Mystery

Someone Keeps Swiping Right on My Dating Profile
I downloaded the dating app two weeks after Valentine’s Day. Not because I was ready to date again. Mostly because my friends wouldn’t stop telling me to “get back out there.” My last relationship ended badly, and February had been miserable enough already.
By V-Ink Stories5 days ago in Fiction
The Dating App That Only Shows One Match
I downloaded the app on Valentine’s Day. Not because I wanted to. Because every other dating app had turned into the same depressing routine—swipe, match, awkward small talk, ghosted by Tuesday.
By V-Ink Stories5 days ago in Fiction
The Last Round Before Sunrise
The group had been bar-hopping since early evening. St. Patrick’s Day had turned the whole downtown area into a blur of green shirts, plastic shamrocks, and loud music pouring from every open doorway. By midnight, most of the popular bars were packed shoulder-to-shoulder.
By V-Ink Stories5 days ago in Fiction
Quiet Armageddon
“The price of oil has now reached over one hundred dollars a barrel. The highest it has been since twenty twenty-two.” Sylvia half-listened to the voice on the radio as she turned into the Tesco car park. She was more concerned with remembering what she actually needed: cat litter, milk, and probably bread.
By J.B. Miller5 days ago in Fiction
The Android Detective: Help Wanted
Vesper Lyra leaned her lanky frame into the door to push through the entrance lacking working electronics. A simple, painted sign in a boring and nondescript font announced that one would find a Clyde Sharpman, P.D. inside. Among the bright lights, vibrantly coloured signs, and announcements everywhere else on Wetwater Street, how she even noticed the place was a mystery. Not to mention the roughly cut-out cardboard sign in the unit’s dirty window advertising that the private detective, Clyde Sharpman, wanted help.
By Jean-François Lamothe5 days ago in Fiction
Lycan Lore. Top Story - March 2026.
As the students of my 10am mythology class take their seats, I decide to steer the day's curriculum away from Greek and dive into a Western European discourse on the misaligned beliefs of the Werewolf. A tale of truth or fiction. No one really knows.
By Lamar Wiggins5 days ago in Fiction
The Object
Mary knew exactly where to find the bastard. She pulled up to the side of him in her red BMW and honked her horn. JJ jerked his head to the right. She grinned at him like a poker player, reaching for the money in the pot.
By Paul Aaron Domenick5 days ago in Fiction
The Midnight Alley: The Boy Who Called His Killer “Dad”
Lightning cracked overhead as Detective Lena Carter’s boots splashed through the rain-slicked alley. The call had come just moments ago—a child was hurt, and the storm didn’t care. Narrow walls of brick reflected the flickering light from a struggling streetlamp, puddles trembling under each flash. On the wet ground lay a boy, twelve years old, eyes wide in final surprise, blood glimmering in crimson streams across the cracks beneath him. Clutched in his small, trembling fingers was a soaked scrap of paper. Carter leaned close, throat tight: the letters D_A_ smeared by rain.
By imtiazalam5 days ago in Fiction
The Last Message. AI-Generated.
It was a rainy Thursday when Mia stumbled upon the old, leather-bound journal in her grandmother’s attic. She had always thought the attic was just a dusty storage room, filled with forgotten furniture, broken toys, and cardboard boxes of old clothes. But this journal looked different—its cover worn, edges frayed, and the pages yellowed, as if it had survived decades of secrets.
By Waleed khan6 days ago in Fiction
The Rule About Tuesdays...
The Rule About Tuesdays Nobody in the business talks about the rule. You learn it. Usually once. If you need to learn it twice, you probably don’t get a third chance.
By Teena Quinn 6 days ago in Fiction
The Stranger Who Knew Tomorrow. AI-Generated.
The town of Millford was the kind of place where nothing unusual ever happened. Every morning looked the same. The same people walked the same streets, drank coffee in the same café, and complained about the same weather.
By Waleed khan7 days ago in Fiction
The Hunt for Dahlia
Paws the size of bucklers slapped down one after another through the mud that made up the eastern pass that ran out through the Agathok. The locals referred to it as Mercas Way, no doubt because of the vast amount of trade caravans and merchants that frequented it in the dry months. The beast gave a low moan and tossed its head back and forth several times to shake the rain and dirt from its face, picking up its pace slightly as it grew giddy at the prospect of a clean hide. The deserts had been warm the last few years allowing the beast to lounge with its master out in the sun, but the packing of sand into everything that was not sealed had been an uncomfortable compromise.
By Brier7 days ago in Fiction