Top Stories
New stories you'll love, handpicked for you by our team and updated daily.
A Long Walk. Runner-up in Overboard Challenge. Top Story - July 2024.
I raise my head to the sky, letting the sun beat down on my face. My skin is burnt and blistered from weeks adrift without shelter, but I don't care. The sun is warm, and I am alive—that's all I need to know.
By Aaron Richmond2 years ago in Fiction
Yearnings of a Hidden Daughter. Top Story - July 2024.
Growing up I never felt scared when I was with my dad. I’m still a little bit afraid of the dark now, definitely afraid of heights, and don’t do crowded spaces well. But as a little kid, when dad held my hand or stood by me, no matter how high up we were, or how dark a place was ... I knew I was safe. I don’t know how to explain it, it was a certainty … if my dad was with me, I was protected and I knew this.
By Savannah K. Wilson2 years ago in Pride
I Miss the Auras Most. Top Story - July 2024.
I know everyone thinks I'm crazy, or lying. But it's real. I see things. Or I used to. The auras were my favourite. So beautiful. I could tell so much about a person by looking at their aura. It's like listening to a complex piece of music. I get a feel for them.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
A Footnote to a Courtroom Drama. Top Story - July 2024.
Dear Reader, I’m going to suggest that if you are planning on reading this aloud, spend the previous evening shouting until hoarse. According to the fanzines of the time, that’s how Lauren Bacall found her depth, her gravel – and she would make the perfect voice-over for my story.
By Rachel Robbins2 years ago in Fiction
Her Gaze . Top Story - July 2024.
Her gaze, deep yet absent, ethereal yet judgemental, was the last set of eyes my own saw before the world spun out of control. Moments became longer, and the passage of day to dusk became senseless. The four hours that preceded my encounter were a mystery. All that was brought to the forefront of my broken memory was a note pushed under my door that read "eyes". The reason for such a message was undoubtedly connected to the woman's eyes, whose wounded beauty caused an ache through my stomach. A powerful ache that held me locked where we stood bent forward before the woman who refused to tell me her name. As my eyes met her steely, deep green crystals, all the power that coursed through my body to my eyes couldn't peel them away from her gaze.
By Paul Stewart2 years ago in Fiction
Returning to Vocal Media to Write. Top Story - July 2024.
As a young writer, I’ll take all of the writing opportunities that come my way. I have been writing on Medium for over three years now. It has been a great platform for me. I’ve seen much success with it, and I don’t plan on quitting it anytime soon.
By Noah Nelson2 years ago in Writers
Millennials Are Not Lazy . Top Story - July 2024.
Picture this...you are driving your paid off Toyota Camry to home from work, you've put in a hard day's work of pushing papers, you had done your 9-5 working hours and you already know what to expect on Monday. You pull up to your driveway and park in the garage. You get home and dinner is already on the table the smell of fresh baked lasagna, it's your favorite meal. Your wife smiles as she sees you walking through the door, you kiss her and go upstairs and change into your non-work clothes. The children are called downstairs for dinner, and they come pouring down and hug their dad hello. You all sit down for dinner and hear about your wife's day and your children's day. You can't help but smile. Then after dinner, your bill for the mortgage comes in and your roll your eyes, but you pay it anyways, the electric bill is not bad, the gas bill also not bad, so you sit down and pay them off.
By Adrianna M. Braun2 years ago in Psyche
The Opus. Top Story - July 2024.
My fervent dream, for as long as breath has expanded my lungs, has been to be the creator of works of rapturous resonance. My early work, rendered by means of the effluence of felt crowned tubes of coloured dye, offered no assurance that the avenue best matched to my talent would be the ocular arts. Rather than the tears of pathos my youthful heart yearned to see, those who gave themselves over to subsume personal responses to the world and apply themselves wholly to understand my own commentary through the lens offered by my art, would often express tears of humour that could not be countenanced by my thus wounded ego for long. By the age of eleven my pens, brushes and paper, as well as my many drawn works, were put away and my parents, made only too aware of my angst at the loss of my route to my expected elevated status of “great maker of art”, placed me before the church organ. Here, an elderly man named Mr Manners sat such that the shoulders of our polyester jumpers rubbed together as we reached for the keys, week upon week, as my lack of natural rhythm became an untenable blockage to the perusal of aural excellence.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
