thriller
The Drawing of My Life
When I was a child, I believed that pencils held magic. Not the kind of magic that turned frogs into princes or moved mountains—but the quiet kind. The kind that turned thoughts into pictures, emotions into shapes, and silence into color. I didn’t speak much as a kid. While other children chased each other on the playground or shouted answers in class, I sat in the corner of my own world, sketching stick figures and stars on the backs of my notebooks.
By Esther Sunabout a year ago in Fiction
The Chosen; Chapter 5
We all sit in silence in the War Room. High Priestess Leoni and the rest of the temple staff were seeing to the townsfolk. She had promised to be back as quickly as possible. It was fairly obvious she hadn't wanted to be drawn away, but she had to. None of us had said anything since she had left us down here. Not that there was much to say.
By Katarzyna Crevanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Social Media Illusion". AI-Generated.
Maya stared at her phone, thumb scrolling through perfectly curated photos, clever captions, and smiling faces. Her own post—a filtered selfie from last weekend’s party—had just passed 500 likes. On the surface, everything was perfect. Her followers loved her, her feed was vibrant, and her life seemed like a dream. But in the quiet of her bedroom, away from the digital applause, she felt hollow. It hadn’t always been this way. Just two years ago, Maya was a quiet high school student, passionate about photography and journaling. She started her Instagram account as a hobby, a place to share sunsets and sketches. Slowly, her followers grew. At first, it was exciting. Strangers complimented her creativity. Brands started reaching out. She felt noticed, important. But with each follower came a new kind of pressure. Her feed changed. Gone were the unedited photos and doodles. They were replaced by selfies in trendy outfits, carefully staged breakfast bowls, and staged candid shots. Her life became a performance. Every day was an opportunity—or an obligation—to post something new, to remain relevant. If a post didn’t perform well, she’d delete it. If someone unfollowed, she’d spend hours trying to figure out why. Maya’s real world slowly shrank. She stopped hanging out with friends who didn’t “get it,” who didn’t understand why lighting mattered or why she had to take twenty photos before choosing one. Her parents grew concerned. She was always on her phone, even at dinner. She barely made eye contact anymore. One evening, Maya’s younger brother, Arjun, asked her a simple question: “Do you even like taking pictures anymore?” She didn’t answer him. But the question lingered. Later that week, Maya was invited to a weekend influencer retreat at a luxury resort. It was the kind of event she used to dream about—brand sponsorships, free gifts, glamorous photoshoots. But once there, the illusion began to crack. The other influencers were friendly, but everything felt… scripted. Everyone was constantly on their phones, editing, posting, posing. No one really talked. Conversations were interrupted by the need to get the perfect shot or check engagement stats. Meals were eaten cold because photos came first. During a photoshoot by the pool, Maya caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Not the Instagram version, but the real her—tired, anxious, and lost. That night, she lay awake in her hotel room, scrolling through her feed. Each photo felt fake. Each caption sounded hollow. She realized she didn’t know who she was anymore outside of the screen. Back home, Maya took a bold step. She posted a single photo: a messy, unfiltered selfie, her face bare and serious. The caption was raw: “I’ve spent so long trying to be someone I’m not. Behind every smile, I’ve felt pressure. Behind every perfect photo, there’s a tired girl wondering if she’s enough. Maybe it’s time I figure out who I really am—without the likes.” The response was overwhelming. Hundreds of comments poured in—people thanking her for her honesty, sharing their own struggles with social media, admitting they felt the same way. Maya felt something she hadn’t in a long time: connection. Over the following weeks, Maya made changes. She took breaks from her phone. She reconnected with old friends. She started going on walks without documenting them. Her photos became real again—unfiltered, imperfect, alive. She began journaling once more, this time for herself, not for an audience. One day, she ran into an old friend, Lila, at a café. They hadn’t spoken in months. Lila smiled warmly and said, “I read your post. It made me cry. I’m really proud of you.” Maya smiled, a real one this time. “Thanks. I think I’m finally proud of me too.” Social media hadn’t disappeared from her life, but her relationship with it had changed. She no longer chased approval. She no longer let an algorithm define her worth. She had found her voice—not the filtered one her followers knew, but the quiet, genuine voice within. Behind the screen, she had rediscovered something powerful: herself.
By "TaleAlchemy"about a year ago in Fiction
The Bookstore Where Our Eyes First Spoke
The old bookstore on Elm Street was supposed to be torn down by spring. It smelled like dusty paper and warm cinnamon, with creaky wooden floors that whispered with every step. Leah had wandered in on a rainy Tuesday, hoping to kill time. She wasn’t expecting to find the last piece of her heart between the pages of a book—or in someone else’s eyes.
By The Waiting Treeabout a year ago in Fiction
The Memory Market
The moment Lia stepped into the Memory Market, the scent of lavender and static filled her lungs. Rows of glowing capsules floated in midair, each pulsing with a faint heartbeat of light. A whisper surrounded her—the echo of a hundred lives for sale.
By FAIZAN AFRIDIabout a year ago in Fiction
Raymond
Edgar lived by a strict code of live and let live, firmly believing that life would be better for everyone if they minded their own business and not others. He was never nosy and stayed to himself. Because of this, he was the friend of many and being so popular was always invited to all the major shindigs.
By Mother Combsabout a year ago in Fiction
The Meeting
The city was slick with rain — the kind that clings to your coat and blurs the edges of the night. Neon signs bled their colours into puddles, flickering like restless ghosts on wet asphalt. The smell of damp concrete mixed with exhaust fumes, hanging heavy in the air like a warning. I kept my eyes on the road, but my mind tuned into the quiet tension resting heavy in the backseat.
By Bentley Brownabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Long Way Around"
We sketch out our dreams in bold ink — a clear vision of what we want, where we’re headed, and how long it should take to get there. We imagine we’ll follow a clean path from point A to point B. Graduate by this age. Land a job by that one. Find love. Settle down. Climb the ladder. Check off each goal like a to-do list. But the truth is, life doesn’t care about our timelines. For many of us, things don’t go according to plan. We miss exits, make wrong turns, circle back, stall out, and sometimes start completely over. It’s easy to feel like we’re behind. Like we took too long. Like we somehow failed. But what if we didn’t fail at all? What if we were just taking the long way around? That phrase — “the long way around” — used to sound like a curse to me. Like a euphemism for being lost or late or lagging behind everyone else. But with time, I’ve come to see it differently. Now, I think of it as the scenic route. The path full of growth, unexpected detours, surprising lessons, and hidden beauty you wouldn’t see if you were speeding through. The long way around might not be efficient. But it can be extraordinary. My own journey has been anything but direct. I graduated college with a degree I don’t use. I changed careers twice. I fell in love, got my heart broken, and then fell in love again — in an entirely different way, when I wasn’t even looking. I’ve lived in places that didn’t feel like home until I left them. I’ve quit jobs without a plan, taken risks that didn’t pay off, and made decisions that scared the life out of me. And yet, somehow, all of those winding roads have brought me here — not where I thought I’d be, but somewhere meaningful all the same. Along the way, I’ve met people I never would have encountered if I’d stuck to the script. I’ve had conversations that shifted my perspective. I’ve experienced setbacks that cracked me open in ways that led to something better. It hasn’t always been easy. In fact, sometimes it’s been painful. But growth often hides inside those detours. There’s wisdom in the slow path. When we rush through life, focused only on getting to the “next” thing, we miss what’s happening now. We forget that value isn’t just in outcomes — it’s in the experience. The long way teaches patience. It invites reflection. It humbles us. It reminds us that we don’t need to have everything figured out to be moving in the right direction. I used to look at people who seemed to have it all together and feel like I was failing. The ones who climbed fast, hit milestones early, checked all the traditional boxes. But what I’ve learned is that everyone has their own version of the long way — even if it doesn’t look like mine. Some journeys wind quietly, inward. Others are loud and messy and public. There’s no one right way to live a life. One of the most liberating things I’ve realized is that there is no “behind” — not really. Time isn’t a race. Life doesn’t grade us on punctuality. It rewards presence, authenticity, and resilience. Taking the long way around has helped me define success for myself. It’s no longer about hitting benchmarks on someone else’s timeline. It’s about alignment — about living a life that feels honest and rich, even if it looks different from the one I once imagined. If you’re in a season where things feel slow or uncertain, I hope you give yourself grace. Maybe you’re not lost. Maybe you’re just in the middle of becoming. And maybe becoming takes time. Sometimes the long way offers what the shortcut never could: depth. Perspective. Strength. A chance to rebuild on your own terms. So take your time. Sit with the questions. Wander. Get curious. Pause when you need to. Start over if you must. The path might not be straight, but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. The best stories are rarely the neatest ones. They’re the ones full of pivots and plot twists, of valleys and summits and wide-open skies you never saw coming. The long way around might just be the path that leads you to the most unexpected, most meaningful version of your life. And when you look back, you might realize: it was never about getting there fast. It was about becoming someone worth arriving as.
By Kaleem Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
You're My Favorite Murderer (Chapters 10-12). Content Warning.
Chapter 10: 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘦𝘳 𝘉𝘰𝘺 It's only been a handful of months since we've crossed paths but seeing her, even just the back of her; those dark waves save for her silver streak, arises too many emotions. The most prominent being hate. Pure hatred for this fucking woman. The way she burrowed her way into my skin, into my very fucking soul and tore it apart with her red-marbled blade. Passion, anger and pain are among some of the others but hate overshadows them all hands down.
By 𝓗. 𝓒. 𝓡𝓾𝓫𝔂about a year ago in Fiction
