Top Stories
New stories you'll love, handpicked for you by our team and updated daily.
The Girl in Car Seven. Top Story - September 2026.
It is a normal day, unfortunately. The platform is crowded with weary souls walking fast, hoping to find marginally less full cars farther down. The regional train is deep within the poorly maintained station. The yellow paint on the metal at the edge of the platform is patchy from so many tired souls walking over its surface. The train’s crew members stand in stiff blue shirts and black pants, each an echo of the next a few cars away.
By Leigh Victoria Phan, MS, MFAabout a month ago in Fiction
The Bands You Didn’t Come to See . Top Story - September 2026.
“Would you take me in? Are you lonely in the dark?” So far, I’ve been to three concerts this year — Ghost , Bruce Springsteen , and Rush . These artists couldn’t be more different, but their shows shared one thing: none featured an opening act.
By Carl J. Petersenabout a month ago in Beat
Epiphany. Top Story - September 2026.
The first snow was late. It fell on the fire-watchers at the Hasbaughs’ annual Epiphany tree burning. Melting flakes hissed on the Christmas trees flaming in the stone-edged pit beside the house at the top of the lawn. Neighbors had strapped the season's desiccated totems to the tops of their cars. And brought them for a final salute to another Christmas past.
By Pitt Griffinabout a month ago in Fiction
The Paper Bag Chronicles: How My Driveway Became a Museum Exhibit for Britain's Declining Competence. Top Story - September 2026.
Take a moment to gaze at my chosen image from 'Unsplash,' and what does it tell you? No, it isn't that the toilet rolls are a grim portent of another incoming COVID outbreak, and it's not that he's about to break out into an enthusiastic attempt at juggling either; that carton of eggs at the very top wouldn't stand a chance of making it home. No.
By Jonathan Townendabout a month ago in Writers
Black Blizzard. Top Story - September 2026.
The old woman found her neighbor behind his barn, where he'd shoveled dirty snow off the two graves. ELIZA DILTS WHITAKER August 1910- December 1932 INFANT SON December 19 Resting in hope of a glorious resurrection
By Lightning Bolt ⚡about a month ago in Fiction
After Every September . Top Story - September 2026.
Step inside the atmosphere that is barely known, navigate the system that barely roams... Dear, October you're known for a Spook and a Treat, something else that makes the world have to see, or at least witness the adventures of your nights...
By HandsomelouiiThePoet (Lonzo ward)about a month ago in Poets
The Easter Rarebit. Honorable Mention in Out of Season Challenge. Top Story - September 2026.
For some context, watch this: The first thing to note was the temperature. For a rabbit, this was a strange sensation. With all of his fur and energy, he should be just fine with this type of weather. But there was the bigger problem of knowing too much about what time of year it should be.
By Kendall Defoe about a month ago in Fiction
Hong Kong Diary - Yet Another Bloody Murder. Top Story - September 2026.
Living in the ex-British colony of Hong Kong is an exercise in cognitive dissonance. On the surface, the city is a triumph of aggressive Asian efficiency. The streets are impossibly clean; you could realistically eat your lunch off the pavement though society prefers you to do so in a designated area. It is a safe, frictionless, well-organized society, albeit one where the prevailing sense of democracy has been recalibrated to “just listen to what the school principal says, and no running in the hall.”
By Scott Christenson🌴about a month ago in Humans
Voiceless. Top Story - September 2026.
This little blue pikmin has a mouth to speak but nothing to say. He is going nonverbal, perhaps able to speak but refusing to do so. Instead, he stands slumped and passive in his blurry videogame world, waiting to be commanded into action.
By I. D. Reevesabout a month ago in Writers
13. Top Story - September 2026.
They call it triskaidekaphobia The dread of that unlucky score superstitious tales of terror of ancient curses at the door They say the number 13 brings a dark and dreadful gloom A shadow cast on Friday nights that fills the heart with doom 13 stairs leading to execution buildings made without that floor 13 guests who sat to dine a black cat sitting at your door People shiver when the calendar arrives on that dreaded day They lay down salt along the doors to keep dark spirits away But superstitions lose their scare as blessings multiply They chase away the darkened clouds from out of every sky Because on a sunny 13th day My love and I met first We broke every spell of dread and shattered every single curse And on a 13th in the fall my heart replied, "I do!" We promised love forevermore and started something new When our baby daughter came A 13 marked her birth The sweetest and most precious soul to walk upon this earth Another 13th, at a clinic when things were looking gray My doctor finally cleared my name my cancer walked away On the 13th of February A Friday of this year I found a hundred dollar bill I think that makes things pretty clear Let the fearful shake and dread I will gladly keep them all I'll take the 13 every time Next one is coming here this fall Luck is not a random draw or something written down We make magic with our own hands and we can turn it all around
By Sara Wilsonabout a month ago in Poets
the gift. Top Story - September 2026.
The third one arrived on the summer solstice, cocooned in shades of evergreen and holly. The scent of pine clung to its crisp folds with ink the shade of ripened cranberries sprawled across the muted expanse spelling 'Mrs. Aribella Niccoli' in swirling loops of elegant script. Her hands shook as she traced the familiar writing.
By Heather Hublerabout a month ago in Fiction
The Macklemore Controversy. Top Story - September 2026.
Everyone has the right to say “this is the cause I support.” Everyone else has the right to say “That’s cool and good for you, but it’s not my cause, so maybe promote it on your time at your event, not mine.”
By Natasja Roseabout a month ago in Beat
no signal. Top Story - September 2026.
I come to, blinking fog from my lead-laden eyes. I don't remember the last thing I was doing. I think- dimly, with a pulsing headache- that I might have been singing to a song on the radio. I look around at my surroundings. The snow is heavy, thick. It insulates the sound around me, making it so all I can hear is the ticking of my car lights, metronome-like and slow. I groan out a noise that ends in a weak whimper. The seatbelt digs into my shoulder where I'm slumped to the side at an awkward angle. Thankfully, nothing feels broken or concussed, though I'm sure I'll have nasty bruises soon. I rest my forehead against the unmarred glass window. I'm lucky I only skidded into a field ditch and not a copse of trees I saw a few miles back. Behind me, I can see the welcome sign for the village. I think I see someone, but there's no one there when I blink and focus in. The fog is starting to lift now that the disorientation is wearing off. I don't think I can get out of this ditch alone, though, and it's far too late in the holiday season to make a call for towing. Maybe I can call the police? I root around for my lost phone, finding it wedged underneath the passenger seat. When I click it open, I see there's no signal and curse my bad luck. I can't help the huff of frustration, feeling it build up in my chest and spill out. I remember the emergency radio my dad insisted I carry, and though I rolled my eyes then, I'm thankful now. My thankfulness putters out to a trickle as I realize the radio also has no signal. The fear builds up so slowly- like caramel drizzling- that, by the time I register it, it's too late to stop it. I'm stranded. I hyperventilate in my cooling car, my gloved palms reaching up to muffle my panicked little shrieks. By the time the animal fear recedes and I can think clearly again, the car is considerably colder. I shiver in just my turtleneck and reach out with shaking fingers to snag my winter coat from the passenger seat. Warmer now, I sniffle once. I take stock of my situation. Now that I can think, I remember not too far back, where the radio had been working before I slid into the ditch. I look in my rear view. It's not a far walk to the welcome sign, but in these conditions it may as well be a marathon. I suck my lower lip into my mouth in contemplation. I really have no choice, do I? It's either huddle like prey in the car and freeze to death, or walk the half mile or so and hope my radio works. My mind is set. I secure the thick radio across my chest with the provided strap, and turn it on. It bellows static, making me flinch. I have to push my body against the jammed door to open it, and almost fall face first into the snow covered ground. I scramble to regain my bearings, and frantically squash down the feeling of something being wrong . More wrong than my signal being dead, more wrong than my car being in a ditch. All around me are corn fields. There is no corn this time of year, but if I think hard enough I can almost imagine the stalks blooming up, up, up, until they suffocate the sun and leave only the fat moon above. The full moon illuminates my way. I'm thankful for the light, even if the shadows that are cast make my skin crawl. They feel wrong . Too long, too dark. I try to side step the shadows of the signal towers, but it feels like each time I do they elongate to meet me. I huff a laugh into my scarf. I'm just seeing things , I reason with myself. The silence is deafening. I barely hear the crunch of my boots, or my breathes puffing out in front of me. There is only silence and the cold for miles and miles around me. Halfway to the town edge, I slow to a stop and tilt my head. I thought I heard movement in the fields, far off in the distance. I try to squint, but all I see is a thick flurry of snowflakes and more inky shadows. I think I maybe see a humanoid shape, but when I blink and turn to face it, it's gone. I nervously laugh at my foolishness. There is nothing there. I continue on, fidgeting with the knob of the radio as I go. I hear a whisper in the wind. Something in my primal brain stem tells me to keep walking and not look back, so I listen. I keep my eyes firmly in front of me, fixed on the sign I can see cresting through the moonlight, pretending I don't see the shadows twirling at my feet playfully. Nipping. Just as I start to sweat, the whispers fade into nothing. I breathe a sigh of relief. I'm back to the ear ringing silence. It envelopes me like a familiar friend. I am just a few paces away from the edge of the town, ready to sprint the rest of the way, when the radio crackles to life. I blink down at it in surprise. I had almost forgotten about it, oddly enough. I think I hear a male voice over the static. Or maybe a woman's? It's hard to make out with all the white noise. My legs feel like lead the last few steps to the edge. Just as I step on the invisible border line, the radio shrieks, and I jump in surprise. Had I been holding the radio, I would have dropped it. My blood runs cold at the familiar voice over the speaker. A voice I could never forget, no matter how many years she's been gone. "Darcy, baby, where are you going?" My mother's voice cooes at me.
By Adora Aguirreabout a month ago in Horror
