Stream of Consciousness
As I Sip My Vodka. Top Story - August 2026.
As I sip my vodka and watch you tease open your mouth and slip your tongue so effortlessly down against your bottom lip, wetting the ripe painted surface. Is it scarlet or crimson or maybe even rouge? And as you put your fingers down delicately against your tongue and smear them with something delectable, is it sweet or savoury or a little both?
By Paul Stewart2 months ago in Poets
My Return
Morning sunlight streamed through the curtains as my behind hit the fabric. Fingertips poised at the edge of the world, I would write. The day was mine. 🖋️ Except, of course, for one small patch of mind always reserved for the little one. Even in absence, he stayed with me. Entering my thoughts at various times. Stopping me dead in my tracks. 🖋️ Where was I? I’d lost the words, but was ready for them to return. 🖋️ Why wasn’t this as easy as before? I would take it slow. Baby steps would become toddler steps. Soon, a child playing chasey at the park. 🖋️ Maybe a new writing nook? Something of my very own. Except, of course, for one small patch. 🖋️ I didn't know what would come next. All I knew was I was ready to return.
By Sandy Gillman2 months ago in Poets
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 Writes2 months ago in Poets
