Top Stories

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

Plant A Seed
The woman hummed as she placed the small cotton bags into her tattered purse. The seams of the worn leather bulged a bit, but held. Her grandmother had given it to her 70 years before for her 16th birthday, not too long before she passed away. She’d carried the bag for all the important events in her life. To weddings and births and funerals. When the seams failed, she’d taken a needle to them, ruining the pristine appearance but maintaining the integrity of the bag itself. Her great granddaughter sat at the table next to her, tiny legs swinging and tongue poked out the corner of her mouth as she carefully tied 3 knots in the ribbons holding the cotton bags closed.
By K.T. Seto4 years ago in Fiction
Donald
My batteries don’t charge like they used to. When I was fresh off the line, I could go a week without charging, and charging only took an hour or so. Now that my model is obsolete, no longer maintained or manufactured, the batteries need charging every night and take several hours. My technician remarks that I am in great shape for my age and that my battery will be used to power homes in disaster recover zones when I chose to retire. I never ask him to replace my batteries. To do so would factory reset me and I don’t know if a factory reset me could handle being old. Besides, I would forget my duty to my charge, Donald.
By Gage4 years ago in Fiction
Slipping Time
I slipped on the wet pavement. I got to my feet and soon discovered it was five hours earlier. This was not the first time this had happened -- I knew all the signs. My phone was not broken, it was really five hours earlier. The newspaper on the ground confirmed it. The paper was bone dry, even though it had been raining cats and dogs, or big sloppy drops, anyway, where I had just been, right here, a split second ago.
By Paul Levinson4 years ago in Fiction
Home to the Owl. Runner-Up in Return of the Night Owl Challenge.
When I was a child, the hazy golden summer days stretched on forever, woodland fairies drifted through the towering trees of ancient forests, the wind whipped up tidal waves of dust containing fierce monsters vanquishable only by mighty swords made from wooden sticks, and bedtime stories were told to us by an owl in blue moonlight.
By Brittany Moore4 years ago in Fiction
Hectic High School Days, Part I
I moved to New York two months ago, trapped in a U-haul truck with a million thoughts running through my head. I remember sneaking stares at my sister Georgia from the passenger's side. I watched her tears fall but didn't say a word. I remember our Mom saying that we couldn’t come back to our Tennessee home. My heart felt like a dozen knives just pierced through it. I was convinced that nothing will take away those memories of twirling in the blue grass, or watching myself grow from a southern babe to a rough-housing tomboy through the reflections in my mother's vintage full length mirror.
By Norma Jane4 years ago in Fiction
The Clairvoyant Artist. Runner-Up in Return of the Night Owl Challenge.
Life holds endless possibilities for those that hope for something greater than their present reality of struggle and misery. If we dig deep enough we eventually come upon the keys that open the doors to our success and prosperity. But if we ever choose to stop digging then we accept defeat until we pick the shovel of hope back up. Many reach the grave never finding their set of keys. They tossed their shovels to the side and watched others dig. Some stop digging due to the influence of others or because they have lost vision and reason to continue. Yet there is always a small remnant within the crowd of diggers that never put down their shovels. With sweat on their brows and sore arms, they push until they have the ring of keys dangling in between their fingers. They prove victorious in a world full of defeat. Why? Because no matter how many breaks they took or how many times the shovel was tossed, they found a way to pick it back up and dig deeper.
By Ebony Burns4 years ago in Fiction
Chasing the Moon
It's December here in Minnesota, but the nights haven't managed to get so cold that I have to hole myself up. There were a few years after it happened and before I left that I'd gear myself up in snow pants and wrap a scarf so many times around my face only my eyes showed.
By Libby Walkup4 years ago in Fiction
Real Owl. Fake Life
Madeleine slanted her head and let her fingers toy with the owl perched on her bedside table. To call it a toy would be an understatement. It was every inch a real owl, except it really wasn’t, but a fairly decent stand-in. She coughed.
By Elaine Gao4 years ago in Fiction
The Art of Painting A Memory. Runner-Up in Return of the Night Owl Challenge.
My uncle George’s voice is my favourite colour: a smooth velvet purple. Unfortunately, my voice was a grungy green for George, which he was always at pains to remind me if I talked too much.
By Sam4 years ago in Fiction
Through The Night
I walked through the darkened halls, the candles that lined the massive walls would soon give way to the chilly air funneling through. The draft escaped through the grand tunnel that marked the way back to the more occupied area of my new home. What drew me this far, I could not tell, what feed my curiosity, I would not say; there were rumors of dark lore I dare not partake in, but they were only rumors, harmless to say the least. I wouldn't allow gossip to rule my life, nor creatures to send me running, so I kept walking.
By Latoya M.Delbridge 4 years ago in Fiction
The Necromancer: magic or delusion?
Art by the author Rodney Mackel sat on the sidewalk shielding his face from an evil wind. To shelter his mind from the news and the memories he counted the holes in his clothes.
By Sam Spinelli4 years ago in Fiction
Who Am I?
My mother died two months ago. She was 74. Her last days were pure heartbreak even for me a person that had blocked all feelings for her. Alzheimer's had made her even forget her name. There were so many things I would have wanted to ask her, clear some up, get some closure or finally get to know who she really was. But life did not give me that opportunity.
By Gal Mux4 years ago in Fiction