HeyJaredThe Fiction Journal
The Fiction Journal is a home for stories that make you feel and think. The Fiction Journal is for readers who believe that good fiction doesn’t just entertain - it resonates.
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 12
- Latest publication
- Sep 24, 2026
- Audience
- Checking…
- Earliest in this view
- Jul 19, 2026
Latest issues
CONTRARY — HER SIDE / HIS SIDE (opens the original)
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Her SideIn this sprawling mansion, I sit alone all day, a specter haunting rooms that once knew warmth. Three days a week, the cleaning lady, Vanessa, of Mexican heritage comes and goes, drifting through the halls with robotic precision. I had imagined her presence might offer companionship, a voice amid the silence. But she’s untouched by warmth, tucked into her own quiet world, speaking only through the language of duty.Her visits, no matter how regular, do little to disturb the solitude woven
Freaks in a Box (opens the original)
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The heavy striped curtains dropped, shutting out most of the cheers and whistles.“Franky my boy, you did it. Audience sensors going off like crazy - light strip flew well past the green mark! And - ” Lenny pulled back the curtains and leaned forward, hand to ear. “You hear ‘em, Frank? They loved it. They loved you.”Frank stood proudly on a pile of sawdust while assistants wiped him down.“Did
THE BOOKSTORE (opens the original)
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The streets blended into the buildings, everything a muddy gray. An abalone-y shimmer sat on the air.She wore soggy socks, four not counting the blue one in her pocket. Double socks let her touch the ground as she walked.The day was a polished pebble.It was brittle, at risk of being smashed into bits. A conglomerate of words, whispered around her, never too hardened or substantive. She never conversed. Stolen phrases, from pages and pianos, kept her tethered to this plane, slowly filling the cra
And Still, I Rise (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedBut Still Like Dust, I'll Rise - Maya Angelou He was slowly rotting, like an autumn leaf. Outside the toy shop he stood, legs buckling, soles squelching on the pavement in the November rain. By ten in the morning already on his tiptoes, he danced as the iridescent juggling balls blurred in his hands casting streaks of colour against the wet asphalt. As
What If The Subaltern Speaks (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedGatekeeping corridors of empires, where intellect powers and showers the wisdom of wise, the sanity of saints, the politiek of poets, the history of hierarchies - speaking of the subaltern, suspending their silence as if silence were their only language, as if they could not speak. Yet - in a parallel world, imagine, and only imagine: What if the subaltern speaks? What would the subaltern speak about? What would the subalter
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