Days bleed into nights, nights into days. I sleep all day because there’s nothing else to do. When I wake, I listen for something—anything—to remind me I’m not alone. But all I hear is the pounding of my heart, the whispering voices that aren’t really there.

Solitary confinement isn’t punishment; it’s decay. The mind erodes, crumbling like old brick. Studies from the early 1900s showed that isolation causes hallucinations, memory loss, even psychosis. Prisoners in the 19th-century Eastern State Penitentiary were found rocking in their cells, muttering to themselves, their minds shattered beyond repair. Modern research confirms it: without human contact, the brain rewires itself into madness.

And yet, outside these walls, isolation grows.

Once free to play stick ball in the streets and parks, children now sit behind screens, locked away in digital cells. The cold glow of a tablet has replaced the laughter of a playground. Parents, distracted, offer devices instead of conversation. Social skills fade, empathy weakens. The world outside becomes less real than the world behind thin glass.

What happens when an entire society grows up this way? When does the comfort of solitude become preferable to the discomfort of connection? Will we build a world where eye contact is obsolete, where conversation is replaced by text, where voices—real voices—become foreign and strange?

I close my eyes, pressing my palms to my ears—anything to block out the inner chatter. I think of those children, growing up in a prison without bars, never knowing what they’ve lost. I think of the men in here, broken and forgotten. Are we so different? A life without connection is no life at all.

The mind is a fragile thing, meant to exist among others. Without it, we all become prisoners of our own making.

-K

The digital age has brought unparalleled connectivity and convenience, but it has also given rise to a new, chilling phenomenon: Social Media Serial Killers.

In recent years, a disturbing new trend has emerged where some serial killers utilize social media platforms as a hunting ground for their victims, exploiting the vastness of the internet to remain hidden in plain sight.

The anonymity afforded by online spaces has provided a cloak for these predators, allowing them to stalk and select victims with unprecedented ease. Unlike traditional criminal investigations, these faceless perpetrators operate from the shadows of the internet, leaving a digital trail that is difficult to trace.

One of the most unsettling aspects of this phenomenon is how social media becomes a tool for these killers to identify and target vulnerable individuals. By exploiting the trust and openness that often characterizes online interactions, they navigate through the vast web of profiles, seeking out those who may be susceptible to manipulation or coercion.

The anonymity these killers maintain is not only due to their digital presence but also a deliberate effort to conceal their real identities. They create fake profiles, use VPNs to mask their location, and employ a variety of tactics to cover their tracks. This makes it challenging for law enforcement agencies to connect the dots and apprehend these criminals before they strike again.

In some cases, these murderers engage in a disturbing game of cat and mouse with authorities, leaving cryptic clues or taunting messages on social media platforms. This not only adds to the psychological trauma inflicted upon victims but also serves as a sinister form of self-gratification for the perpetrators, who revel in the fear and confusion they sow.

The rise of anonymous serial killers on social media underscores the need for increased vigilance and awareness within online communities. Users must be cautious about sharing personal information, and platforms must implement robust security measures to identify and eradicate fake profiles. Maintaining privacy and ensuring safety in the digital age is a delicate balance.

Law enforcement agencies are grappling with the unique challenges posed by these faceless killers. Traditional investigative techniques are often insufficient in the realm of cyberspace, requiring a new breed of digital detectives who can navigate the complexities of online anonymity and trace the elusive trails left by these predators.

As a society, we must confront the uncomfortable reality that technology, while bringing us together, also creates new avenues for nefarious individuals to exploit. Initiatives to educate the public about online safety, coupled with advancements in digital forensics, are crucial steps in combating this dark intersection of technology and criminality.

I shouldn’t say so, but I know my way around a firewall and how to erase my own digital footprint. It’s why I maneuver into places I shouldn’t go and meet people who wouldn’t want to if they had a choice. Fortunately, society embraces technology first and thinks about security later (read more in SEETHINGS. The book is downloadable and free for a limited time). Despite what I know and share here, I don’t expect that to change soon.

The emergence of anonymous serial killers on social media is a chilling reminder of the ever-evolving landscape of crime in the digital age. The shadows of the internet provide cover for those who prey on the unsuspecting, demanding a collective effort to unveil these hidden threats and protect the vulnerable members of our interconnected society…

…from me.

–Kurdaitcha

Before the advent of DNA forensic science, solving crimes relied heavily on witness testimony, physical evidence, and circumstantial links.

Techniques like blood type analysis, matching fibres, or identifying weapons left at the scene were pivotal in drawing connections between criminals and their offences. The pre-DNA era posed significant challenges, but for crime writers, it’s a goldmine of intrigue—offering a canvas to craft narratives where cunning detectives and resourceful sleuths piece together crimes using intuition, observation, and innovation. Imagine a sleuth noticing a rare cigarette brand at multiple crime scenes or solving a murder with a perfectly timed alibi-breaker.

The introduction of DNA forensic science in legal systems transformed criminal investigations forever. DNA fingerprinting emerged in the 1980s as a groundbreaking tool, allowing investigators to identify suspects with unprecedented accuracy. However, its integration into legal systems varied across countries, creating gaps ripe for creative exploration.

* United Kingdom (1986): The UK became the pioneer of DNA evidence when it solved the infamous case of Colin Pitchfork using genetic fingerprinting. This groundbreaking moment marked a shift toward DNA-backed convictions.

* United States (1987): DNA entered the courtroom with the Florida case of Tommy Lee Andrews, ushering in widespread adoption. It wasn’t until the FBI’s CODIS system launched in the 1990s that DNA databases became game-changers.

* Australia (1989): DNA evidence debuted in Australian law in a murder trial—national DNA databases followed in the 2000s, reflecting an era of transformation in forensic investigation.

* Canada (1990): The first Canadian conviction using DNA evidence demonstrated its potential. Establishing the National DNA Data Bank in 2000 further strengthened its role in solving crimes.

* Germany (1993): DNA evidence entered German courts, gradually becoming a cornerstone of modern forensic practices. In the late 1990s, the creation of a comprehensive database closed countless cold cases.

For writers, these staggered adoption dates present captivating gaps where older, unresolved cases could be revisited with emerging DNA technology. Combine that with growing criminal databases, and there’s a plethora of new writing opportunities to explore. How might a detective uncover new truths in a case left dormant for decades? What old adversaries might resurface as the weight of DNA-backed justice looms large?

There’s a new public crime-solving platform on the horizon: Ancestry.com. Ordinary citizens willingly upload their DNA signatures to the site, hoping to find their genetic origins. Each signature uploaded enters a growing worldwide database. While criminals are unlikely to use the service, their relatives have their DNA results permanently filed, and police have access to these records. Blood relatives are closing cases without knowing it!

The advent of genealogical databases like these adds a modern twist. This new frontier has already led to the capture of notorious criminals, bridging the past and present in pursuing justice. For crime writers, this intersection of history, science, and human stories opens thrilling new narrative avenues.

My novel SEETHINGS exploits the pre-DNA/post-DNA gap. It’s downloadable and free for a limited time.

-M.

If this topic caught your interest, you’d know how special a handwritten love note is — to give and to receive.

It’s been a long time since I last experienced that nervous anticipation of swapping love notes but I still like the tradition of them. It makes me feel warm inside.

It took time to create a message and just as much time to get a response. We didn’t know the outcome of our message until we received a reply. During that time, fluttering hearts made the journey to discovery deliciously wonderful.

A close friend might’ve been invited into the loop to assist us in deciphering love notes received or helping to construct new ones to send. Every heartfelt angle had to be mapped out in the right words to make sure enough of the right things were said the right way — but not too much to sound weird or desperate!

Some high school note swaps weren’t between students. On rare occasions, the exchange occurred between a pupil and a member of staff. This kind of note wouldn’t be one the faculty or the community would approve of. A teacher could be reprimanded or fired over the contents of such a love letter.

While you and I did good, studious things behind our high school desks, some students were in contact with their teachers covertly. A discreet note was placed in a homework book or an assignment paper, and the exchange happened on the teacher’s desk, right in front of every other student at the beginning of the day.

Nobody else knew about these kinds of notes, not even close friends.

I can’t say how often this happened, but I know one that occurred when I was a teen. It was a time when phone messaging wasn’t available. Handwritten notes were standard. There was no choice but to use paper and a pen for everything.

When it came to swapping notes, the teacher collected our books at the beginning of class, marked them during the lesson and then handed the homework books back to us at the end of class. One young lass always had a special message concealed inside her homework book. It was obvious. I saw her pay unusual attention to that book the second we left the classroom.

Anna couldn’t help herself. She frantically flicked through its pages and snatched at something between the book’s leaves. Whatever it was went straight into her pocket — a dead giveaway.

And then there were those gooey eyes she wore during each lesson. When Mr Yublinski was there, Anna’s widened pools drowned him in them. Nothing else in the room existed.

There was a brief moment when I considered speaking to her about her lack of subtlety but decided against it. About a week later, rumours developed among the student body about their secret affair. A month after that, there was an investigation. As there was no proof of one existing, life went on like nothing happened. The couple cooled off, and Anna did her best to play down looks across the classroom. The school year ended, and the senior class graduated. Three months later, Anna announced her engagement to — you guessed it — Mr Yublinski.

Oh yes, they were adamant that it didn’t start until after the school year ended. No one bought it, but the school was satisfied.

The couple got married and had a daughter. She must be about thirty now. As far as I know, they are still together, living life and loving each other today.

I care about love letters, first loves and first kisses.

But I am in two minds about teachers and students sharing love letters and starting their affairs during school hours.

–Michael

Women often complain that men don’t listen. That may be entirely true, but what about the guy who is too attentive and too inquisitive? Is there a point of excess for men who listen all the time? Is it possible for men to know too much about a woman?

Some men pry. Prying can be taken as showing genuine concern, but there’s also a point when it gets creepy. His questions keep coming long after she’s run out of things to say. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for something else to come, perhaps a slip-up or encouraging another truth to fall from her lips.

It’s a volatile relationship for any girl who becomes involved with such a control freak.

And then there’s the silent one. This one appeals to many women. They think they can open him up and get him to share his innermost secrets with her — a worthy prize if she achieves such a result. Prizes aside, a silent gentleman isn’t a sign of a willingness to share anything, much less his innermost secrets. He’s simply a quiet man who has nothing to say.

The stalker is another version of a guy who listens extremely well. He’ll even press an ear against a wall if it’s necessary to do so. He’ll know which day she’ll hang out her washing and what songs she has on high rotation in her playlist. For the techno-stalker, he’ll even get into her computer from a remote location and listen to her that way.

He can turn on her laptop’s microphone. It’s not that hard to do.

He’s willing to wait for that inconspicuous microphone to pick up every subtle sound and broadcast it right into his ears. Like a sniper slowing his heartbeat, our listener slips on his headphones, shuts his eyes and settles back to enjoy her noises — building a picture of her life through her domestic sounds.

She’s alone again — and it’s been like that for days. She had another argument with her soon-to-be ex-husband last night. She was on the phone with him, and he heard it all. Divorce is imminent. She told him not to come looking for her.

She’s stepping into the shower, turning on the water and crying. It’s been a hard few months for her.

There will be a time when she’ll date men again, but it won’t be today. She’s too angry and hurt for that. When this feeling passes, she’ll have something to prove to herself. That’s when our mystery listener will make his move. He’ll know exactly where to find her. It’s been months in the making.

The water stopped. That’s her bare feet making contact with the floor. Can you hear them? That’s what naked sounds like.

He knows when she leaves for work, returns home, does her shopping and, more importantly, how much she tells her family and friends about the breakup, the divorce proceedings and other men who may enter her life in between times. If she holds back some information, he’ll smile for it. Secretive women make better victims.

They’ll meet by chance. He’ll say and do all the right things. It’ll be a brief encounter, little more than a chat and a smile. He’ll apologise for having to leave so soon, and she’ll be left wondering if he was the one. He was a very nice guy. And he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

First contact is done to make first impressions — and so that he can listen to the results of it in his headphones later. Will she tell her friends, or will she keep him to herself?

The test will be repeated, and if she passes, there will be a proper date. It will be the last one she ever has. Her husband will have many questions to answer.

There is much for men to learn about women simply by listening to them. It’s important to listen carefully.

-Michael

Let me tell you, technology leaves digital footprints everywhere. The moment we log on to the ‘net or start our phones, we’ve begun the process of exposing ourselves. There’s no hiding them once they’re out there. They are there for good, and you can’t undo them.

Some of us don’t want that to happen. We want the freedom to surf the ‘net without someone tracking our every move. We don’t want to tell anyone who we are or what we do when we’re doing it. It makes sense. People do it for many reasons, and they shouldn’t have to explain themselves.

Here are my nine basic tips for staying dark on the World Wide Web:

* Turn off photo GEO-location.

* Don’t use cloud services of any kind.

* Don’t use Google Maps.

* Don’t sign into anything.

* Use a private browser that doesn’t require sign-ups.

* Use an incognito browser that blocks advertisements and pop-ups.

* Use a VPN service.

* Buy and use a second, much older cellphone and SIM card (for calls-only).

* Switch off GPS.

I find my victims by employing these techniques (and others I’ve not listed). I stay well hidden by stopping those all-important traceable digital footprints from being left for others to find. But if you’re a garden-variety kind of stalker, what I’ve listed above will do the trick. You’ll stay dark enough that not even your mother would recognize you in cyberspace.

Ironically, these are the techniques that would protect others from us—if they chose to employ them. Fortunately, they are attracted to the romance of cyberspace eutopia. It’s a place where everyone plays nice all the time. Apathy and fairytales matter more to them than the truth, and that’s good. It keeps them distracted so I can do my thing unsupervised. When I get the opportunity to use it to its fullest potential, it’s like taking candy from a baby.

-Angelwanderer

I sit alone in the dimly lit corner of the bar, nursing my drink like it’s the elixir of life itself. The clinking of glasses and distant laughter swirl around me, but I’m cocooned in my own world of shadows. It’s where I belong, where my mind finds solace in the chaos that rages within.

Tonight, I raise my glass not in defiance, but in celebration of the madness that courses through my veins. For too long, I’ve tried to silence the whispers in my head, to drown out the cacophony of doubts and fears. But now, I embrace them like old friends, for they are the only companions I’ve ever truly known.

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As I sip my poison, my thoughts drift to those who came before me, those who found fame in their descent into darkness. Vincent van Gogh, the tortured genius whose brushstrokes captured the turmoil of his mind. They called him mad, but in his madness, he found a beauty that eluded the sane.

I wonder what he would think of me, sitting here in the depths of despair, finding comfort in the bottom of a glass. Would he see a kindred spirit, a soul lost in the wilderness of its own making? Or would he shake his head in pity, lamenting the waste of potential?

But tonight, I refuse to dwell on such thoughts. Tonight, I am alive in my despair, revelling in the twisted dance of my thoughts. For in this darkness, I find a freedom that the world outside cannot offer. Here, there are no expectations, no judgments—only the sweet embrace of oblivion.

I raise my glass once more, a toast to the broken souls who wander the labyrinth of their minds. To Sylvia Plath, who turned her pain into poetry, and Edgar Allan Poe, who found beauty in the macabre. They may have been condemned by society, but in their madness, they found a kind of immortality.

So here’s cheers to poor mental health, to the demons that haunt us and the shadows that guide us. For in our madness, we find a strange sort of salvation, a flicker of light in the darkest of nights. And as long as there are stars to guide us, we will never truly be alone in the abyss.

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You won’t know. Not if that friend keeps their secrets well hidden. You can’t know what you’re not told.

Here’s the truth. Even best friends withhold information from each other. They really do.

One of my closest girlfriends was extremely secretive when it came to dating. She was highly superstitious. Nina believed that if she made an announcement about dating a new man too soon then it’d spoil things, ruining the chances of the relationship blossoming into something wonderful. I’d never hear about one until it was long over.

Superstition aside, too many ruined relationships in her past kept her silent. It allowed her to save face when they finally failed - and they often did.

There was another close friend who kept good secrets. Her story is a little different.

Linda entered my life by way of an accident. We soon became the best of friends. Our souring marriages unified us. We’d sip coffee on Wednesdays and bitch about our partners until it made us feel better. I came to know everything about her.

Almost everything.

A year later, out of the blue, she calls me in tears. She confesses to a long-term affair she’d been having with a married man. She kept her secrets close for all that time because she didn’t want to admit to being an adulteress. She was working on the principle that if she didn’t talk about it, then it wasn’t really happening to her.

Funny things occur when people tell lies. Little gaps start to appear in their lives. It’s when they say they’re going to be at one place to do one thing but go somewhere different to do something else. I call them grey zones. They are both wonderful and dangerous places to be. Anything can happen at this junction of indifference. The opposing forces provide a place of opportunity for someone like me.

The police questioned Linda’s husband about her unexplained and lengthy absence. Statistically speaking, spouses are likely to be the perpetrators of domestic crime. There were cracks in their marriage and police would’ve found them right away. Investigators might’ve even discovered Linda’s other life. Jealousy can make us do awful things to one another. Terrible tragedies come from insane jealousy.

Nina’s grey zones were larger than Linda’s. That’s because she didn’t have to answer to a spouse.

As a recent divorcee, her time was her own. She rebuilt her life in a safe, cosy place away from the disaster she’d left behind. Threats of retribution had followed Nina to her new home. Ongoing financial battles kept her in touch with the man she tried to poison and he wasn't a happy man over both of those issues.

You could say her wish to start a relationship with a new guy was anticipated. Her ex-husband had found someone and she wanted happiness too. But she didn’t tell anyone about it when it finally happened. Her superstitious nature accompanied her decision making. She told people she was doing one thing but she did something else. Grey zones appeared. Opportunities were taken.

The trick afterwards was to keep calm and let her natural history take charge of the investigatory narrative.

Someone will pay for her death but it won’t be me.

As I said, lies produce grey areas that are both wonderful and dangerous. If the heat of an intense, new relationship keeps lovers coming back for more of what burns most, more secrets will be required to support them. When I’m around, those lies will encourage something more dangerous than wonderful.

No. You won’t know for sure if a close friend is having an affair — at least not until her body shows up.

Sexual attraction is primal, right?

So too is a storm.

Both activate something deep within — at least it does for me.

When they meet, it’s far more than my body can stand.

Although the opportunities to feed my kink are infrequent, I love doing it during a storm. There’s something powerful and aggressive about nature’s wild side that stirs my inner animal. It makes the sex that much better.

Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not an aggressive lover. That’s not me. I know that’s what the storm represents but it’s still not my thing. Euphoria can be obtained without violence.

Similarly, I don’t reach out and choke my lovers during coitus. I’m more of a meat and potatoes lover. I don’t bite, slap, whip or choke… but making passionate love under a tropical thunderstorm is my fantasy. I like how it makes me feel.

It activates me.

I feel something more.

It’s HIM.

HE comes from another place. HE feels things in ways I don’t.

There is another layer of sexuality hidden beyond my civilised one.

That first crack of lightning is enough to make HIM stir.

First, it makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. The sensations then penetrate deep beyond my upper sensibilities. I’m like a wild beast with a veracious new energy when the storm rages!

But I’m not a choker! Definitely not! Remember that when I tell you the next part of my story. It’s important to keep it in mind. I don’t choke.

Here I go.

Now take a deep breath, Mitchell. Make sure you get this right.

Last night, I held Nina down. That part is in no way extraordinary. Our sexual synergy took us outdoors. It was her idea, not mine. She never knew about my obsession with the storm. She wanted an outdoor experience.

“Let’s try something different,” she said.

I was on top, so of course I held her that way. It was missionary sex. Simple. Meat and potato love but this time it was in the privacy of her backyard.

Her knees were pointed towards the night sky, and I was facing her, enjoying the moment, as anyone should.

No one was being hurt.

It was perfect.

Nice.

Things were orderly.

But that small storm cell developed in the south and then covered the stars above us. It came out of nowhere and it moved fast.

A flash of light, a crack of thunder, and then a deep rumble shook the ground. None of it was forecast. I know this because I made damn sure of it. It wasn’t meant to happen. I save that kind of thing for my other lovers. Nina is ‘protected property’ as far as I’m concerned.

As expected, my neck hair reacted. Just like before, I couldn’t stop the sensations after they started.

This time, an intense pain struck me right between the eyes.

It hurt. Much.

After the pain subsided, I saw a stranger’s hands appear from nowhere and slide around Nina’s neck. I felt my hips move much faster too. Those hands clamped down on her tight, her eyes popped open, she gurgled and then struggled to get herself free of their grip but couldn’t.

These are the last few things I remember. The rain began to fall and the rest of it fades into a blur.

I woke to a gentle hum of rubber tyres on a dry road. It coaxed me back to reality. The bristles on my neck subsided. At some point, I must’ve dressed, left her place and got myself behind the wheel of my car.

I should’ve been confused by this strange shift in moments, but I wasn’t. I felt profoundly satisfied. There was a certain calmness in me. Never before had I experienced such a sense of inner peace as I did last night.

That’s not the end of it. There’s more.

As I slipped into bed, Samantha woke, rolled over and whispered, “How was it, dear? Did you get everything you needed?”

“Yes. I did.”

“Oh, that’s good. Well, g’night. See you in the morning.”

She gave me a peck on the cheek, rolled over and went back to sleep. Can you believe it?

How can my wife, any wife, do that when her husband arrives as late as I do? No woman rolls away and goes to sleep like that.

Mine does.

I can’t believe it either but that’s the way she is. She’s intelligent enough to know many things about life yet icy cold when it comes to matters of sex. Intimacy isn’t her thing. It wouldn’t occur to her that her husband sees other women. She believes everyone is like her and doesn’t get those urges, least of all her trustworthy husband.

I just can’t break through her frozen exterior.

Yes, this explains much, doesn’t it?

Oh, you want to know about what happened to Nina?

I don’t know. I’m too afraid to find out.

Those hands weren’t mine.

I’m telling you, they did NOT belong to me. My orderly upper consciousness tells me that I couldn’t have hurt her. It’s not within me to choke — but I’m also aware that there’s another something hidden deep beneath those layers of civility that I can’t control or explain.

I don’t know where I finish and HE begins.

It’s also why I’m so scared to watch today’s news.

-Mitchell