Short Story

My Night as a £300-a-Session. Content Warning.
About 15 years ago I went to a fancy dress party on a Sunday night with my then BF dressed as Agnetha from Abba (the blonde one). I was wearing a very short skirt, a blonde wig, and sparkly makeup.
By Chahat2 years ago in Fiction
The Guitar. Top Story - September 2024.
I walked into my house and tossed my keys on the kitchen table. What a long and terrible day. Today, I got fired from my job, from a company that I have worked at for over ten years. My heart just broke when they told me the news. Petting my old tabby cat, I sat on the couch and my heart broke all over again. I sighed softly, ten years. That is how long I was there for, and I worked my ass off for the company where dreams go to die. I worked like a dog for them for so long just for them to turn around and hire someone younger to fill my position. I could look for a new job but right now my heart just hurts. I glanced around the room, looking for where I had left my laptop and my glance fixated on my old guitar that my father had passed along to me. Maybe it’s time I picked up and started playing again.
By Chloe Unfiltered2 years ago in Fiction
Reflections . Content Warning.
The drive home is excruciatingly uncomfortable and quiet. I stare dizzyingly out the back window as greenery melts into an optical illusion and cars whoosh past in a speeding frenzy. I feel us turn down my street in an achingly nostalgic way – the same familiarity that would wake you as a child, and you pretended to still be asleep so your parents would carry you inside. That feeling now turns sour, spoiled by shame and dread. My house comes into view – a two-story, red-bricked, suburban family home, complete with a big oak tree and tire swing that has been flat since I was twelve. The car comes to a gentle stop – no one speaks, and no one moves for a moment.
By Tattoos & Tarot2 years ago in Fiction
Moonlight Ride. Content Warning.
“I swear, Franny,” Tim groused, his hands in the air. “I didn’t do anything.” She glared at him. He could feel the hatred spewing out. He hated it when anger turned towards him.
By Jarrett Smith2 years ago in Fiction
How May I Assist You Today?. First Place in Unreliable Challenge. Content Warning.
Chat Activated: "How May I Assist You Today?" Input: Write me a fifty-word fantasy story for my English assignment. “Acknowledged.
By Matthew J. Fromm2 years ago in Fiction
A Letter of Perception and Perspective
To Ms Darlington (At Apartment 5/12), I wanted to write to you to explain myself. A little background information – my name is Dereck Disenti, and I am 48 years old. I almost said, “48 years young,” but I abhor it when folks say that. I have worked as a night watchman for the last 2 years at the apartment complex you call home. We have exchanged pleasantries – little nods and smiles here and there. You are one of the friendlier residents. It’s always disappointing that you seem in a rush, as I never get enough chance to speak to you when I am on my shift.
By Paul Stewart2 years ago in Fiction
Happily Ever After
When it happened, I questioned if we'd ever get married. Our lives were already a struggle. Mixed families aren't easy. And when I found the envelope tucked away in his truck's center console. I felt my whole world blow up in an instant.
By The Invisible Writer2 years ago in Fiction
Chocolat Chaud. Runner-up in Unreliable Challenge.
put the gun down except he didn't say it like that it was more like put... the gun... down. the words were like that hot chocolate mum bought me in France when i was little. comforting and commanding all at once. very grown up i wanted to sink into a bath of that chocolate, and i could sink into that tone, too. a firm hug. a welcoming hammock to catch me my hand trembles. i remember im holding a gun. it feels heavy, all of a sudden, in my hand. wait. why am i holding a gun? i want to give myself a little shake. as if that's all it would take to clear the fog. but i can't, because I'm holding a gun, and it's heavy, and what if it goes off? but why am i holding it if i don't want it to go off? ...down. i can't remember. i must remember. that's very important. it must be important. otherwise i wouldn't be holding one i can see the man with red on his shirt. dark red telling tales of a hole in his skin, a bullet in his body. i'm not sure if I'm really seeing it, if it's a thing that's really happening, or if it's Intrusive Thoughts again. something that's going to happen, maybe. the bad thing in the future. how can i tell? was there a bang? but i can see it, i can see the wound, it's harsh and ugly and it looks real. it looks real scary. but I didn't hear a bang? if the blood and pain aren't real, maybe the gun isn't real either? but i can feel it. it feels thick and oily in my hand. and heavy. unreal things don't feel this heavy. i put my other hand on it, and the room flinches, and i flinch, too, and everyone gasps, (oh) and oh it's like the pressure building to an orgasm i feel naked in front of all these people normal people pub lunch on a Sunday afternoon with the Labrador people i need him to talk again in that velvety chocolate voice. please. because then I can hold on to it and follow the thread of it to a place where I feel safe and calm and things make sense. it's like a rope, thick and scratchy in my hands, and i am Theseus
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
Sales Pitch. Top Story - September 2024.
In a tiny cubicle in Racine Wisconsin, Emma clicked a button on her computer screen and her headset automatically dialed a new number.
By Scott Christenson🌴2 years ago in Fiction
The Essence of Beauty
Once upon a time, in a land where the skies blushed pink at dawn and the rivers shimmered like liquid gold, there lived a young woman named Elara. She was born into a world that revered beauty, where people measured their worth by the brilliance of their outer appearance. They adorned themselves in silks, precious stones, and mirrors to capture their reflection, believing that beauty was something to be displayed, something tangible. Elara, however, was different. She had grown up listening to her grandmother’s tales—stories not of crowns or gowns, but of inner strength, grace, and kindness. Her grandmother, a woman of wisdom, would often say, “True beauty, my dear, is not what the eyes can see but what the heart can feel. It is in the way we move through the world, the love we give, the compassion we hold.” Elara carried those words with her as she grew older, yet she found herself at odds with the world around her. In the grand city of Aurelion, beauty competitions were held annually, drawing people from all corners of the realm. The winner would be declared the most beautiful and live in the royal palace, where their beauty would be celebrated for all to see. One year, as the competition approached, Elara found herself standing at the gates of the palace. She wasn’t there to compete—she had no interest in gowns or jewels—but something drew her closer. As she walked through the streets, she noticed something strange. The competitors, though dressed in the finest garments, wore faces of worry and fear. Their beauty, it seemed, weighed heavy on them, like a fragile mask that could crack at any moment. Elara wandered deeper into the palace grounds, where she found a garden unlike any she had ever seen. The flowers bloomed in every color imaginable, but it was the air of peace that captivated her. There, she met an old gardener named Lysander, a man with weathered hands and a smile that glowed like the sun. “You’ve found the true heart of the palace,” Lysander said, as he trimmed a rose bush. “Here, beauty is not something to be judged. It simply is.” Elara, intrigued, sat by him and listened as he spoke of the garden. These flowers aren’t striving to be the brightest or the most fragrant. They grow in their own time, in their way. That’s what makes them beautiful.” For the first time, Elara understood what her grandmother had meant. Beauty wasn’t a competition; it was a presence, an energy, a truth that lived within all things, waiting to be seen, not measured. As the days went by, the competition eventually concluded. A new champion was crowned, but Elara no longer cared for the titles or the gowns. She had discovered something far more valuable. She left the palace, not as a contestant but as a woman who knew that beauty lived in every act of kindness, in every smile, in every moment of grace. Years later, Elara became known across the land—not for her outward appearance, but for the beauty she brought to the lives of others. She helped the elderly, taught children, and planted gardens where once there had been only stones. Her village flourished, not with gold or jewels, but with laughter, love, and a sense of peace that could not be bought. And so, the people of Aurelion began to see beauty differently. It was no longer the gowns or the jewels that captivated them, but the warmth of a kind heart, the sparkle of joy in someone’s eyes, and the quiet strength of those who walked through life with grace. Elara’s legacy was not one of mirrors and crowns but of something far more profound. Beauty, they learned, was not a fleeting thing to be captured but a timeless essence to be felt. And in that, they found the true radiance.
By Moir Blaq2 years ago in Fiction
Legacy of Love
Ryan pointed to the giant frame of the ancient roller coaster. “You remember that old roller coaster, Robin?” “Yeah, I sure do. You turned three shades of green, and I thought you would throw up on me.”
By Kenneth Lawson2 years ago in Fiction
If Eleven Was Ugly. Content Warning.
I don’t know if you’ve ever been hit in the face, but it’s really not as bad as you think it’s going to be. I mean, there’s the shock. That’s pretty bad. Like, it really knocks you. Literally. Knocks you down. Even if you’re expecting it. When it actually comes, the shock is pretty bad. But that’s just shock, you know? It passes. And yeah, there’s the pain. That varies. The nose is worst, if you ask me. My god, the nose is like stop you in your tracks painful. My nose used to be prettier than this, now. But then none of us are getting any younger, right? The eye though, that can kind of ache for days, like a cup of misery slopping over into every thought you have. But it’s surprising how much a face can take. It’s a bit pathetic to go on about it like it’s the end of the world or something. The human capacity for healing is incredible.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction