Top Stories
Stories in Fiction that you’ll love, handpicked by our team.
Museum Obscura
I have to be careful. Very, very careful. I should know, I built the darn thing. I was using the small unit today. I’d tried with the big one, personally going back to purchase, but the stubborn ass wouldn’t sell. Didn’t trust me, didn’t trust my motive.
By Meredith Harmonabout a month ago in Fiction
The First Person. Winner in The Forgotten Room Challenge.
She enters the room. The door, she knows, has been here - unpainted wooden panels, plain brass knob, no keyhole - between her bedroom and the bathroom every morning and every evening of every day, and yet she cannot remember if she has ever been inside.
By Hannah Mooreabout a month ago in Fiction
Shut In
It's upstairs at the end of a long dark hall, an undescript door caked in enough dust it blends into the faded wallpaper. The light doesn't quite reach that distant end of the corridor so I rarely venture down that far. Every so often, I'll pause before entering one of the other well-used rooms and glance toward it as if drawn by some long ago memory. But my tired eyes never linger long and the thought passes just as quickly as it started and I go on with my day.
By A. J. Schoenfeldabout a month ago in Fiction
A Spark Within
This was written for John and Paul's unofficial challenge :) (Now I know what you may be thinking...I'm not the one that rises in the morning with a big smile plastered to my face and my work is generally darker in nature, BUT, I hate to be told what to do or what I can do, hehe, so I chose to do the uplifting part not the critique. That's all the warning you get.)
By Heather Hublerabout a month ago in Fiction
#8 Scrape's Fate...
Squire "Ski" Reynolds still couldn't believe his eyes. His cellphone news feed just revealed that Scrape Norwood had been gunned down by a SWAT team member and subsequently lost his left leg during a shootout with police yesterday morning while attempting to rob Ganola Bank, the only Black-owned bank in the State of Washington, at gunpoint. Two members of Scrape's crew had also participated in the foiled heist.
By Tiffany Gordonabout a month ago in Fiction
To Dust. Content Warning.
Cassus stood before the locked and barred tomb. Twenty years before, he laid its inhabitants to rest. It was as tombs made by families of modest wealth tended to be: four columns supporting an angled roof festooned with griffins, unicorns, and humble men seeking their eternal forgiveness from the Crescent Sun. The bards would pack the tavern with that irony. Cassus laughed to himself and the effort turned to a rasping cough that made his knees buckle. He knew he’d receive no such forgiveness when they laid him to rest.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a month ago in Fiction
Don't Tell Him. Content Warning.
“I took my gun and vanished...” - The Partisan, as sung by Leonard Cohen -0- Dear mom, I’m sorry that you have to hear about my going in any way but from my own lips. If I had waited to tell you, if I had waited until you awoke, you might have talked me out of it. Talked some sense into my damned fool head, made me stay at home. Stay where I would be warm and safe and fed.
By Alexander McEvoyabout a month ago in Fiction
Dust and Static
Just one more box. Frank thought to himself as he turned back into his childhood home. The loss of his parents was, on paper, a tragedy, a car crash that couldn't have been avoided, but in reality it was no real loss to him. It had been years since he'd spoken to them, and even longer since he'd seen them.
By Liam Stormabout a month ago in Fiction
Winter
This is a work of fiction written by Isabella Rose on 12/3/2025. Those who know me can easily understand the truth. His texts were few and far between as the illness slowly but steadily hijacked his mind. She wanted to scream, “Why are you leaving me,” but she knew he was dying and there was nothing she could do, but watch.
By Isabella Roseabout a month ago in Fiction
Her Last Room. Runner-Up in The Forgotten Room Challenge.
I stand face-to-frontal with this latched door. Somehow, its hold over me is more than the sum of my cerebral parts. The door senses my hesitancy to move beyond it, to cross a threshold, to clasp its cold handle as a first steppingstone. They say the maiden stage of grief is the hardest part.
By Edward Swaffordabout a month ago in Fiction
