Free Verse
White Noise. Top Story - August 2026. Content Warning.
It always starts quietly— a brush of a hand, a rub of shoulder to shoulder, pressing bodies close together in a packed subway, crammed like sardines in a can. Flickering lights A hiss of wheels on the track. It's electric — the flare between station and station, a blaring hum in the eardrum as the doors slink open. Then a switch. The car shifts as they walk in, quiet storm itching under the surface, between the heavy pants of the dwellers— a different kind of frequency before anyone can acknowledge it. A low whirl in the car, channeling almost in sync. Not exactly a signal. Not exactly noise. Something low, itching over skin, curling the hairs up as they sit across from me. No words spoken. Just the buzzing, echoing louder the longer they're there, in my line of sight. They curl their lips into a smile. Ask if this goes north. I nod— it does, I think. Near the end of the line. One. Two. Three stops. Bodies get off. Fewer get on. Still, they stare. I clench my palms, digging in. More vibrations singing in my ears, swarming the drums, thrumming so thick it beats with every pulse. A muffled voice overhead — conductor announcing the last station. End of the line. They turn, make a joke. I don't catch it. It's closer now. The wheels squeal, whining in the void of an empty car. Eyes lock again. The static before the last moment, the time to go— both at the last stop, both waiting for this moment to pass. Then a hiss. The jerk forward at the sudden stop. They stand. I stand. We move as one, barely brushing. A nod. A smile. They turn. The ringing dies down. My pulse beats normally. We don't say anything. But I turn back — watch them turn right. Then I move, turning down the same path, climbing stairs into the darkness above. The air crackles with coming rain. They walk faster, anticipating. I run, moving through the dark, following the ringing, following the madness, following them. Then a glint of silver . A darkened alley. Vibrations roar through me as I enter, moving swiftly — a hand curled over the mouth, a blade to the throat. S L A S H The ringing stops. Silence, once more . No more frequency buzzing. Another notch . Another carved out . It's getting easier to pick them now. Just follow the white noise.
By Chel Writes3 months ago in Poets
Static
Turn the television past its last channel and you'll catch it—a hiss so old it doesn't belong to the room. They say a little of that noise is not the antenna, not the wiring, not the neighbor's failing microwave. It is the faint remnant of light from the universe's earliest moments, stretched thin across billions of years until it became this instead:
By Aarsh Malik3 months ago in Poets
