Short Story
"Lost and Found: The Keychain's Journey of Purpose"
I had always prided myself on being a reliable and essential item. A keychain, to be exact. For years, I faithfully held onto a set of keys, diligently ensuring they were always within reach of their owner. But one fateful day, everything changed. It started like any other day. I jingled happily as I swung from side to side, my keys clinking together in perfect harmony. The pocket I resided in was warm and secure. But as my owner boarded a crowded subway train, things took a turn for the worse. In the commotion of the rush hour, I slipped from the pocket, tumbling to the floor unnoticed. The train doors closed, and I found myself abandoned, left behind in the bustling city. Panic coursed through my metal frame. How could I fulfill my purpose without my owner? What would become of me? As the train roared away, I lay there, helpless and alone. People shuffled around me, their hurried steps oblivious to my existence. I watched as life went on without me, feeling invisible and insignificant. But deep down, I knew I had to find a way to make myself useful once again. Days turned into weeks as I traveled from place to place. I rolled along the city streets, witnessing the ebb and flow of daily life. I observed people rushing to work, children playing in parks, and couples strolling hand in hand. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't find a purpose in this new world. Then, one fateful afternoon, a gust of wind sent me rolling into an alleyway. I came to a stop beside a small, tattered notebook. Its pages were filled with scribbles and sketches, a testament to someone's creative endeavors. A spark of hope ignited within me. Perhaps, in this forgotten alley, I had found a kindred spirit. Over time, I developed a bond with the notebook. It became my confidant, my companion. We shared stories, dreams, and secrets. Together, we watched the seasons change, the city transform. Our alliance brought solace to both of our misplaced existences. One day, as I lay beside the notebook, a young artist stumbled upon us. Her eyes widened with excitement as she picked up the notebook and me. She examined the worn pages, her fingers tracing the intricate sketches. A smile spread across her face. "This is it!" she exclaimed. "This is the inspiration I've been searching for!" From that moment on, I became her muse. She carried me with her everywhere she went, attaching me to her backpack. We explored the city together, capturing its essence through her art. She introduced me to a world of creativity and expression, a world where I finally felt at home. With her, I found purpose once again. I became a catalyst for her imagination, a symbol of inspiration. Through her art, she breathed life into the forgotten corners of the city, reminding people of the beauty that lay hidden in plain sight. As time passed, my owner's artwork gained recognition. Her paintings adorned gallery walls, her sketches graced the covers of magazines. And all the while, I remained by her side, witnessing her rise to success. Looking back on my journey, I realized that being misplaced had led me to a destiny I could never have imagined. I had found a new purpose, a new way to bring joy and beauty into the world. And as long as I remained with my owner, I knew that together, we could conquer any challenge, navigate any obstacle, and create a world where misplaced items like me could find their rightful place.
By marko kitchenar3 years ago in Fiction
Cold Footprint
"Tracing the Chills of a Vanished Trail" In the small town of Frostwood, nestled amidst snow-capped mountains, a unique phenomenon occurred every winter. A trail of cold footprints would appear overnight, leading from the edge of the forest to the town square. The footprints, made of shimmering ice, puzzled the townsfolk for years. Some believed it to be the work of a mythical creature, while others dismissed it as a natural occurrence.
By Zeenat Shoukat3 years ago in Fiction
Garbageman
Note: another experiment that I am still tinkering with. Thoughts? * The summer heat was not a heavy blanket over the town yet when the garbage truck came down the street. In the neighbourhood where Mr. Davis had his home, the truck began its Tuesdays and Thursdays with multiple stops and blasts of an air horn that woke him up long before the vehicle appeared at the front of his driveway with a kid hanging off the back in an orange-yellow day-glow vest. Usually, Davis would begin his working day at seven with a cup of coffee, an open laptop, and all the time in the world (his wife had her own half of the house and the kids knew how to take care of themselves by the time they got to high school). He had a lot of money to move around and did not want to have his head shaken open after his tight eight hours and espresso. But every Tuesday and Thursday, always at six…
By Kendall Defoe 3 years ago in Fiction
Grey Man
Eyes looked out of a studiously unremarkable face. They tracked across the empty concern in the expressions of everyone around them, waiting patiently for something to happen that might cover their escape. The man turned his head in concert with the crowd, letting his eyes see everything that normal ones might miss. A flash of scarlet there, a subtle hand gesture, a face that turned just out of synch with the ones that surround it.
By Alexander McEvoy3 years ago in Fiction
My Skin is Sin . Content Warning.
Six year old Kenya is getting off the school bus with her head held down and a frown on her face. “Hi baby.” Says her mother Carla as she walks past her without acknowledgement. “What’s the matter?” Carla asked. Kenya stormed upstairs without answering her and went straight to the bathroom next to her bedroom. Kenya closed the bathroom door and stared into the mirror above the sink with tears in her eyes. All she could feel was despair as she stared at her reflection.
By Joe Patterson3 years ago in Fiction
A Haunting Oddity
Greetings worn and weary travelers, this journal that you have found will indicate to you all that lies before you as more of a guide or autonomous helper. As you are hearing my voice as I happened to record it as I wrote it here. Lest not forget that here, upon this remote island, that none will be able to understand or comprehend. At least that appears to be the case for myself and those of my companions, that is. However the endeavor that promoted you upon this journey, I give you a thought to remember once more, things are not what they are, or appear as, such as this journal, you are hearing my voice, as if it is or I, rather, are with you currently, this again is a testament to the island and how it interacts with you. Remember that well, it will serve you in the future, if you have one that is. Speaking of which, look to the man to the left of you, or the right if you are on the furthest left, and remember what they looked like, as it may very well be the last time.
By William L. Truax III3 years ago in Fiction
