Top Stories
New stories you’ll love, handpicked for you by our team and updated daily.
I saw them dancing on the bridge.
For the Queer Vocal Voices challenge latest challenge. You can take part and/or learn about it here: Hiding in my childhood den,
Celia in UnderlandPublished 9 days ago in PrideAllow me talk about death
For I know a day will surely come when he will visit me A day will come when he will take away all my loved ones and family
The Cholmondeley Ladies
Take a couple of 17th century aristocrats, an unknown painter, a striking portrait and an inquisitive seven-year-old. Introduce the ingredients, stir gently, and wait for a response.
Andy PottsPublished 8 days ago in ArtAcknowledgment Of Realism
This beloved imperfection of love Has embodies the tension of Our aching Hearts. As sweet as the Soul may devour Agony as Christmas
Hold The Cinnamon
I grew up poor, but I didn’t know it, lived in a shack and later a trailer, Mama was tired but she didn’t show it, living on tips that paid for our dinner.
Tammy CastlemanPublished 7 days ago in PoetsWhat Were We Thinking?
It's not simple, no step-by-step, no book on a shelf, a conversation eye to eye, a mother's answer, a father's certainty, a kiss at sunset, a bad choice righted, it's done, it's present, it's lasting, it's pain; it happened, it was, it changed you, it changed me, us, them, then, now and always. Words emptied into sighs, skies return to blue, endless, wander, wonder, was, is, could, maybe, only if's. Time, flying flawlessly like diving gulls, towering above one minute, swooping down into the depths of cold, green seas, tossing up a catch, feeding their newness screeching from the nest. Alone, every single atom feels the heart's imprint, good, bad, unknowing, what was yearned for, how it was sought, how it broke us into small bits of flesh to nourish our hunger for something, different, better, less or just kinder? You are who you are, your manner, your dress, hidden, or confessed, it's all ready, to unwrap, release, okay to live for. Don't pull away, nor withhold your dreams, your breath is mine, too. Let them pray, or cry, flail in their naivety; let go, surrender to the beauty of being here as you are, with or without me, them, approval or questions. On their knees, wanting desperately for us to be something other than who we are, it's their lack of Spring, of falling in love, their mourning regret. Never ours to behold.
The Exception
Adelaide took a sip of her caramel flavored coffee before she let out a sigh and placed the cup back onto the table. She looked across the chestnut colored table at Lisa who was watching her with curiosity. This was their ritual. Every Monday evening they came to this same corner diner and talked about Adelaide’s life. Most nights the conversation centered around the trials and tribulations of Adelaide’s all-too-often chaotic love life, but tonight was different.
Emma Edwins (R.T. Edwins)Published about a month ago in Confessionsgender euphoria
the first time i bound my breasts i couldn't breathe the tight fabric on my sensitive skin was too much then i looked in a mirror
The Black Pillow
He called his friend to tell him he was visiting and would be staying in an excellent hotel. Every TripAdvisor review was five-star, so he was looking forward to coming.
Mike Singleton - MikeydredPublished 9 days ago in HorrorWalk In The Woods
I don't bring a compass or a map when I venture into the woods. I just walk, and walk, and walk. Maybe I'll wind my way around to the next house over, the garden now overgrown and the occupant now far away. There'll be no friendly hello or offer of tea if I step out there anymore.
Kelsey ClareyPublished 7 days ago in PoetsMy cat died on Friday
My cat died on Friday. One of my cats. I have two. Had. It was sudden, quick, horrible, and in my arms, and now I feel funny about my arms. Like they betrayed me somehow, these strong, capable limbs I use to love and to care, vessels, instead, of dying.
Hannah MoorePublished 8 days ago in PetlifeTwo Stories From the Six-Year-Old Version of My Daughter
A few years ago my daughter made up a couple stories when she was six. She’s now almost nine years old. As a way to store her stories so I can show her when she’s grown up, here they are below:
Rowan FinleyPublished 11 days ago in FictionWomen Know Hockey, Stop Pretending They Don't
Gather 'round, readers! Today is International Women's Day, and I have a story to tell. In 2014, I watched and followed the hockey games from that year's Winter Olympics. I watched the US men's team reach the semifinals of the tournament, which are the medal rounds. We faced Canada. We lost to Canada, because of course we do. So we had to play for Bronze. We faced off against Finland. Finland beat us like we stole something. A 6-0 loss in the Bronze Medal Game, while Canada defeated Sweden to get the Gold.
Clyde E. DawkinsPublished 10 days ago in VivaLetting Go
There are things I'll never give back. Things I'm meant to keep, like this little tear in my heart caused,
Sandra MatosPublished 12 days ago in PoetsThe Golden Puppy
Tom strides by the pavements beneath, the sun-shining sky and the breezy heat. A yelp, a cry, and there the open door of the pound. Puppies for sale. Though not exactly puppies - perhaps a bit older. They are cute and fluffy, some black, some white, some grey, some brown, and there is one who is patchy. A girl so cute, shy and timid yet warmed by his presence. Tiptoeing over Tom lowers his hand by the gate. She smells and licks, then tries to get up like a child reaching his arms out. Patting her, she feels secure and loved. Upon his rise, Tom waves the young pup goodbye.
Lenita LeiPublished 8 days ago in FictionNo Woman is an Island
I take the light scarf from my bookcase and unfold it, the sun passing through the red roses and their green leaves that stretch across a black background.
S. C. AlmanzarPublished 8 days ago in PoetsDear Mom
Dear Mom (An open letter to my 1950’s mother) By: De Etta Miller Dear Mom, I’m not sure if this letter is for you or for me. But decades after your leaving, I feel the need to say: “I’m sorry.” I don’t know that I even believe in Heaven. I can only assume, that which was taught throughout my childhood might have some validity. Perhaps we all find the truth of our afterlife when it is indeed time for an afterlife. But what I do know and believe in, is how hard and yet delightful motherhood can be.
DeEtta MillerPublished 8 days ago in FamiliesWe Need To Talk About Cis Privilege
Privilege is defined as the right by a particular race, gender, or social class to access societal advantages inaccessible to others. Privilege comes in many ways: because you are white, or male, or thin, or stereotypically attractive, or able-bodied. Cisgender is an adjective which describes those who identify with their assigned sex at birth. When we're born, we are given a label of female or male based on the way we look. Those who feel a disconnect between assigned gender and true identity are transgender. Those who do not feel a disconnect are cisgender.
ghostsandrebelsPublished 9 days ago in PrideTime and Space
Everyone searches for a voice that says yes in the dark. Of my soul, it says little but needs much: hands, money, silk. It settles for a dream and a word,
So I will
I'm rearranging my pieces, scrambling and unscrambling them, shifting and shoving. Some got bent, twisted into the wrong
Heather HublerPublished 11 days ago in Poets