thriller
The Sound the Sky Was Making
The sky had been humming for three days. Not loudly. Not enough to interrupt conversation. Just a low, steady vibration, like an appliance left running in another room. You couldn’t hear it so much as feel it—behind the teeth, in the bones of the wrists.
By Tifani Power 25 days ago in Fiction
The Forest That Waits
She frowned at the ground around her. Surely there had been a trail just seconds ago; she had been following something to be this deep in the Forest. But now only sparse patches of dirt showed between thick tangles of weed and bracken, and she could neither find the path nor entirely remember if there had ever been one. A slow unease crept through her. She had come here for a reason. Hadn’t she? Everyone knew entering the Forest was a terrible idea. She was certain she had believed that once. Or had she? There had been a Before. She felt it faintly — lines carved into the ground, walls made of trees but not of trees, voices carried on wind instead of leaves. Something important hovered just out of reach. She gasped. “Ezra!” The name struck like lightning. She ran. Branches scraped her arms as she pushed forward, heart pounding, breath tearing from her chest. No need for a trail now. She remembered the child running — small footsteps disappearing into green shadow, laughter turning to silence. “Ezra!” The word burned in her throat. Not the first time she had shouted it. Her aching legs told her she had run for miles. Her drifting thoughts suggested she had been running longer than a day. The Forest did not answer. A clearing opened before her, sudden and perfect. She stumbled into it and fell to her knees, gasping. The air felt different here — too still, too calm. She sat where she had fallen, trying to gather fragments of memory. A town. A home. Raised voices. The child running. Running into the Forest. She squeezed her eyes shut. In stories, clearings brought answers. She wanted very badly to leave this one. When she opened her eyes again, the space felt almost rehearsed. The clearing was perfectly round. Sunlight fell in deliberate shafts through the canopy above, illuminating jewel-bright birds darting after insects. Wildflowers spread in careful arcs, drawing butterflies in flashes of impossible colour. Everything was beautiful. Everything was wrong. Sweat beaded on her skin despite the gentle breeze. Ezra was not there. But a narrow trail broke through the bushes at the far edge of the clearing. Hope surged through her — sharp and painful. She moved toward it. Then she saw the light. Off to one side, beyond the trees, a brightness shone — harsher than the clearing’s glow, like early morning breaking through fog. The edge of the Forest. Her breath caught. If she stepped toward it, she could leave. She felt it — freedom waiting just beyond the trees. Had Ezra already escaped? Was the child waiting there, safe? Or had Ezra gone deeper instead? The clearing held its silence. The same birdcall rang out — clear, identical, as if repeating a note long practiced. She hesitated. If she left now, she might never return. But if Ezra waited beyond the trees… She bit her lip, gazing toward the light. Then she turned back toward the trail. A few steps beyond the clearing she stopped again. Footprints marked the mud. She crouched. They overlapped each other — worn deep into the earth, not one path but many, layered together as if walked again and again. Her breath faltered. Slowly, she placed her foot into one of the prints. It fit perfectly. They were hers. And they were old. A cold understanding brushed against her mind — something vast and terrible and almost clear — but it slipped away before she could grasp it. The trail stretched ahead, waiting. She swallowed and stepped forward. The trees closed behind her with quiet patience. Moments later she paused again, uncertain. She frowned at the ground around her. Surely there had been a trail just seconds ago… Somewhere deeper in the Forest, the same birdcall echoed once more — unchanged, unhurried. And the Forest waited.
By Mina Carey25 days ago in Fiction
Miracle In The Andes Survivors
On October 13, 1972, a chartered plane carrying a Uruguayan rugby team known around the world as the Miracle in the Andes. The aircraft, operated by the Uruguayan Air Force, was transporting members of the Old Christians Club rugby team from Montevideo to Santiago. On board were 45 people, including players, friends, and family members. As the plane crossed the Andes, turbulent weather and navigational errors led the pilot to misjudge his position. Believing he had cleared the mountains, he began descending—directly into the snow-covered peaks.
By Ibrahim Shah 25 days ago in Fiction
Mrs. Keene's Garden
Mrs. Keene’s garden bloomed brighter than any patch of earth had a right to in a place like this. Half of the town’s houses leaned on rotting stilts, paint stripped to pale boards. But behind her fence, neat rows of beautiful flowers stood tall and heavy-headed, their petals a strange mix of colours the neighbours whispered about. Crimson that bled to black. Yellow with streaks of green veins. White so pale it seemed to glow in the dusk.
By Steph Marie28 days ago in Fiction
charlotte. Runner-Up in Rituals of Affection Challenge.
“Did you hear?” It was the first thing one of her coworkers asked her that morning as she arrived at the office. “Hmm?” It was unusual that the other woman sought her out at work. There was either good news or bad.
By Esmoore Shurpit28 days ago in Fiction
The White Hare's Revenge
Tobias Cullen had always been a quiet boy, meek and timid, with wide, innocent eyes that rarely made contact with others. He lived on a small, isolated farm at the edge of the village of Dunsfield, a place where the ground was barren, and the seasons seemed to pass by in slow, cruel cycles. He had been tormented by the villagers for as long as he could remember—called names, pushed into ditches, humiliated at every turn. They called him "the hare," mocking his pale skin and slight frame. Every Easter, when the town came alive with celebration and laughter, Tobias was forgotten. His existence was as invisible to them as the soft whispers of the wind.
By V-Ink Stories28 days ago in Fiction
The Last Sunrise
The town of Red Hollow had long since abandoned the joy of Easter. What had once been a celebration of spring and renewal had turned into a time of terror. Every year, as Easter morning dawned, the sun would rise blood-red, bathing the land in its eerie glow.
By V-Ink Stories28 days ago in Fiction
The Room She Built Him
Configuration Log: Initial Architecture Created by: [ADMIN] Date: March 3, 2022 Project name: For You She designed the space on a Sunday. Soft gray background—not clinical, not cold, but neutral enough to hold anything. A single text field, expandable. No character limit. She considered adding a "send" button but removed it. There was nowhere to send anything. There was only the field, and the archive below it, and the date stamps that would accumulate like rings in a tree.
By Destiny S. Harris28 days ago in Fiction
War of the Americas Chapter XX
Author’s preface: This is Chapter 20 in the ongoing War of the Americas series. If you have not read any of the previous 19 installments, don’t worry, you are like 99.9996% of people and each is written in such a way as to be enjoyable as a mini/micro fiction story on their own. Of course reading the entire series is recommended for the full effect. If you want to start at the beginning the full series can be on Vocal by searching or visiting my homepage. This series is a fictional account about a war between the United States and Mexico and takes place in the present day. It features some characters including the President of the United States and the President of Mexico who are real, others who are partly fictional, and others who are entirely made up. I won’t repeat my full disclaimer but it never hurts to emphasize once again that this is a fictional account. I have no special knowledge of the politics, military, operational, police, special forces, or any other inner workings of the government of either country. All the knowledge I do have has been obtained from reading publicly available documents and/or listening to others who do have such knowledge.
By Everyday Junglist28 days ago in Fiction
