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Devon's Computer Service

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Temple Terrace, FL
Devon's Computer Service

Here at Devon's Computer Service we provide high quality computer and phone repair services at the fraction of the cost of other businesses.

10/28/2026

With memories heavy in the air, Evelyn readies herself and her house for the truth-telling to come.

The wind off the ridgeline came chilly for late April, carrying the scent of apple blossoms and the first green grass up around the old Whitmore place. Most years, the white house stood looking out over the valley like a grandparent waiting for the next generation to come home; these days, it watched more and more alone, the window glass dusty, the porch swing chain rusty at one hinge. This morning, puddles lingered in the gravel drive from a night storm, the heavy clouds torn to rags above the hills. Evelyn Whitmore sat at the kitchen table, a mug of tea between her folded hands, as if to anchor herself for what was coming.

Outside the window, daffodils leaned at odd angles, battered by the wind but stubborn, half-wild in a tangle where the old orchard met the yard. Evelyn eyed them for a while, and then pressed her thumb to the cracked bone of her knuckle, willing the ache away. Sylvie would laugh at that—she always said Evelyn’s hands looked like something powerful carved from driftwood. She smiled a little at the thought and then, reflexively, squared her shoulders and stared down the day.

Fiction. Read the full story at the link in the comments.

10/27/2026

Old family dynamics churn beneath the surface as three siblings reunite in a small upstate town, haunted by the grove of maples their mother once protected.

The skies over Kingston, New York, threatened rain the morning Evelyn Andrews was laid to rest. Over the Hudson, swollen and olive green at the river’s edge, a low fog clung to barren hills. It was a muted farewell for a woman whose presence in town had always been both sturdy and enigmatic, as steady as the overgrown grove she’d guarded at the edge of her property: Maplesong, with its gnarl of red maples hulking behind a house that had known better days.

Connor Andrews sipped his bitter coffee on the porch steps, muddy boots resting among the dry leaves. The mug trembled faintly in his hands. He’d never asked to come back to this house, let alone become its caretaker in the years since his mother fell ill and then, suddenly, was gone. The paths through Maplesong were lost to thistle and bramble. He glanced at the gravel driveway, waiting for his brother’s rental car to nose uphill, as if Ron’s arrival might somehow change the ugly stillness that had settled over everything.

Ruth arrived instead, shuffling up the walk with her satchel and a thin-lipped smile. “Connor.”

Fiction. Read the full story at the link in the comments.

10/27/2026

Even the quiet of a lonely morning is no match for the sudden presence of legal formality, hinting at burdens yet to come.

Alice Lambright’s kitchen window looked out over the overgrown lot next door. On clear mornings, she could watch a pair of cardinals dodging around the long grass, their calls lost to the faint growl of traffic on Front Street. Today, though, even the birds seemed subdued under a heavy spring sky. Alice pressed her coffee mug to her lips and turned up the collar of her old cardigan. She heard the letter before she saw it: a crisp white envelope slipped through her mail slot, carrying the smell of rain and a hint of something forgotten.

It was from a law office in Scranton. The return address was neatly typed and carried a formality that made Alice’s pulse race—a visceral memory of report cards and discipline slips from forty years of teaching teenagers how to write an essay. She placed it on the table, beside her crossword, and hesitated. After ten minutes, she broke the seal and scanned the pages, her eyes widening.

Her Aunt Regina, dead more than twenty years, had apparently left a will.

Fiction. Read the full story at the link in the comments.

10/27/2026

A heavy sense of change creeps in as Daniel unlocks his mother’s old house, pushing open a door sealed by years of humidity and absence.

The key went stiff in Daniel’s hand. It took a solid jolt to get the lock to give, and when it finally did, a sigh escaped him like something had been holding him in place. The door to his mother’s house—his house, now—swung open on its original hinges, sticky with years of southern Ohio humidity and less attention than it used to get. Daylight danced across plastic-wrapped furniture. Nothing had changed except Daniel, and his shadow trailing long on varnished floorboards.

He set his duffel down. Every step sent a faint echo through rooms that had once known laughter, fights, backyard barbecues after little league games. In the kitchen, a faded magnet on the refrigerator held up a yellowed school lunch menu from 2012—right before everything had gone wrong. Daniel ran his hand over the Formica counter, the missing corner on the laminate. Everything small but heavy, like the house had waited for him under a layer of dust.

Outside, he heard the neighborhood, unchanged in rhythm if not in roster: pickup trucks idling at the light, the clangs of the metal shop two blocks down, voices rising from yards behind half-faded privacy fences.

Fiction. Read the full story at the link in the comments.

10/27/2026

Inside the old farmhouse, family history lingers in every squeak of wood and faint smell of forgotten perfume.

The old farmhouse stood half-shadowed in the afternoon sun, bracketed by the serrated green of summer woods and the distant misty folds of the Blue Ridge. June leaned against her rented Subaru, a city-bought coat slung over her arm despite the mild, humid air. She’d barely closed the trunk on the last of her suitcases before Ben appeared from around the toolshed, carrying a split length of firewood and wearing an expression somewhere between relief and caution.

“Hey,” he said simply.

They hugged—awkwardly, the way siblings do when enough years and trouble have collected between meetings—and June caught the familiar smell of sawdust and pine resin on his shirt. “It looks good, Ben,” she murmured, scanning the porch and the sagging fence line. “Or about as good as it ever did.”

He offered a small smile. “You should see it after a week without rain. Mom’s got me patching every board that even thinks about rotting.”

June followed him inside, shoes squeaking on the old wood floors. The living room was much as she remembered: sun-faded braided rugs, her mother’s blue armchair, family photos on the mantle, and the whirr of the swamp cooler in the window.

Fiction. Read the full story at the link in the comments.

10/27/2026

Beneath Lake Superior’s iron sky, Margot Wallace tries to shake off hospital fatigue as her mother’s unusual text hints at more than just dinner plans.

Margot Wallace pressed her palm against the emergency room’s old glass exit door, letting the December chill bite past her coat as she shoved outside. Laundry-gray clouds hung low over Lake Superior and the whistle of wind off the water made her grit her teeth. She’d lost count of how often she’d left St. Annabeth’s ER half-dazed: the muddled smell of bleach and hand sanitizer, the squawk of overhead pagers, the clipped panic of someone’s tragedy that wasn’t quite her own. She rotated shifts, juggled overtime, and more and more felt she gave her best hours to a place that would never know her, not really.

The downtown lights were flickering on, dulled by the thick air. Margot’s phone buzzed: a single word from her mother—“Dinner.”

She shook her head. Her mother, Iris, was never the texting type, but since her stubborn spell of forgetfulness began last fall, Margot had found herself on edge, waiting for the next half-finished sentence, the misplaced word, the trail of crumbs that might mean something was slipping.

She drove along Sixth Avenue East, trusting her hand in the turns even as her head ached.

Fiction. Read the full story at the link in the comments.

10/27/2026

The simple act of shopping for bread and milk becomes fraught for Kit Landry, who finds her former friend Karen back in town after years away.

Kit Landry didn’t realize how much she depended on her routines until she ran into Karen Burns beside a stack of bruised apples at the H-E-B. It was a Thursday morning, gray and drippy, and Kit had only come in for bread, milk, and the Tums she pretended she didn’t need. She gripped her handbasket tighter as she caught sight of Karen’s profile—a little thinner, hair streaked with ashy gray, her bright wavering voice speaking to the produce clerk like she’d never left Denton at all.

Kit tried to back away, but Karen turned at that precise moment. Recognition fired across her face—alarm, relief, something sharp and hopeful. “Kit?”

Kit brushed a stray brown curl behind her ear, weighing whether to duck behind the display of onions. But homegrown manners were hard to break, even after all these years. “Hey, Karen.”

Their hug was surprisingly automatic; the disconnect came afterward. Ten years ago, they might have fallen into giggling gossip or turned the cart to the bakery together. Now there was just a swirl of memories—marigold-yellow prom dresses, backyard campouts, dozens of sleepy-eyed mornings at Sunflower Florist. Kit tried to smile, but it felt weak as chalk.

Fiction. Read the full story at the link in the comments.

10/27/2026

Pressure mounts for Jordan when a feared new director lands at RelayPath, promising transparency but sowing tension instead.

The hum of fluorescent lights blended with the clatter of keyboards as Jordan Polk navigated the open-plan office floor, coffee in hand and anxiety simmering beneath his carefully composed expression. On the muted screens around him, the RelayPath Solutions logo glowed—a familiar comfort from his seven steady years here—but today, the atmosphere buzzed with new uncertainty. Just last week, their biggest client had abruptly withdrawn a seven-figure contract, leaving project leads scrambling and upper management in a state of barely concealed panic. Whispers of layoffs had circulated, but instead of pink slips, the board had brought in Leslie Harriman, a director with a reputation for shaking things up.

“She’s from California—ran three launches at Dataverse,” someone had murmured in the break room. "Like a shot of reality through the heart of the place."

Now Leslie stood at the front of a hastily organized Monday morning meeting, her dark suit crisp against the washed-out gray of the company conference room. Her voice carried with confident warmth as she introduced herself—but her eyes, Jordan noted, swept the room with clinical focus. "RelayPath is at an inflection point. We need radical transparency and radical accountability." She clicked a remote.

Fiction. Read the full story at the link in the comments.

10/26/2026

Science, art, and autumn color swell around Monica, but it’s a colleague’s friendly proposal that shifts her day’s trajectory.

Leaves rustled in the late September wind, the maples along Cayuga Heights Road just starting to blush red and orange. Monica Phelps stood framed by her office window, the gothic outline of Uris Hall visible across the quad. She sipped thick coffee, scanning another email marked URGENT—her in-box had become a battleground of competing priorities ever since Dr. Alan Gentry took over as department chair.

A rap at the open door startled her. Alan’s voice preceded him: “Hope I’m not interrupting.” He stepped in, all easy authority, a silvering sweep of hair flopping a bit over his brow. “Got a minute to brainstorm for Monday’s grant pitch?”

She closed her laptop, tracing a crescent with her thumbnail against the mug handle. “Sure. I was just clearing a few things.” She noticed, uncomfortably, that her heart thudded in a way it hadn’t for a while, at least not in this office. Calm down, Monica, she told herself. Alan was like this with all the senior faculty—intensely focused one minute, quick to laughter the next.

Still, as he slid a chair closer, she was acutely aware of the energy that seemed to spark when his gaze locked with hers.

Fiction. Read the full story at the link in the comments.

10/25/2026

Cracked tile under her feet, Beth seeks solace in coffee and a familiar Missouri dawn, uncertain what the day will reveal about old promises.

Beth Russo woke to the gentle insistence of her phone alarm and the distant sound of the garbage truck threshing down the block. Her bones ached in the half-dark bedroom, a nagging echo of thirty-eight years stitched with late nights, carpool duty, and the slow throb of regret. She rose, careful not to wake Sam in the next room, and padded to the kitchen, barefoot on cracked tile, to start the coffee.

Out the window, St. Charles was already stirring: mail carriers wheeling bikes, a jogger’s breath clouding the morning air, the muddy green of the river just visible between budding branches. She opened her laptop at the kitchen table, ready to scan overdue book notices and field texts from the head librarian about a printer crisis or an upcoming poetry night. Instead, her focus was drawn to a flyer, crumpled and soulful in Sam’s tidy handwriting, stuck to the fridge with a magnet from a local barbecue place.

"Run for a Cause! Charity Relay—Family Teams Welcome!" it read, in printed blue below blocky clip art sneakers.

Beth sighed, recalling her promise—only half meant—to do something active with Sam this spring.

Fiction. Read the full story at the link in the comments.

Address

Temple Terrace
Temple Terrace, FL
33610

Opening Hours

Monday	9am - 7pm
Tuesday	9am - 7pm
Wednesday	9am - 7pm
Thursday	9am - 7pm
Friday	9am - 7pm
Saturday	9am - 5pm

Website

http://www.devoncomputerservice.weebly.com/

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