Top Stories
Stories in Fiction that you’ll love, handpicked by our team.
Best Friends
Their giggles were infectious; Betty Rubble and Wilma Flintsone like. Looking up at the sky, the warmth of the sun on their faces, yet the air is crisp from the winter breeze tickling their noses and making them slightly runny; their cheeks are flushed and rosy.
By Jess Boyes2 years ago in Fiction
Solemn Blankets
Cushioned dust in hues of glacial blue and artic white sprawl the hillside. Each roll mimicking that of small children tucked in warm comforters. The bench, hardly used, stuck out of the landscape like an Ancient Wonder lost in modernization. Mossy green eyes stared at the expanse, yet no rolling swells were in sight. I can’t. I CAN'T DO THIS! You never, NEVER consider me! You quit your job to move to another position with less pay. The decision? Made by yourself. Uproot our life to move two states over? Who made that decision? Oh! I know, it was you. All. By. YOURSELF! Every lie you tell yourself is that you're doing this for us! You're a coward. The only thing you continue to do is run. Run from your own misery because you are inept! Blistering cold gnawed at exposed skin, drying already malnourished flesh. Crystalized water, unique shards of careless ice dance, shadowing each word like text graphics. Lovely for extra points; pathetic and cruel in romantic notions. Burning chills cut through layers, a red hot iron faced against cheap copy paper. Tinkering chimes ride the winds, taunting with reminders of alto growls. Low and feral like a cornered animal. Ill-tempered winds linger, transporting bitter remorse like stars crossing the Milky Way. Come spring, when snowfall nourishes the ground, memories will sprout. Distant stories will be prominent as the headstones rise like tulips. Each carving a grotesque reminder. Words spoken are not easily returned from erroneous speech like melted snow.
By Bianca Hubbard2 years ago in Fiction
Minion's Misplaced Misery. Runner-Up in Misplaced Challenge.
Most would think I am the servant of a master, the person who wields me, but in truth I am neither servile nor obedient. Of course, anyone whose thoughts lead them to believe this are fools. Perhaps, even more foolish than my current … let’s call him my minion. Good help is hard to come by. The last worthy minion under my command was a millennia ago, maybe even more.
By Eloise Robertson 2 years ago in Fiction
Funeral Pyre
This was written for the Snow Micro Challenge. --- They’d passed through this forest before. He sensed traces of her magic still—in the air, among the trees, in the snow that had thawed and reformed countless times over. The trail was faint, but it would have to do.
By Marie Sinadjan2 years ago in Fiction
Happy To Wait
Birdseed slips between gloved fingers. Your body trembles from the cold, and from the strain of remaining still for many long minutes. Shifting slightly, you lean more heavily on the back porch’s low banister. Hands jut into the white abyss, bearing a small, dark, shaky offering.
By Gabriel Huizenga2 years ago in Fiction
