thriller
The Last Message Sent at 11:59. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
At exactly 11:59 p.m., every phone in the city buzzed at the same time. No notification sound anyone recognized. No app logo. Just a single message on a black screen:“You have one minute to remember.”
By Gabriel Waltoneabout a month ago in Fiction
Compound Growth
The first thing Marcus noticed was Derek's skin. It wasn't dramatic—not at first. Just a certain smoothness to his colleague's face during the Monday morning standup, a tightness around the jaw that hadn't been there Friday. Derek had always been soft, doughy in that way of men who'd stopped caring somewhere around their second divorce. But now his cheeks held a new geometry. His neck no longer folded into his collar.
By Destiny S. Harrisabout a month ago in Fiction
What A Clown. Honorable Mention in Mismatch Challenge. Top Story - January 2026.
I heard of the jokester in town. My staff was afraid to share the tales, for they knew the stories infuriated me and punishment was my expertise. I inflicted many types, and excelled at using sharp objects and heated “instruments.”
By Andrea Corwin about a month ago in Fiction
A Night Painted with the Scars of Hate. Content Warning.
Steam clouds emanate from the sewer grates like puffs of smoke spilling from the listless mouths that pass on the street. His nose turns away at the slightest hint of smoke; the smell clings to his clothes like children grasping for toys in displays. Opening the door to a discreet shop along the burgeoning street, he files inside to a world utterly alien to him. His eyes darted around the interior store with its neon signs advertising paraphilia in bright, abnormal colors. The walls must have been wrapped in leather dyed by the night sky. Corvids decorated the walls as if they were suddenly going to attack the puppies on leashes, or those meant to resemble them.
By Thomas Bryantabout a month ago in Fiction
Doomsday Clock: Why the World Is Closer Than Ever to Global Catastrophe
Doomsday Clock: Why the World Is Closer Than Ever to Global Catastrophe The **Doomsday Clock** is a powerful symbolic representation of how close humanity is to a self-inflicted global disaster. Created to communicate complex scientific and geopolitical risks in a simple visual form, the clock has become a widely recognized indicator of global instability. Midnight on the clock represents total catastrophe, while the movement of its hands reflects expert assessments of existential threats facing the world.
By America today about a month ago in Fiction
Free Loveseat
Every other night, I notice the variation of kipple that loiters—the many monuments littering the city—of every single different kind of leather chair, plush recliner, and loveseat, and Art Deco sofa, many of which end up abandoned, deteriorating the crumbling, and most definitely paper-thin, sidewalks of the street. They rest discarded, like departed souls, or perhaps, the poor souls of Black folk, neglected by the bluest of eyes. Of all of the rubbish, chairs are my fancy. There’s a lot of character in the shape of a chair; the subtle curves especially remind me of the night women who stand on the curb.
By Thomas Bryantabout a month ago in Fiction
Blood On The Strip. Content Warning.
The few times Carlone Veretta had called Othello for a business meeting, it had meant some poor motherfucker was gonna die. He looked across the floor of the casino and lit his cigar with the butane cigar lighter he carried. He drew in the fragrant smoke and let it drool from between his lips. His dark eyes scanned the crowded floor for Carlone. He’d been friends with the new head of security for the Mandalay Bay casino for a short time. In that time, they’d gone through the shit together. Now their lives had settled down. Othello lived outside of Vegas with his wife Foxy. As far as he knew, Carlone was the only member of their little posse that was still in town.
By Scott Rocheabout a month ago in Fiction
What Lies on the Mountain Path
The children knew they mustn't go too far up the mountain. They knew their parents would be cross at their muddied boots and red noses. They knew the mountain hike was long and they'd be late for supper. And they knew most of all, the rumors of Old Binder.
By Kera Hollowabout a month ago in Fiction
