Top Stories
Stories in Fiction that you’ll love, handpicked by our team.
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
Confessions of a Misfit Sorority Girl
“Gamma Phi Beta girls! Boom, boom, boom,” echoes around our expansive entryway. A hundred mostly blond heads fill the space. Their perfectly-curled ringlets bounce with the rhythm. Each face touched by the Southern Californian sun (or spray-tanned). Strapless bras and thongs in place, per our president’s orders.
By Katie Wilson4 years ago in Fiction
The Woman of the Emerald Wood
In old times when magic and folklore was rooted in the forests, there existed a woman who aged according to the cycles of the moon. She lived far away from the kingdom that claimed to rule over the land, far from the shadows that hovered over the souls of men. One could only find her if they were to venture past the mountains shaped like two sleeping bears and into the Emerald Wood. However, only a few would ever encounter her, for she was a solitary creature who remained veiled to all of those who she did not wish to reveal herself. Her existence was a myth that had been whispered about for generations. The Woman of the Emerald Wood was as ancient as the Earth itself and yet her wisdom waxed and waned throughout each month with the moon. When the moon was waxing, she was the Maiden, whose innocence and curiosity flowed into the forest, filling it with wonder. When the moon was full, she was the Mother, whose fertility and nurturing presence brought life, growth and abundance to the animals and plants in her wood. When the moon was waning, she was the Crone, whose wisdom was sought out and avoided. In this incarnation, she brought death to those who grew weak with time.
By Shanelle Hicks4 years ago in Fiction
Don't Be Shocked If My Pillow Pet Murders Me
“A pillow pet? Mom, I’m frickin a adult, I don’t want a pillow pet!” Eight-year-old me was furious at my mother for buying me a “baby gift” as a birthday present. It took 10 minutes for me to get over it, as I quickly realized Brad was the closest thing I had to a friend. I began to take him everywhere. My mother noticed our unbreakable bond and got me another pillow pet for my next birthday.
By Payton Burdette4 years ago in Fiction
When I Picture My Beloved
MONDAY I've been meaning to ask you this, by the way. It might sound rather silly and I can easily imagine you laughing if I said this to your face, but I'm not kidding around. What is it about you that made you strong enough to not only look at me, but willingly spend time around me? What gave you the electric charge to stare right into my eyes without batting your own? Why were you able to stand being aware of my existence?
By Shyne Kamahalan4 years ago in Fiction
I Think I Left the Iron On
To quote a “Very Funny Fellow” – I started out as a child. I spent the first twenty-four years of my life acting like a child and doing some rather childish things. I didn’t date much before then and even when I did reach the one quarter century mark, I still much preferred ‘playing’ to working. I played hockey and baseball and football whenever I could. I skipped work occasionally so that I could play these games, and others. Some would have called me immature, but I prefer to think of my habits and behaviors as simply efforts to preserve my youth. In my 28th year, I got married (finally, by my mother's account). After being on my own for my entire life to that point, it was difficult for me to get used to the things I needed to do as a married man. I had to refrain from executing some of my favorite bodily functions in public (or even in private). I couldn’t watch sports on television any more than two or three hours per week. Dishes had to be washed after every meal. Bathing, showering and shaving became almost daily expectations. Chairs could no longer be used for hanging my clothes. And, articles left on the floor for more than one or two days often disappeared from my collections altogether.
By John Oliver Smith4 years ago in Fiction
