gently guiding Zelt towards the exit. "We'll talk about trains later." As they walked, Zelt's mind raced, the fragments of his memories swirling together, forming a disjointed narrative. He saw his father's face, contorted in anger, then softened with a flicker of something he couldn't quite identify. He saw the telegram, the words burning into his retinas. He saw the train, a steel serpent disappearing into the mist, taking with it a piece of himself he couldn't retrieve. He looked back at the empty tracks, the silence broken only by the distant hum of the city. He wondered if the train would ever return, if he would ever find his way back to the tracks, back to the world he once knew. He wondered if, in the end, it really mattered. The meds were kicking in, the edges of the world were softening, and the voices were getting quieter.

Thank you @akascrubber, @drsawzall, @VBlew, for your comments, I am pleased you enjoyed what was intended to be exactly the type of story you sum up, fast paced, with intrigue, and a good ending, entertaining.

So I looked at Action / Adventure Genre Deep Dive 6 and noted my latest story Soft Shadows was in position 3 in the category Most Read Action / Adventure - Spy. Then I looked at the story in position 4 and noted that story by Topher Lydon, who has a number of other stories listed, had 161k page views or around 3.6k per chapter. Compared to my own story which had 4.7k page views or 0.7k per chapter. How do you formulate the listing of most read story, because it makes no sense?

A little background clarification. There is an eternal conflict between Israel and Syria, tensions are building, helped by Rashid and his army. This with a Russian connection. Rashid is like Wagner was in Russia, he has a small private army which functions alongside the regular Syrian army, but his agenda is his own and dictated by money rather than any nationalist expectations, he is after all involved in arms deals and works with whoever pays and or can deliver his personal goals.

The roar of the explosion still echoed in Alex's ears as he scrambled through the shattered remains of the compound. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid smell of burning debris. He knew he had to get out, and fast. The Syrian soldiers were closing in, their faces grim, their weapons raised. He sprinted through the rubble-strewn streets, his senses on high alert. He could hear the rumble of approaching vehicles, the shouts of soldiers. He had to find a way out, a way to disappear into

Ismail watched Alex walk through the gate to the departures lounge, a thoughtful expression on his face. He'd helped Alex, that was true. Sent him on his way to Beirut, but his motives were far more complex than simple friendship. He had his own game in play, a personal game with stakes far higher perhaps than Alex could imagine. Ismail's involvement in the hunt for Rashid was no coincidence. He was a key figure in the shadowy network that stretched across continents and ideologies. He'd be

Thank you @George Richard, @dqman, @drsawzall, @Freerider for your support of the story which will get finished publishing on here, no worries, and thanks to @akascrubber and everyone who has commented.

The air in Prague was thick with the scent of coal smoke and damp cobblestones. Alex, or rather, the man he was then – a younger, less jaded version of himself – moved through the shadowy streets with the practiced ease of a seasoned operative. He was tracking the arms dealer, a small fish in the grand scheme of things, but a necessary lead in a larger operation. He’d been tailing the man for days, his senses honed, his every move calculated. One evening, seeking respite from the relentless

@drsawzall makes an interesting comment, I wonder what led you to suspect the guys in charge at MI6? @akascrubber Alex certainly needs a helping hand, but hopefully his old friend is there with support.

The battered Fiat rattled along the coastal road, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. Alex, his gaze fixed on the passing landscape, felt a chill crawl down his spine despite the warm air. He knew he was running out of time, and out of safe havens. The tiny transmitter, which he'd held in his hand the whole journey, finally came alive. He glanced at the screen. It was a coded message from London. He quickly deciphered it. "There is a mole in the garden." The phras

Interesting comments, we will have to see how things pan out through the twists and turns, the road is never easy!