Top Stories

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

Anything to Anywhere
The first time I fell in love, I was flying a plane. And no, I didn’t fall for a handsome passenger or get swept away by the pink cotton candy clouds blanketing the sky. The truth is, I fell in love with flying itself.
By Ahna Lewis3 years ago in Fiction
When They Became Silent. First Place in Tall Tail Challenge.
He was surprised at how soft its neck was. It was a hot and muggy day in Yinshan, but Hao’s throat was dry and his hands were icy.
By Lilia3 years ago in Fiction
Year of the Whale. Second Place in Tall Tail Challenge.
Mao Song was born on February 7th, 1932. It was the year of the monkey, but he weighed 5.4 kg and was the largest baby Nantong province had ever seen, so his brothers said it was the year of the whale. They called him Jing, a word for whale. Everyone called him Jing in the fishing town where he lived.
By Ethan Town3 years ago in Fiction
Safety Instructions
Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Flight 999 on Egress Airlines, flying from Montreal to Vancouver. Our altitude will soon reach 50,000 feet (don’t ask us to go metric on that one, ha ha), and we will arrive at our destination late in the evening of Friday the 13th. Many of you with a superstitious nature might find that an uncomfortable fact, but please appreciate that we are pilots and handle this sort of thing all the time. No worries!
By Kendall Defoe 3 years ago in Fiction
"Welcome to Flight"
The sign they passed on their way into town said, "Welcome to Flight" but the faces of the old men watching them said something entirely different. And it wasn't "thanks for visiting!" or "how bout a cup of coffee, friend?"... Everett Marks prided himself on being a polite man so he tipped his dirty hat congenially anyway as he rode slowly past the mercantile storefront. A row of cranky old men sat in rickety chairs smoking and staring in disgust at the sorry pair of vagabonds. No one tipped a hat or even nodded to acknowledge the man and his sad excuse for a horse.
By Donna Renee3 years ago in Fiction
The Final Gasp of Winter
The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. Through the worn silver, as if gazing into a neighboring den of sin, I was able to make out the shape of a woman with spidery fingers, her dress a brown, shabby muslin. Her hair like sullied snow.
By CJ Miller3 years ago in Fiction
Wrong Place
The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. Or did it? Maybe it was a different me–the one that lives in the dark corners of my dreams–the other me that always felt close to the surface, lurking around the edges of reality and waiting.
By Gerald Holmes3 years ago in Fiction
Broken-hearted
The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own, and I knew it was that witch who disfigured my reflection in such a strange and distorted way.
By Melissa Ingoldsby3 years ago in Fiction
Muriel’s Second Hand Book Emporium, Chapter 1: The Inheritance. First Place in Under Purple Clouds Challenge.
Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. Only those who knew where to look saw them sway and weave and whirl to the quiet music of the night. Lavender and lilac, periwinkle and magenta, swirling and twirling. To the buzz of the cicadas, the chirp of the common nighthawk, the rush of bird wings, and the water lapping and tapping against the rocky banks of the meandering creek.
By R. J. Rani3 years ago in Fiction
Ana's Home . Second Place in Under Purple Clouds Challenge.
Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. Then came the azure flowers dotting the golden grass, springing up lushly around the brook of palest green. A few coral birds were added to wing gracefully over the meadow.
By Sonia Heidi Unruh3 years ago in Fiction
Laced
The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. Yellow teeth, stubble, wrinkled reptilian face. I looked into a pair of curious eyes, eager to know the truth, piercing through the distorted sheet of glass. Heavy drops blurred the contours, contorted the figures. There weren't many of them there.
By Moon Desert3 years ago in Fiction
Praying on the weak
The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. It showed my lonely chambers, in the back of a cold church. It showed Alby Duncan and his daughter, Lucy, standing behind me. Alby had been a member of my flock so long that I remember Lucy being born. 19 years ago that was. It was always a delight to see them. Lucy smiled at me in the mirror. “Hello, Father Morris,” she says.
By Shane Dobbie3 years ago in Fiction