Top Stories
Stories in Fiction that you’ll love, handpicked by our team.
Protein Waffles
1. You stand in the bathroom curling your hair and talking to your college BFF in Massachusetts. You want to look beautiful on your 32nd birthday. To get this day right despite a week of disappointment. Mom pops her head around the doorframe looking anxious. Oh god, she’s probably whipped up some healthy breakfast concoction, knowing you are out of the house the rest of the day. She is your Mom. She’s the reason you are here to celebrate this day. But 32 years is a long time to feel indebted and grateful. To play the subservient game you perfected at age eight. To watch Mom shrink your lululemon, pick fat free steak for dinner and pair it with whatever organic Pinot she’s craving. To make sarcastic comments to your daughter -her grand daughter- when she won’t eat her vitamins or blueberries. “Thirty-two could be transforming,” her former roomie says. One thing is certain; it’s a hell of a long time to live at home with Mom and Dad.
By Barbara Steinhauser 2 years ago in Fiction
In the White
Must be a Monday. Monday something-something. I can't seem to remember the date anymore. Or even why I first came in here. Everything before I walked in seems to be fading out, like my brain is wading through some sort of white-noise swamp. Odd to be in a shopping cart as I save this...
By Kendall Defoe 2 years ago in Fiction
Sand Stop Time
April 15, 2012 It started with pens and pencils just appearing out of nowhere. The first time she noticed a pencil appear out of nowhere, Anne was going to take a shower. She was taking a towel out of the Linen closet and there was a red pencil on the floor. Anne was thinking, how did it get there? She did not think anything of it and went straight to taking a shower.
By Mariann Carroll2 years ago in Fiction
Forgotten: The Story of a Story
I was born of passion. Yearning, burning thirst, in the greening flush of a deluge after the parched silence of drought. So many moments aligned to enable my conception, moments of pain, moments of intimacy, a moment of unworded joy. But perhaps, after all the drama, the moment of my conception was one of quiet happenstance, the dervish whirling well beneath the surface for a change. Probably, my mother didn’t even know, in that moment, as her head lay warm on her lover’s chest in the amber light of a waning afternoon, or as she sat behind the wheel of her car, eyes anchoring her wandering mind to the glazed glow of tail lights in the quickening dusk, that the zygote had formed within her. I don’t know when that dawning realisation came for her, I suppose it is different every time, but I do know, I know with certainty, that I was met with tenderness. With love.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
