Top Stories
Stories in Fiction that you’ll love, handpicked by our team.
The Oh So Potted Moose
Preacher Steve was driving the Parks Highway. The cruise control set at 69, his favorite number. He’d reached the midway point between Fairbanks and Nenana. That’s Nenana, rhymes with banana. As he passed Skinny Dick’s Halfway Inn, he was distracted by a new sign: Liquor in the Front, Poker in the Rear
By Jack Nanuq4 years ago in Fiction
We Girls Have to Stick Together
I was sure I would recognize her when I saw her. Philip has a “type.” I already know her name is Bridget. She also described herself in great detail on the phone, which made me even more agitated than I was before we made our lunch date. We didn’t do the usual “you’ll know me by the white carnation” crap. She just said, “I’ll be the one who’s eight months pregnant.” That should be easy enough to spot. Especially in an out of the way truck stop diner. This greasy spoon would not have been my first choice for our meeting, but I couldn’t risk being spotted by anyone who knew my husband, or by my husband for that matter.
By DeEtta Miller4 years ago in Fiction
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
