Horror
The Coin That Wouldn’t Leave
The man found the coin on the sidewalk after the St. Patrick’s Day parade ended. The street was still littered with green confetti, plastic beads, and crushed beer cans. Crowds were thinning out as people staggered toward bars or rides home.
By V-Ink Stories10 days ago in Fiction
The Parade That Never Ends
The woman had only meant to watch the parade for a few minutes. She was in the city for a short business trip, staying in a downtown hotel overlooking several busy streets. When she stepped outside that afternoon, the entire district had been transformed for St. Patrick’s Day.Green banners hung from every streetlight.
By V-Ink Stories11 days ago in Fiction
Rock And Roll
His name was Eddie Funsull, they took him one night, put him in a van and took him away. They didn't like him, his music, or the way he looked. He stood out. He was one of the few Black guys in the Goth rock scene in town. But it wasn't because he was Black that they took him, it was the fact that he wasn't afraid to be what he sang about. Rock Music was his life. He lived for it. When he took the stage, it was as if he transcended time and space, as if he wasn't part of human existence. He'd sing of love lost, love yet to be, he'd sing of the freedom of existing beyond the constraints of conformity, about being that creature that we all longed to be but feared because of the doldrums of life, family, and its traditions.
By John Scipio11 days ago in Fiction
Terminus
The crisp April air bites like it has teeth and a vendetta, the sun rises as my feet hit the pavement in a steady rhythm, the burn is building in my lungs, and the sky is righteous and clear in every direction. Silence and stillness all around me, the world sliding by like a painting; this is the best way to start any morning. Neon signs dominate the once suburban skyline,
By S. A. Crawford11 days ago in Fiction
Harbinger of Despair. Top Story - March 2026.
Who was he but just a man? To feel the weight of the world on his shoulders, he was no Atlas. Yet his bowed stance and tender neck suggested otherwise. It came to him in a dream: the absent stoking of an everlasting flame. A gnarled finger pointed towards an inevitable end, a sign that couldn't be ignorantly shaded; recurrence made sure of it. He didn't remember how long it had been going on; time didn't matter at this point. He just knew it was long enough to be petrified to fall asleep.
By James U. Rizzi12 days ago in Fiction
