thriller

Eggshells
Margaret Whitlock was known as the best artist in the sleepy town of Greystone. Her specialty was Easter egg sculptures—delicate, intricate creations painted with painstaking detail. Each egg was a marvel, depicting pastoral scenes, mythical creatures, and swirling patterns so fine they seemed almost alive. Every Easter, people from all over flocked to her gallery to admire and buy her work.
By V-Ink Storiesabout a month ago in Fiction
The Final Access. AI-Generated.
Rain lashed against the windows of Building 17, the forgotten headquarters of NeuroLink Systems. At 2:17 a.m., no one was supposed to be there.
By Michael Tomasettaabout a month ago in Fiction
The Amber Spires: Part Two
I sat on a small rickety stool outside the wide oak door that led into the dull interior of the taskmasters’ quarters, this was becoming a far too familiar scenario. Two weeks ago, it was a brawl outside an abandoned fuel station over a case of expired cans of vegetables that got overlooked during the last rounds of looting and rioting, and the week before that a precinct six blocks over burnt to the ground. Quelling riots before they ever happened became our duty, weather it was some strategy come down from the brains up top or the fight in the people had just died out none of us knew.
By Brierabout a month ago in Fiction
MIDNIGHT ON FRIDAY. Content Warning.
“Midnight on Friday” is a voice driven story about what happens when ordinary people are pushed past the edge and still find a way to keep moving.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli about a month ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Paradox
In a forgotten quarter of the city, tucked between shuttered shops and a crumbling cathedral, stood The Clockmaker’s House.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Fiction
The Last Signal . AI-Generated.
Rain fell heavily over Milan, turning the streets into trembling mirrors of neon lights. In the nearly empty office on the fifteenth floor of a skyscraper in Porta Nuova, Luca stared at the screen.
By Michael Tomasettaabout a month ago in Fiction
The Amber Spires: Part One
I found the devil in the guts of the Amber Spires, more than two decades ago now, down in the filthy rubble that made up the outer rings of shacks and hovels posted up high above the filth ways. The spires are long gone now, pulverized by the Hulcans when they pushed north, but back when I was a boy they were something special. Great big towers that shot into the heavens and cast their light into the smog clouds that enveloped the concrete apartments around them, what we would have given to step one foot through those doors. It was like looking at the gates of heaven.
By Brierabout a month ago in Fiction
Belle of the Bayou. Top Story - February 2026.
Bad move, cher. Not just the slip of her kitten heel on the rainy February cobblestones in the Fourth Ward. She got caught snooping. Detective Deleon clucked and strutted like a rooster in his rush to clear her from the scene, waving cigar smoke to and fro as he gesticulated amid the thick air of the speak easy. An experienced crime reporter, Marie knew better than to let the coppers catch her on the wrong side of the line, but curiosity had gotten the better of her.
By Maia Gadwall the metAlchemistabout a month ago in Fiction
Magic. Top Story - February 2026.
Note from the Author: I want to let you know this is an unusual story. It has been written purely from whatever is in my subconscious mind, because before I start writing, I go into a flow state that reaches my subconscious. I also write in a mid-flow state between the conscious and subconscious mind.
By Denise Larkinabout a month ago in Fiction
A VISION OF JUDGMENT
I was awakened by a terrible sound. “Bru-a-a-a!” it roared across the darkness. At first, I did not understand. I thought I was half dreaming. The noise grew louder—shrill, shaking the air, impossible to ignore. “Good Lord!” I muttered. “What an awful racket!” It sounded like some enormous trumpet echoing across the world. I tried to sit up, but something felt strange. Where was I? The sound rose higher and more powerful until suddenly I knew—this was no ordinary noise. “It must be the Last Trump,” I whispered.
By Amelia Millerabout a month ago in Fiction
The Day the Sun Didn’t Rise
The weather forecast had mentioned a storm system moving in from the north. Nothing unusual. But when 6:12 AM came and went without even a hint of light, something felt wrong.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Fiction
INTERVIEW WITH A HOOKER (3)
“Honey, I wasn’t thinking of ending our conversation; I’m really enjoying it. However, every time I make the slightest move, the bartender has to pick his tongue up off the counter and I can just imagine, from the expressions on the men’s faces behind me that I see in the mirror, what’s going through their little minds. I like you; you’re somewhat like Cool Hands—not your looks—the way you come across—I feel I can trust you. Since the night is still young, if you don’t mind, I thought we could go someplace more private.
By Len Shermanabout a month ago in Fiction