Top Stories
Stories in Fiction that you’ll love, handpicked by our team.
Get The Tech Outta Here
July 2nd, 2014. 21 year old Foris Summers is just waking up from a long night and rolls over to the right side of his bed to grab his phone and start scrolling through the news feeds of his social media. First things he saw was the usuals: friends out partying the night before, one of his little cousins just had a birthday so his aunt was celebrating and a close friend was posting their relationship status while taking a selfie at work. “Good gracious” Foris started with exhaust. “Is anyone ever gonna get a life or is it just gonna be post like I have a life 24/7?”.
By Joe Pattersonabout a year ago in Fiction
2026 The War of the Americas
Author's preface: The earlier parts of the story can be found at the links. Part I, II, III, IV, V, VI Sylvia sat quietly in the very back row of the heavily armored prisoner transport bus with her head down and her hands ziptied behind her back. Four Mexican soldiers armed with FX-05 Xiuhcoatl rifles patrolled the aisle of the bus which currently was home to Sylvia and at least fifty other American POWs. All had been recently arrested after they were declared enemy combatants following the United States bombing of several targets along the US Mexican border including the city of Tijuana and the (formerly) busiest land border crossing in the world at San Ysidro. That crossing had been reduced to a smoldering pile of rubble by US cruise missiles launched from just offshore, killing hundreds, including at least 150 US customs and border patrol agents who had not been prewarned about the surprise attack. Sylvia was well acquainted with firearms and had great respect for the FX-05 assault rifle which was designed and built by the Dirección General de Industria Militar del Ejército (General Directorate of Military Industry of the Army) through the Fabricas Militares (Military Factory). The name translated roughly as "Fire Serpent", or literally "Turquoise-Serpent" in classical Nahuatl, a language with which Sylvia was only passingly familiar, unlike the six other languages she spoke fluently which included Latin, Ancient Greek, and Middle Egyptian along with Spanish, English, Italian, and German. The fact that she was fluent in Spanish or any other language was something she kept secret from the Mexicans and everyone else. The more they saw her as just another ignorant American the better. Her knowledge of Spanish had allowed her to learn a few things the guards had spoken amongst themselves thinking no one would understand. Importantly, she had heard that the war against Mexico was not at all popular in the United States. Donald Trump had gravely miscalculated the appetite of the average American for bloodshed, especially when it was American's blood that was being shed. The families of the CBP agents killed in the bombing of San Ysidro border crossing had rallied a huge number of Americans to their sides in protest and marched on Washington en masse. Thousands or even tens of thousands of Americans had been arrested and imprisoned in makeshift prison camps scattered around the Washington DC area. She and the other prisoners had been constantly on the move for almost a week. Changing from bus to bus as they slowly made there way to wherever it was they were going. She had learned that they were still in the Mexican border state of Baja, California and were heading to a newly erected prison camp somewhere just south of Mexicali. She had feared they would be flown to the mainland and imprisoned there, but at least for now that did not seem to be the plan. Sylvia was very afraid of what she might find when they finally did reach their destination. She had only been interrogated perfunctorily when initially arrested, a fact she was puzzled by, but knew a much more serious interrogation lay in wait for her. She had been rehearsing her cover story and was prepared for anything they might throw at her. The fact that she had been rehearsing and preparing a similar cover story to use with her own husband had she not decided to tell him about her new job with the CIA made the process much easier. The CIA had also helped her considerably in this regard by making sure she had rock solid alibis in place for each and every place she would claim to have been, and every thing she would claim to have done and been doing over the past almost two years of living in Mexico and working in the United States.
By Everyday Junglistabout a year ago in Fiction
For Sam. Runner-up in L*pogram Challenge.
You’re hungry. A growl rumbles through your stomach and along your bones. Not unbearable, not yet. But soon. And aches grow all over, your calves and ankles and knees jolt and jump as they slam the pavement. Over and over. God, how you hate to run.
By Siobhan McSweeneyabout a year ago in Fiction
Fall From Greatness
Amazed, Shocked, Horrified, Delighted. To those who knew him well, the word “pleased” was used to describe his final decision, although it ended the way it did. Before I tell you how it ended, let me tell you how it all started. To do that I must go back to the beginning. Or maybe I should say the bottom. Rock bottom.
By David E. Perryabout a year ago in Fiction
Mother Keeper Loser Weeper
In my defence, you have to understand that it was not that I didn't trust my mother. Far from it. My mother is an amazing person (woebetide anybody that says otherwise). She's funny, supportive, considerate, intelligent, beautiful, and generous. She's all heart; that's what she is. It was most certainly not that I did not trust my mother. It would never be that I did not trust my mother.
By Caroline Janeabout a year ago in Fiction
I Miss the Auras Most
I know everyone thinks I'm crazy, or lying. But it's real. I see things. Or I used to. The auras were my favourite. So beautiful. I could tell so much about a person by looking at their aura. It's like listening to a complex piece of music. I get a feel for them.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
A Footnote to a Courtroom Drama
Dear Reader, I’m going to suggest that if you are planning on reading this aloud, spend the previous evening shouting until hoarse. According to the fanzines of the time, that’s how Lauren Bacall found her depth, her gravel – and she would make the perfect voice-over for my story.
By Rachel Robbinsabout a year ago in Fiction
Her Gaze
Her gaze, deep yet absent, ethereal yet judgemental, was the last set of eyes my own saw before the world spun out of control. Moments became longer, and the passage of day to dusk became senseless. The four hours that preceded my encounter were a mystery. All that was brought to the forefront of my broken memory was a note pushed under my door that read "eyes". The reason for such a message was undoubtedly connected to the woman's eyes, whose wounded beauty caused an ache through my stomach. A powerful ache that held me locked where we stood bent forward before the woman who refused to tell me her name. As my eyes met her steely, deep green crystals, all the power that coursed through my body to my eyes couldn't peel them away from her gaze.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
The Opus
My fervent dream, for as long as breath has expanded my lungs, has been to be the creator of works of rapturous resonance. My early work, rendered by means of the effluence of felt crowned tubes of coloured dye, offered no assurance that the avenue best matched to my talent would be the ocular arts. Rather than the tears of pathos my youthful heart yearned to see, those who gave themselves over to subsume personal responses to the world and apply themselves wholly to understand my own commentary through the lens offered by my art, would often express tears of humour that could not be countenanced by my thus wounded ego for long. By the age of eleven my pens, brushes and paper, as well as my many drawn works, were put away and my parents, made only too aware of my angst at the loss of my route to my expected elevated status of “great maker of art”, placed me before the church organ. Here, an elderly man named Mr Manners sat such that the shoulders of our polyester jumpers rubbed together as we reached for the keys, week upon week, as my lack of natural rhythm became an untenable blockage to the perusal of aural excellence.
By Hannah Mooreabout a year ago in Fiction
