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Stories in Fiction that you’ll love, handpicked by our team.
Little Cemetery in the City
“You brushed my hair and tucked me in, made me laugh for hours on end. You kissed my boo-boos when I fooled around. Mommy, you never let me down” I stood in front of the mothers of Mrs. Watkinson’s first grade class, listening to my classmates’ stupid poems that sounded to me like stolen greeting cards. I stood there silently and picked at the runs in my tights. I decided on my finest skirt and tee shirt combo that morning in an attempt to be what my Aunt Lora called “presentable”, but in that moment, on display in front of everyone, I missed my ripped jeans that had a crooked yet lovingly hand-stitched cat on them. My tights itched and my feet were cramped. Everything was wrong.
By Josephine Smith3 years ago in Fiction
The Bunker
Day: 137 : Monica: My mother died today. The airlock in her bedroom was breached while she slept, there are only three of us now. I thought I would be more upset, but I don’t think any of us expected to live this long anyway. None of us know why her airlock failed, but there’s been tension in the air for weeks, ever since our rations started disappearing. Radhika and I are convinced that Dev has been preparing to try and venture outside. Maybe he’s been stocking up. These days it doesn’t really matter anymore, and I’m convinced the end is coming soon… No one has radioed back to us in over two months, but my mom stayed hopeful until her dying day. I guess it just goes to show that faith can’t save any of us. Radhika is calling to me, it’s time for us to bury my mother. This is Monica signing off.
By Morgan McNamara3 years ago in Fiction
A Place Once Called Home
The house looked a bit more run-down than Abigail remembered it, despite it only having been a few years since she’d been there. It had been mostly left alone, the only fully intact house on the street. All the others had broken windows, wide-open doors, or had been partially incinerated. This house, however, was still standing, with nothing but a couple cracks in the windows and a bit of moss growing on the roof.
By Reyna Condon3 years ago in Fiction
Not Safe For Work
It is a Tuesday and on Tuesdays I feel strange. I once read an article of a man in Ireland who died “of a Tuesday”. He was in his eighties, old enough to die of old age but still too young to die without a more detailed explanation. Except the doctor gave no other reasoning, other than dying of a Tuesday, which still perturbs me to this day. Apparently, dying of a Tuesday is supposed to mean the man lived a full and peaceful life, an Irish expression... but James Joyce once wrote the actual words, “he died of a Tuesday” in a piece about hanging. Maybe it’s a quirky Irish saying I just don’t understand. Or, maybe, the fact that I notice it is some underlying sign that, I myself, will die of a Tuesday.
By Jess Sambuco3 years ago in Fiction
Theoracism: It Starts
The young man rejoiced. He had passed the test. Though the material he had spent long hours studying differed significantly from the material on the test, he’d still managed to earn an A+ with extra credit points beside. A thick green 110% had appeared on his tablet screen, and he’d had to curb his excitement to keep from leaping out of his seat and cheering like a sports fan in an arena.
By Skyler Saunders3 years ago in Fiction
Husk
Husk The birds don’t come here anymore—not since the burned-out husk appeared in the woods. No one knows how it came to be here. The grass in the clearing is green, the surrounding trees unmarred. Yet the car’s innards are scattered about like this was a crime scene someone tried to obliterate.
By Svetlana Sterlin3 years ago in Fiction
By an Illusion's Fickle Thread
I sift through the panels of prospective partners and wonder just what the hell my mother was thinking with this charade. The pictures don't matter—women showing off their teeth in white arrays, hairstyles that defy the imagination (and gravity), too little or too much make-up from the Generation Markets—but I find myself searching for something. That something, well, perhaps I don't exactly know what it is yet.
By Jillian Spiridon3 years ago in Fiction
The Winning Game
The décor of the Summit Centre was just as pretentious as the awards show itself. Everything had been meticulously chosen in the same shade of cream; the lighting, the tablecloths, the dishware, the flowers. Ruby sat at her assigned table staring at her nameplate in front of her place setting. She wished that Joel had come with her, at least it would have been someone to talk to. Instead, his nameplate and empty seat beside hers would be a reminder of how alone she really was. She was surprised he hadn’t at least called or sent a text. After 10 years of marriage, one would think he’d have wanted to say good luck, for the moment put the divorce aside, especially since it was so new. Ruby awkwardly scrolled through her phone even though she had been told not to do that at events like these. She hated these things.
By Christina Hunter3 years ago in Fiction
Where Love Begins
🖤🖤 🖤 ❤Aloha & Mahalo for reading. If you enjoyed this story, please let me know by Commenting & Subscribing. And as Always, Much Love! ❤ Lena *** If you would like to join Vocal+ and receive more returns on each story and be able to enter more challenges, please click HERE and use my referral link, which will help me earn a little more toward treats for my fur babies. Copyright Lena Folkert 2022
By Lena Folkert2 years ago in Fiction