Top Stories

Stories in Fiction that you’ll love, handpicked by our team.

The Smoke
“Well, holy Smokes, look at you!” said Dalton, running his fingers through his niece’s hair. “Aren’t you just a princess?”
By Justin5 years ago in Fiction
Queen of Hearts
There was no one left in the city after the blasts. Or so he thought as he continued to scavenge for any remaining food in the area. Where once stood "the greatest city in the world" was now an empty wasteland of what used to be. Buildings that once blocked the sky had become piles at his feet. He only knew survival. He only knew war. He once had peace but he lost that.
By Shannon van Alst5 years ago in Fiction
Turn Out The Lights
She stared at the words scratched into the dirt. She had written them there the night before, scraping with a stick at the soil until they read how she wanted them, the same message she left outside every camp she made just in case. Her name.
By Demi Smith5 years ago in Fiction
She Tried to Claw at The Wall
“A rat in a maze is free to go anywhere, as long as it stays inside the maze.” ― Margaret Atwood, the Handmaid's Tale
By Claire R5 years ago in Fiction
The Cave
I sat in the cave, a shiver ran through me even though it was a warm summers night and I was sitting as close to the fire as I could be without my skin blistering. The skin, it always blisters if you sit too close. I felt tears running down my cheeks, my hand automatically touched my chest where the heart shaped locket lay. I closed my eyes, as I felt the heat of the flames against my face, I could hear the crackle and smell the aroma of meat cooking. I opened my eyes again. There was no meat cooking on the fire. I looked down at the locket around my neck and screamed, all the pain, the memories and the horror, I wanted to purge it from my body. I wanted it to exit from my soul with that scream. It didn't. It never did. How could it? I'd wanted to survive and I had, but I had to do awful things to make sure I did.
By Jaq5 years ago in Fiction
Searching for Mother Moon
Luki had yet to meet another that satisfied her, and so she walked alone across the desert landscape, past the gnarled metal bones of those things her grandmother used to call buildings. “Buildings”, she spit the word out as she walked along, hard to imagine thier crooked spines once reached tall and straight into the sky. She heard her grandmother’s words in her head now, reciting that same old story about the transition between the old time and the new. Before, water had run through pipes, directly into people’s homes! And you could drink it that way, no need to boil first. Luki’s mouth felt dry, and she remembered her own thirst, one of her constant companions, along with alertness and fatigue.
By Maxx Ohm5 years ago in Fiction
Little Cemetery in the City
“You brushed my hair and tucked me in, made me laugh for hours on end. You kissed my boo-boos when I fooled around. Mommy, you never let me down” I stood in front of the mothers of Mrs. Watkinson’s first grade class, listening to my classmates’ stupid poems that sounded to me like stolen greeting cards. I stood there silently and picked at the runs in my tights. I decided on my finest skirt and tee shirt combo that morning in an attempt to be what my Aunt Lora called “presentable”, but in that moment, on display in front of everyone, I missed my ripped jeans that had a crooked yet lovingly hand-stitched cat on them. My tights itched and my feet were cramped. Everything was wrong.
By Josephine Smith5 years ago in Fiction
The Bunker
Day: 137 : Monica: My mother died today. The airlock in her bedroom was breached while she slept, there are only three of us now. I thought I would be more upset, but I don’t think any of us expected to live this long anyway. None of us know why her airlock failed, but there’s been tension in the air for weeks, ever since our rations started disappearing. Radhika and I are convinced that Dev has been preparing to try and venture outside. Maybe he’s been stocking up. These days it doesn’t really matter anymore, and I’m convinced the end is coming soon… No one has radioed back to us in over two months, but my mom stayed hopeful until her dying day. I guess it just goes to show that faith can’t save any of us. Radhika is calling to me, it’s time for us to bury my mother. This is Monica signing off.
By Morgan McNamara5 years ago in Fiction
Lights Out
No! Megan Bennett barely kept the shout to herself. In her mind, she could do nothing but repeat this refrain. No! No! No!
By Brandon Moore5 years ago in Fiction
A Place Once Called Home
The house looked a bit more run-down than Abigail remembered it, despite it only having been a few years since she’d been there. It had been mostly left alone, the only fully intact house on the street. All the others had broken windows, wide-open doors, or had been partially incinerated. This house, however, was still standing, with nothing but a couple cracks in the windows and a bit of moss growing on the roof.
By Reyna Condon5 years ago in Fiction
A Day in the Life
Alice sat outside the Hungarian pastry cafe, sipping her black coffee and smoking her self-rolled cigarette. She liked neither the coffee nor the cigarette, but life was about suffering wasn’t it? And besides, she imagined a scruffy-headed, forgets-to-eat-thin type of man walking by, looking over at her, and thinking… “now there’s a cool chick who gets it.” She wanted to look like she got it, because she did. Life was absurd, so we should just drive ourselves into the ground sooner rather than later.
By Sara Rose5 years ago in Fiction
Not Safe For Work
It is a Tuesday and on Tuesdays I feel strange. I once read an article of a man in Ireland who died “of a Tuesday”. He was in his eighties, old enough to die of old age but still too young to die without a more detailed explanation. Except the doctor gave no other reasoning, other than dying of a Tuesday, which still perturbs me to this day. Apparently, dying of a Tuesday is supposed to mean the man lived a full and peaceful life, an Irish expression... but James Joyce once wrote the actual words, “he died of a Tuesday” in a piece about hanging. Maybe it’s a quirky Irish saying I just don’t understand. Or, maybe, the fact that I notice it is some underlying sign that, I myself, will die of a Tuesday.
By Jess Sambuco5 years ago in Fiction