The Peninsula

The Fiction and Poetry Archive of Liana Mir and scribblemyname



“Sometimes I miss it,” the woman said softly.

She was short and blonde. The man beside her was dark, tall, and quiet. About ten feet away, a rock wall stood roughly ten feet tall and ran nearly the length of the park.

On paper, she was Cate and he was Jason. Standing there remembering, she was Shield and he was Quake.

He stretched out his hand. The ground trembled but didn’t break.

She lifted her hand, then dropped it without releasing her power. This wasn’t their wall where they had trained as children. It couldn’t handle them.

“Sometimes.” She shrugged.