Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales
Bio
I love to write. I have a deep love for words and language; a budding philologist (a late bloomer according to my father). I have been fascinated with the construction of sentences and how meaning is derived from the order of words.
Achievements (1)
Stories (328)
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The Confectioner’s Vow
Some maps are not of land, but of what we lose and what we give away. I was born of earth and cloud. My mother, a mortal baker, drew bread from the soil and steam from stone ovens as if coaxing breath back into the body of the day. My father was not mortal. He was one of the lesser gods—the kind cataloged in old temple ledgers and then forgotten when empires rise too quickly to remember their roots. He presided over sweetness and revel, the nectar hidden in flowers, the laughter that loosens at dusk, the warm hush after harvest when the fields lie down and sing to themselves.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales5 months ago in Humans
The Fracturer and the Weaver
Movement I: The Arrival of Truths Before the shaping of the world, there was a chamber where speech itself was gathered. Here the air was restless, filled with syllables unmoored, falling like rain before they had names. A ground of shifting light stretched outward, and from that mist rose the Elemental Figures, each bearing a portion of what mortals would one day inherit.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales5 months ago in Fiction
Two Lives in Rain and Silence
Prologue - The Table The day my world changed is still today. I lie face down on the surgical table, my back bared to the lamps that glare like interrogators. The monitors click and stutter, not as machines but as scribes, recording my heart in crooked ink. A needle presses into me and the sound it makes is a vow, sharp, and final.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales5 months ago in Fiction
The Mirror of Creation
They told us the river was only a river, but my mother called it a mouth—the place where the first breath rose from the dark and learned the shape of a body. When I was a child, I laughed at her stories and threw stones into the current to prove it was water and nothing more. The stones never came back. That was all the proof I wanted then.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales5 months ago in Fiction
Breath and Beginning
“Breath as compass, inheritance, and the first story we ever tell.” The only element that matters is oxygen. Not the way it sits in chemistry tables, tidy and numbered, but the way it drags into your lungs on a cold day and reminds you you’re alive. Breath is the first covenant, the oldest story. Before words, before thought, before names or maps, there was only the drawing in and the letting go.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales5 months ago in Humans
Through the Keyhole
The door had never opened in my lifetime. It was as constant and unknowable as the spine of the house—paint layered until it shone like porcelain.. When we were children, my sisters pressed their ears to it, sure secrets were audible if you held very still. The key was gone, our mother said, with a practiced gentleness. “Gone with the old owners,” or “gone with the years.” Once, when I asked what was behind it, she wiped her hands on a dish towel and said, “A closet,” then, after a beat too long, “just old linens.”
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales5 months ago in Fiction
In Search of the Better Note
Prologue: The Seam The choice is so small the strangers on the platform do not notice. A train exhales, its breath a dragon’s plume rolling through the cold air. Overhead, a gull carves a white vowel across the morning sky, a sound older than the station, older than the city. The announcement board flickers and rearranges times like a conjurer’s deck of cards, numbers shuffling themselves toward destiny.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales5 months ago in Fiction
The Better Note
The choice is so small that strangers on the platform don’t notice. A train exhales. A gull writes a white vowel across the morning. The announcement board swaps times like a conjurer’s deck. Lena stands under its blinking numerals and decides.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales5 months ago in Fiction
The Hollow Door
Prologue: The Knock The first knock was so soft Mara thought she had imagined it, a trick of the storm or the restless old bones of the house. She set her book aside, fingers pressed flat on the cover a moment longer than necessary, as though the weight of her hand could anchor her.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales5 months ago in Fiction
