Top Stories
New stories you'll love, handpicked for you by our team and updated daily.
My Aims for 2025. Top Story - January 2025.
As we know, I have moments where I go in and out of deep-dives when it comes to literature. You only have to look at what I'm publishing to know whether I am in the midst or have just raised my head above the water of a in-depth analysis of some niche and odd topic such as: disasters on the sea, 18th Century French Enlightenment Politics, marketing, books about female friendship, books about men at war and many other things that have made their way into the last year or so.
By Annie Kapur2 years ago in Geeks
Part 2: Ravens Ridge- missing person . Top Story - January 2025. Content Warning.
But what he didn’t know was that he would see those souls again, those souls from the hospital, struggling to get to the other side; lost in their attachment to the world they have never quite known.
By Caitlin Charlton2 years ago in Fiction
Just in Time . Top Story - January 2025.
There’s no way it should have worked. The damn thing had no basis in science, and yet, there I was. An older, wiser, scarred version of myself stood across from me—a soft smile, a quiet disposition, and a calmness that defied our current circumstances.
By Bradley Ramsey2 years ago in Fiction
Art, and the Talent Within. Top Story - January 2025.
When I was in seventh grade, my English teacher Mrs. Simmons had our Fridays very carefully planned. It was the day that we would have our spelling and vocabulary tests, which I was always horrible with. But that Monday, as we got our study guides with our words for the week, she would give us the chance to get bonus points on our test. Every week, she would pick an art piece for the week. If we learned the name and who the artist was, it was easy points. Once the test was over, she would play classical music and while we wrote in journals, she would pass around a huge can of candy, where I would always rummage through until I found my favorite, a sour lemonhead.
By Judith Jascha2 years ago in Art
Going Down?. Top Story - January 2025.
They used to call them cages, did you know that? Probably because that's what they looked like, all metal bars. It's still a good name for them. The way you feel inside. Trapped. Isolated. They're both feeling it, and both pretending otherwise. Sweat beading on their skin. Curling his hair at the temples. Decorating her collar bone. Music filters down through the building, distorted to a vague booming. "Press the alarm again," she says, sliding down one wall of the cage and pulling off her gold heels. "I've pressed it," he says through gritted teeth. He's already sat on the floor, shirt collar unbuttoned and legs splayed. Was she always such a nag? "Sorry," she mutters, frowning. She rubs her sore feet without meeting his gaze. "I'm just a bit on edge, alright?" He rolls his eyes. "Really? You're not finding this relaxing?" His sarcasm grated on her. Was he always such an arrogant pig? They'd both snuck away from the party, sidled away from friends, work colleagues, and spouses... to meet here. They'd been flirting for weeks. Tonight they were finally going to... It wasn't supposed to go like this. She sighs. "How long have we been stuck here now?" "My battery is just as dead as the last time you asked me," he snaps. Jesus, she was like a child! She glared at him. Her Roland would've known the time. He wore a watch. He was patient, too. "Why do I have to be Mr Timepiece?" he was unwilling to let the matter drop. "Don't you have a phone or a watch?" "I can't wear watches," she said, lifting her chin and dropping ice into her voice. "The straps irritate my skin. And I left my phone in my bag." She sneered. "I thought I was only going to be gone a few minutes." How could he ever have thought her beautiful? Sure, she had that beautiful jet black hair, and smooth skin, and curves... but she was lazy and mean. Entitled, too. Skating through life on her looks. The distant booming stopped and the chatter dimmed. "It must be nearly midnight," he says, following this with a self-satisfied nod when the countdown started far above them. Did he always state the obvious likes that? Self-important prat. When the chimes began, she feels a tug in her heart. She had a thing about always having someone to kiss on New Year. She senses Xander would've rebuffed her advances. She half-wishes he'd try to kiss her. She'd slap him for his trouble, but it'd give her wobbling ego a boost. "It's been hours," she sounded plaintive. "Surely they must have missed us by now??" "I dunno," he peered upwards as if he could see through the ceiling and determine what everyone was up to. "It was quite a party... And remember, we made sure they were good and drunk and mingling so they wouldn't notice us leaving..." She pouted, listening to the fireworks going off and the opening lines of Auld Lang Syne. He was determined not to even look at her, but he could feel the sulk radiating off her. His own temper burned in response. The minutes crawled by like slugs, unpleasant and sticky. When the doors finally opened, they both looked sweaty and dishevelled. Guilty, in other words.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
Sounds of the Cottage. Runner-Up in The Soundtrack of Your Year Challenge. Top Story - January 2025.
The evening that my best friend Julia texted, I was having a glass of wine with my husband. The dogs were sprawled all over us like live rugs, the windows and sliding door were open to let in the spring breeze and we were having one of those ‘intellectual masturbation’ sessions where you randomly discuss nothing and everything about life, including its meaning.
By Marlena Guzowski2 years ago in Beat
What's Going On With J. Delaney-Howe?. Top Story - December 2024.
This piece will be slightly different from what I usually write, although there hasn't been much writing. I'm just going to share some things that have been going on in my life: things I am feeling and concerned about. There will be plenty of run-on sentences, and that's okay. This piece isn't for grammar technicality. I may bounce around a little bit, but it will always come together at the end. So, will this probably be a one-sided conversation? I don't know what it is, and it doesn't matter. This is my story of the last 6 months of my life, good and bad. So stick with me- this could be a good ride!
By J. Delaney-Howe2 years ago in Humans
365 Writing Strips One Bare. Top Story - December 2024.
She hadn't married him for looks, because he was most unsightly. She married him for his brain. Theirs was a marriage that was the opposite of the cautionary tale of those who marry their "one true" trophies for looks.
By Gerard DiLeo2 years ago in Fiction
The Splashback. Top Story - December 2024.
A Sandwich Short of a Picnic My ears ring. Alarm in perpetuity. The hammer and pluck of too many questions. A fighting chime of chords made from clashing notes of doom and discombobulation. They flow along staves of shady tidal waves, scouring open wounds with salt as they bite down to chew on the rot of my grey matter. Above and below, the moon swims limp and flat, leached of purpose and offering no destination. I howl into its mirror as my gilt- edged tears slosh down my cheeks in rivers of orange. Ironclad life rusting out of me in heavy metal groans—a tinman of brittle bones and weight. My mouth is dumb, filled with a pink marshmallow tongue that has spent too long licking saccharine walls, ceilings, and floors. Searching for doors. My teeth have melted in the constancy of the candyfloss storm clouds that spin, unending, in my lipstick-stained walk of shame sky. Once, I was one note in the dark beating a solitary and expectant rhythm—an incubated womb dweller dreaming of life—reverberating with diastolic and systolic ebb and flow. Harmony, my primal beat, my yin and yang. Then, the orchestra of joy and fear began. As the conductor tapped the baton, I screamed. Will humanity ever fill its void? The auditorium has grown so big, globalised and homogenised. It hums with white noise and hankers for syncopated beats. I cannot find my feet. The light fantastic has tripped out, and I keep falling over in the dark. It has a lot to do with this beige straight jacket of civility. It isn't me. I may drown in the sweat that pours as I try to wriggle free. It's either that, or I will throttle myself trying. Choke holds where blood should flow. Pedal to the metal. A hyperventilated state. Hope has anarchised into a four-letter word. I have tattooed it on my head because no matter how much I pack it with ice into my heart, it thaws its way out of me. A dose of salts seeping from my pores, leaking from my eyes, crusting on my lips. Bittersweet and antiseptic. My heartstrings are soggy. They play loopy tunes that nobody can sing along to, and my picnics are always one sandwich short. I used to know how to make a meal of it. One day, I will have a gathering where everyone laughs at themselves. I shall attend, and I shall arrive naked.
By Caroline Jane2 years ago in Beat
