Short Story
The Whole World is Watching. Top Story - October 2026.
There you are. Yes, you with your Converse that never go out of style. Your hair that falls like a wedding veil you never got to wear around your face, shielding innocence that never existed. The blue light penetrates your glasses, as if your eyes are revealing a relationship with modern technology that should remain private. You sit, listening to the wheezing sounds your dad makes. A medically induced coma is what the doctor called it when he explained the situation to you, along with the expensive details of the procedures he would need to save his life.
By L.M. Marlinabout a month ago in Fiction
Precision of the Hunt
The man in the charcoal jacket stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. He looked at Sterling, then back to Murphy. "The Detective has a streak of martyrdom," the operator observed. "It’s a common flaw in this profession. They mistake a suicide mission for a moral victory."
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Precision of the Hunt
Murphy exhaled a thick plume of gray smoke into the chilling fog, watching it dissipate into nothingness just like the hollow promises and empty threats Ranegan had whispered into his ear not ten minutes prior. "Keys to the city sound great, Chief, but right now I’d settle for a hot cup of black coffee and a straight twenty-four hours of uninterrupted sleep where my phone doesn't ring," the detective confessed, letting out a low, weary chuckle that betrayed the unbreakable resilience of a cop who had finally completed his impossible mission. "The streets are quiet for tonight, at least for a little while, and that’s reward enough for me after everything it took to get to this exact moment."
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Precision of the Hunt
Murphy didn’t open the car doors. He sat in the heavy silence of the basement, the engine ticking as it cooled, while he stared at the concrete wall of the garage. He had spent his life believing that the law was a solid structure, something you could lean on. Now, he felt as if he were leaning on a ghost.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Precision of the Hunt
He brought the sedan to a halt and shifted into park. The silence in the car was absolute, a vacuum that seemed to suck the air out of the cabin. Murphy looked at Sterling—the man who had been his mentor for a decade, the man who knew exactly how to play on Murphy’s streak of independence to keep him isolated.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Precision of the Hunt
"I've always been a gambler," Murphy replied, though the tremor in his hands told a different story. He didn't let go of the man's collar. He could feel the operator’s heartbeat—steady, slow, and utterly unintimidated. It was the heartbeat of someone who knew exactly how this story ended.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Precision of the Hunt
"You're a hard man to keep in a box, Detective," a voice called out, calm and devoid of emotion. It wasn't a shout; it was a conversational tone that carried perfectly through the stillness. "The same curiosity that caught Ranegan is going to make this very difficult for you. Just put the gun down, and we can discuss the 'signatures' you're so interested in."
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Precision of the Hunt
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. Then, with a synchronized clatter, the rifles hit the concrete. Murphy didn't relax. He kept the muzzle pressed to the man's jaw, using his other hand to rip the tactical radio from the man's shoulder strap. He didn't know who was on the other end, but he knew the silence of the radio meant they were listening. He felt the surge of adrenaline begin to ebb, replaced by the cold, analytical clarity that had always been his greatest asset and his heaviest burden.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Precision of the Hunt
He found the launch tucked into a private slip, a sleek, black needle of a boat that looked entirely too expensive for this neighborhood. It was idling, the low thrum of its engine vibrating through the concrete pier, suggesting the handover hadn't just happened—it was still in progress. Murphy crouched behind a stack of weathered pallets, his eyes scanning the perimeter. He spotted two men standing guard, their postures too rigid for civilian security. They weren't drug runners; they were operators, the kind of men who moved with a synchronized, lethal efficiency.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Precision of the Hunt
"The name doesn't matter," the man replied, his voice regaining its clinical edge. "What matters is that the handover was successful. The 'asset' is already being processed. And you, Detective, have now officially crossed a line that doesn't have a way back. Do you really think Captain Sterling was complaining about your 'reckless methods' because he cares about the DA's office? He was hoping you'd be too clumsy to notice the gap in the timeline. He wanted a clean arrest and a quiet harbor."
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
The Lotto Ticket. Top Story - September 2026.
Arthur sat with a €4 cup of coffee before him and approximately a quarter billion euros in his pocket. The lotto total the previous night amounted to €260,936,087.86, but rounding down to the nearest fraction proved less threatening. Arthur amused himself with quick calculations in his head; he would be able to buy fifty-million cups of the same just okay dark-oak coloured coffee that now looked up at him, reflecting his own pallid face back at him on its shiny roasted surface. Even blacked, the thinning short hair of strawberry-blond, making Arthur look his thirty-eight years, and then some, his bright cyan eyes which fought against his drooping, black bags, and the lines carving deep ridges across his high forehead were all unmistakable. It wasn’t a great cup of coffee, Arthur thought.
By Conor Matthewsabout a month ago in Fiction
