Top Stories
Stories in Fiction that you’ll love, handpicked by our team.
Leire
Leire drives through the roads of Germany with her left side window wide open. The warm air coming off the heating escapes through it as fast as the tears pour down her cheeks. It’s minus two degrees outside but Siberian weather inside her guts. She rolls herself a cigarette while holding the wheel with her wrists, hoping for another car to show up at any point so she wouldn’t be the smallest thing in the immense scenery that is the Northern Limestone Alps.
By Lucia Carretero Sierra4 years ago in Fiction
Dinner at Six
I feel an overwhelming warmth on my back. I’ve been sitting here for God knows how long. With each moment, it seems less likely that you’re going to show up. The heat is almost visible in the air. A bronze hue sits above the hills and reaches out to the sea. It all drips with nostalgia. The corroded train tracks wind away from me into the distance as I try balancing along the remains of the old station. My agility is much less impressive than I remember. The clock tower from the station is all that remains, but it is only correct one minute of every twelve hours. It looks as though nobody had bothered to visit this place in years.
By Greg Allan4 years ago in Fiction
An Adult Letter to Santa
Dear Santa, I know I’ve been saying for a while that I will call, or text, or even write. Life has been so busy I haven't had the time to do any of those things, no matter how often I tell my children I will. Sometimes I think they try to keep me busy on purpose, so I don't have the opportunity to. I'm sure you can figure out why as you see everything. Now that I have a moment to myself, I figured it was time to truly reach out. There are just a few things I want to discuss with you, and I hope you take the time to consider them all. It really isn't anything major. I'm just making sure we are on the same page to ensure a fantastic holiday for everyone.
By Michaela Gallien4 years ago in Fiction
The Blonde. V+ Fiction Award Winner.
Emma Bates scraped a last mouthful of pea soup from her bowl, then hobbled to the window and yanked the ragged curtain aside. She didn’t bother to scrub her bowl or sponge the vinyl tablecloth. That could wait. Right now, it was time for the girl.
By Bebe King Nicholson4 years ago in Fiction
The Attic
The growing shadows from the flickering kerosene lamp you held covered the disappointment in your eyes. We could hear my mother practicing her singing from downstairs. Her voice travelled into the attic, bouncing around the triangular shaped roof. But she didn’t know we were still here. Your face was lit by the glow of the lamp, but everything around us faded into blackness.
By Greg Allan4 years ago in Fiction
The Oh So Potted Moose
Preacher Steve was driving the Parks Highway. The cruise control set at 69, his favorite number. He’d reached the midway point between Fairbanks and Nenana. That’s Nenana, rhymes with banana. As he passed Skinny Dick’s Halfway Inn, he was distracted by a new sign: Liquor in the Front, Poker in the Rear
By Jack Nanuq4 years ago in Fiction
We Girls Have to Stick Together
I was sure I would recognize her when I saw her. Philip has a “type.” I already know her name is Bridget. She also described herself in great detail on the phone, which made me even more agitated than I was before we made our lunch date. We didn’t do the usual “you’ll know me by the white carnation” crap. She just said, “I’ll be the one who’s eight months pregnant.” That should be easy enough to spot. Especially in an out of the way truck stop diner. This greasy spoon would not have been my first choice for our meeting, but I couldn’t risk being spotted by anyone who knew my husband, or by my husband for that matter.
By DeEtta Miller4 years ago in Fiction
Miss Smythe Has a Fantasy
It had been one of those weeks. Three phone calls from parents who thought their children were gods, two or three children who behaved like it and kept everyone from learning, frustrated children who were exhausted and emotional, a fire-drill where a boy broke for the fences, an active shooter drill that was frankly more terrifying than she was prepared for, and an overwhelming sense that the people who paid her salary didn’t actually care if she lived, died, or just needed classroom equipment. She had cried in the bathroom during her lunch break over the sisters who had come to school after calling paramedics to wake their overdosed mother. It had been one of those weeks. If she was honest with herself, nearly all of the weeks felt like this anymore.
By Lydia Stewart4 years ago in Fiction
