Mystery

The 4:12 to Darlington
PART 1 The 4:12 to Darlington was a vessel of tired echoes. It smelled of damp wool, industrial floor cleaner, and the peculiar, metallic scent of impending rain. Leo sat by the window, his forehead pressed against the vibrating glass, watching the industrial outskirts of the city blur into a smudge of grey and rust. He was sixteen, a huddle of sharp elbows and bruised pride, clutching a backpack that felt heavier than it actually was.
By Marceabout a month ago in Fiction
So the World Ended... Now What? A Beginner’s Guide to Apocalyptic Survival. AI-Generated.
Let’s be honest. If you’re reading this, you’ve probably noticed things have gone sideways. Maybe it was a virus, a grid-down scenario, or something a little less... scientific. The world we knew is on pause, and the new world is chaotic, dangerous, and confusing.
By bob singhabout a month ago in Fiction
The Letters In His Desk - pt. 3. Content Warning.
First period moves the way most mornings at school do—steady, predictable, almost boring in a way that usually feels comforting. Personal Finance with Mr. Frank is all about numbers that make sense and plans that stretch cleanly into the future. He writes amortization formulas across the board in tidy columns, sleeves rolled to his forearms, explaining interest accrual like it’s a story with a guaranteed ending. Marcus sits one row behind Ethan, angled just enough to keep him in view without making it obvious. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t joke. He just stays there, solid and quiet. Ethan answers when called on, voice even, expression controlled. If there’s pressure building behind his eyes, it doesn’t show. His notes are neat. His posture is straight. Once, Marcus taps his sneaker lightly against the back of Ethan’s chair. A small check-in. Ethan taps back without turning around. I’m good. It’s the kind of silent conversation they’ve perfected.
By Riaabout a month ago in Fiction
The Letters In His Desk - pt. 2. Content Warning.
Ethan stands at the bathroom mirror already dressed in dark jeans and a fitted gray pullover, the collar slightly uneven where he pulled it on too quickly and never fixed it. The fluorescent light above the sink hums softly, washing the small bathroom in a pale glare that makes everything look sharper and a little more tired than it really is. He tilts his chin up and drags the razor carefully along the uneven line of hair at the base of his neck, moving slowly and deliberately as if precision alone will keep him from messing it up. A thin streak of shaving cream clings just beneath his jaw, and he leans closer to the glass, narrowing his eyes at his reflection. He presses a little too hard and feels the faint sting of it, quickly adjusting his grip with a quiet breath through his nose. The scrape of the blade against his skin sounds louder in the morning stillness, and he focuses on that instead of the thoughts trying to crowd in.
By Riaabout a month ago in Fiction
Framed. Runner-Up in Something Is Beginning, I Think Challenge.
"Girl, I know you’re a little extra sometimes, but when did you get this done?" Nara asked, walking into the kitchen where I was elbow-deep in a cardboard box, looking for some cutlery.
By Cristal S.about a month ago in Fiction
INTERVIEW WITH A HOOKER (2)
Me: (Clears throat and takes a big gulp). Ah, I don’t suppose you’ve thought about giving classes to sexually dissatisfied spouses?
By Len Shermanabout a month ago in Fiction
I Am Emmanuel Goldstein
The packing floor was drenched with rain through a hole in the roof that nobody had bothered to fix, she stared into it as the bell rang signalling her lunch break. Her book open, she opened up a chicken salad and ate with one hand, reading with the other. Julia chewed silently at the back of the room and read Anna Karenina, struggling to keep the book in one hand since it was so big. She was roughly halfway through and was beginning to think about how rich, decadent and parasitic this society had to be for their biggest problem to be whether a woman was cheating on her husband or not. She was taken out of the story by another woman who turned on the television with a broom, poking it until she found the 'on' button. The static fuzzed about and then that weird show began to play.
By Annie Kapurabout a month ago in Fiction
INTERVIEW WITH A HOOKER
My name is Glen Kingston. I write articles for a magazine, which is actually a smutty rag. Paydays are usually pretty thin; not even enough coins to wear a hole in my pants pocket. I’m not proud of it but I have to somehow earn a living while writing the great Canadian novel—catchy title—might even use it. Continually coming up with good ideas for articles can get a touch difficult and when I get a brain freeze like I’ve been having lately, even sticking my head in a hot oven won’t thaw it out. So, what I occasionally do to get the grey cells working again is take myself out to meet some real live flesh and blood people, like this high-class, top of the line, if you have to ask how much she costs; then you can’t afford to hire this particular prostitute: Talulah Tight-Thighs.
By Len Shermanabout a month ago in Fiction
Failsafe: W.O.L.F
The atmosphere of Kepler-442c had turned against them on Day 0. It wasn’t dramatic. No firestorms. No lightning. Just numbers.
By Christina Nelson about a month ago in Fiction
The Old Chessboard
I never thought that one day, rationally, I would decide to leave a piece of torn paper, handwritten in hurried, almost illegible handwriting, on the old dusty chessboard that sat atop boxes stacked in my grandfather's attic. Hoping for an answer. And yet.
By Benny2 months ago in Fiction
Finding My Familiar ...
Soul's heart beats flicker across the dappled white moonlight. Etches of a familiar in the fog of time, reverberate across the vast, expansive earth. My hands are scratched and brown, streaked with the marks of dirt I have dug with my thin, exhausted fingers.
By Susan L. Marshall2 months ago in Fiction
The House Of Quiet Evenings
The light always entered the hallway in the same way, though no one could say exactly when it began. Sometimes it seemed early, sometimes late, but the family received it as if they had been waiting for it all afternoon. It wasn't something they talked about. It simply happened, and they adjusted to it without thinking.
By Lydia martinez2 months ago in Fiction