Top Stories
New stories you’ll love, handpicked for you by our team and updated daily.
Through the Keyhole Challenge Winners
It starts with a look you were not supposed to take. Through the Keyhole asked writers to explore what happens next, the truth that seeps in, the lines that blur, the things we cannot unsee. Here are the pieces that hold that moment open just long enough to let the light in...
By Vocal Curation Team5 months ago in Resources
The Hag Stone
The beach was chilly, the wind blew sand and an icy spray on shore. Maggie pulled her scarf up to partially cover her face. It seemed like a crazy day for a beach walk, but she knew it was excellent sea glass weather. Her coat pockets were jingling with bits of polished glass.
By Mary Haynes5 months ago in Fiction
Cassidy's Walkabout
This is, fortunately, a better post than I have a right to make today. Some of you know about my Australian Shepherd, Cassidy. He's generally out at night, keeping foxes and the occasional coyote away. He's a working-bred Aussie, but he thinks that he's a pack of Great Pyrenees. On occasion, Cassidy used to wander, finding or creating a hole in the fence and taking off to parts unknown. He has been very good in the past few months, no longer even barking at the school bus as it goes by. This morning, he was as quiet as could be when the high school bus and then the middle school bus passed the homestead.
By Kimberly J Egan5 months ago in Petlife
When Can You Call Yourself a Writer?
Let’s face it, we have all asked ourselves the same question: when can we call ourselves a “writer”? After all, when we tell our friends and family that we are writers, some of the first questions that we get back are things like, “Oh, what have you written?” and “Where can I read your stuff?”
By Stephanie Hoogstad5 months ago in Writers
The Walk
“The boy died three days from internal bleeding. His funeral will be tomorrow. Did you know that?” Father Graham shook his head, keeping his eyes on their steps along the sodden gravel and mud caked road, strewn lightly with damp, limp leaves from the dying autumn. The winter chill had yet to arrive, but a damp heavy air hung over the two men as they continued their walk.
By Conor Matthews5 months ago in Fiction
