Shortstory 

248 creative works found

• Human Bookmark
  by JenniferB

  I had a weird dream last night. I dreamt that I was a bookmark – a human bookmark, resting between the pages of a book.

  Some dreams are strange…

• André’s creation: eclectic pleasures
  by Maxwell Edward

  Black and white keys, saxophone, guitar, everywhere. The music has much more magnificence than can be tried to be explained through words…

  Black and white keys, saxophone, guitar, everywhere. The music has much more magnificence than can be tried to be explained through words. This jazzy rendezvous has always been André’s favourite ear-food. He just loves the way its beauty, splendour, radiance is ‘unleashed’. André stares at the canvas for over a dozen times. Here he is staring at the blank space which is future marvel…or was it to be past marvel? Had he missed his chance, missed the boat which would have sailed to sentimental stardom? He refuses to collaborate more than a sentence for any one idea. Any idea that deserves a sentence must deserve no doubt. Any canvas is only worth the greatest ideas. Two André’s exist; though only one at any one time. The withdrawn analytical front, designed for most occasions. On rare occasions the other character may appear, the intensive, massively determined André who acts on impulses. Impulsive André must be begged out. A Pandora’s Box of surprises, his job will at least never cease to astonish. “Dearest André, Through years have you befriended my son Louis, so therefore I am offering an opportunity to benefit both of our interests (with intent towards your gain). Litton inc., my company has stepped up towards mainstream success. We require visual arts for our newly bought edifice. I understand you have been painting for the eight years since high school. To your discretion I would like to require a painting; just one will suffice. I would like something vibrant and colourful, yet deep and meaningful; Contemporise to your own vision. Much thanks, Dr. Raymond Fonck.” The commissioned paper lies stuck on the wall. André has read it. Now it is time for the future. It has been too long sitting around (or rather bouncing around); too get too much productivity from anything. Someone once said to him that anything is good experience. True perhaps, although he prefers productivity, especially in a time of intensity such as this; three days left until confrontation. His vigilant eyes stroll around the room, searching for advice. He is not bored, nor has he painters block, for such a term does not exist and will not ever for him. His eyes strike the clock. The clock glares 5:48 pm back. What a disgusting fierce look it has. Not 5:45, nor 6:00 and only one uncomfortable minute in-between. For at this time these uncomforting three digits add to the frustration in the actual time. “Aw!” André suddenly realizes the importance of the time. It is the one factor which never seems to be on his side but actually encourages his total progress. It is an epiphany like that of a mother to the newborn. André decides to let his hands take / control. They are the secret key, (sometimes the gatekeepers of unleashing impulsive André) His dominant left one picks up the brush (over time it has made up for its fault of statistically losing him seven years). His right hand decides to lose cognition. It dips itself into a little puddle of Sangria oil paint muck. Than it flies onto the near-centre of the canvas, smeared diagonally. His left hand takes initiative once again, waving lines of smudge to and fro. Right hand brings more paint to its destination. Myrtle, Indigo, Olive, Magnolia…and no, not that…Yes, yes, even black! (Well seal brown to be precise). All of these contextually beautiful colours unleashed! There are no thoughts in André’s mind now. This is impulsive André now; organised thought is of little importance! That colour is important here. This colour is unimportant there. A few lines of any colour are important right here or there, but perhaps a darker colour is better. More negative space up and down the edges. Shape is forming. Lines are bolding. Complete non-representational form is diminishing. Visualizations; the visualized images in mind are being…unloaded bit by bit. It is coming about. What is it though? No one knows. If anybody could guess it definitely would not be André. André knows he has the power to bring out the reality in it though. In a seemingly paradox situation he must not connect to reality at the moment though. Now, after these hours of painting, André is in the painting. He would not know it has been hours besides the constant glare of the illuminating digital clock staring from across the room; it unconsciously processes its recognition into André. The phone screams out, ‘br-ring, br-ring!’ Like the other external matter it creeps into André, until finally its screams become too annoying to ignore. It’s too late now…impulsive André has vanished; his conventional counterpart has replaced him. The phone persists though. André decides to take it (typical for his returned mannerism). He dives across the room horizontally attacking the corner where that nuisance phone lies. ‘Aw, aw, aw, aw!’ A tube of paint has squirt from underneath his stomach. Agonising that his material friend can be so painful at times (like any of his life long friends). He picks up the phone; only the tone. He has missed whatever, whoever it was. Once again, missing the boat… Now thought and all that comes with it has returned. Why now out of all times possible? There is only sadness, misery, all this escalated from these small miniscule misfortunes; all has turned to turmoil! What can one do, when feeling like crawling into a hole? His secret minor disorders such as his claustrophobia would prevent him from crawling into that hole, even if he had one. At the moment everything feels like one big hole. Not surprisingly André’s eyes begin doing the only thing they know to do in times of unrest; wander. It is impossible to ignore what is there; it has been there all along, yet has never been seen. It is beautiful! It is splendour! It is radiance!! It is interrupted by another scream of ‘br-ring br-ring’. André picks up the damn phone. Without contemplation he whispers, “Sir, madam, I’m very terribly busy, could you perhaps call back sometime?” A deep sophisticated voice replies, “Raymond Fonck, André. Listen, I need to know about the progress of the painting. How is it going; ready to sell on Friday?” Many emotions garner at the speed of light inside André allows these emotions to clash inside of him. The painting; it is beautiful, splendour, radiance! How could he give it away now, after an indescribable series of emotional contributions? It is something that has not been attempted before; yet it is new but the expression of old. It is everything, at the moment, hopefully containing more interpretive inoculations for the future. It is a subject, of just some time, yet it contains a collaboration of detail separated from time. It is…once again interrupted by screams, this time of another sort; the infuriating talking of man. “André. Are you there?” Feelings of great rebellion sweep André off his feet. He knows how he will revolutionize his life, because after all; this painting has revolutionized his thought already. “Mister Fonck. I am so sorry. Some things have come over me…a type of sickness…although I am sure you are not aware of this mad syndrome I am suffering due to it. Well to the point, I must say I will not be supplying you with your wanted artwork. Thank you for your understanding. Hopefully we can collaborate something in future.” André hangs the phone up without replies, without a stated understanding from the mister Fonck. Without even the knowledge of acceptance or approval from the mister Fonck…it does not matter. All that matters is this new painting, this contemporised vision. It is everything. Most importantly of all, it is…unleashed!

• Never Date a Writer
  by xstephens

  Never date a writer because she’ll fictionalize everything. She’ll write about things you have done to her, or things you never did for …

• 

  Page 26, of 'A bath of Stars'.
  by Marilyn Baldey

  US$3.99

  My version of of the ‘frog prince’ story, called a bath of stars. This is page 26 of 50 pages. I would be plesed to hear from you on what you think of it as I may upload all of it, I am currently experimenting with mixed media to see whether to draw or paint over the top of the images too. This is my first short story and comic book.

• *Untie Her*
  by Louise O'Brien

  I have devised a counting system that stops me from dying. / / Sleep is the first obstacle. Not sleep alone, but falling asleep. A ritual…

  I have devised a counting system that stops me from dying. / / Sleep is the first obstacle. Not sleep alone, but falling asleep. A ritual of spells passes my lips before exhaustion quiets me, hours pass. Curled in a coil of compulsion, cradling under the sheets. I whisper. Please, please, please, Polly. Please, please, please. Please don’t let me die tonight. Two fingers on my left hand spread apart. If they touch I will die. Two fingers on my right hand crossed. If they uncross I will die. This is my lullaby. Mother takes me to school. Polly hates school. Cross-legged on the carpet, I look at the sea of bare legs and I’m afraid. There are socks that are all wrong. One is up and one is down. I flex my thigh muscles in sets of two, offsetting the uneven mess of the other children. If they knew, they’d thank me. I’m saving them. The pressure of my left ankle on the carpet is too great, legs must alternate at a steady rate, must not exceed the amount of pressure on the other ankle. I always wanted a brother or sister. Polly wants to introduce the second part of her disorder: symmetry. If everything is not even then I will die. A sensation must be experienced on both sides of my body equally. If I walk through a doorway and knock my left knuckle on the doorframe, I must turn and walk through the other way and knock my right knuckle on the doorframe. This is not the end. If the intensity with which I knock my right knuckle on the doorframe is greater than that of the left knuckle, I must repeat the process. The result is a dog chasing its tale, and the nature of my disorder dictates that I will never be content with which knuckle feels more even. I never put my hand up in class. This leads to the final and most difficult aspect of my disorder: the influence of others. The teacher, realising my escalating distress, must intervene and lead me away from the doorway. She does this by placing her hands on my shoulders. It is impossible to explain to another person that they must continue touching your shoulders until they have dispersed the correct amount of pressure evenly. This means I must mimic the actions of my teacher by continually touching my shoulders with my own hands. Mother always said I liked animals. The other children think Polly is weird. I can only take small steps. Bricks are difficult. I count my steps; one, one, one, one, two, two, two, two, three, three, three, three, four, four, four, four. The playground conspires against me. I watch the children run across the field of bark chips and am banished to a spiral of fear. I will my body to tread upon the small fibrous blocks but am overcome with terror. They laugh mockingly at my small legs quivering at the perimeter of normality. This is where I live. I am late a lot for a six year old. Mother calls me for dinner an hour before its ready. I eat everything that is green and nothing that is orange. This has nothing to do with my disorder. Polly doesn’t like carrots. I stare longingly at the mound of peas and silently plead there is an even number. Each spear of my folk punctures the teal spheres, guiding them to my mouth in groups of four. The receding pile of green steadily unravelling the fate that awaits me. One pea left. One pea. I hate one. Nothing goes with one. The circumstance begins to induce sweaty palms and restlessness. A deliberate and rhythmic rocking soothes my tensed body. One pea. I take my folk and steady the green ball on my plate, pushing it down with a sick satisfaction. I spread the green remnants to the centre of my plate, and slowly exhale. My grandparents died when I was a baby. Polly keeps her secrets close. The bath is my medicine. Limbs and thoughts are drowned with the manifestations that keep them. Compulsion is warmed, and coercion calmed. I float at peace with the world, and for a moment I am free. Tiny bubbles gather under the weight of the water, taking my wishes to the surface as I chant. Please, please, please, Polly. Please, please, please. Please don’t let me die tonight. The warm liquid submerges my small mouth and nose, silencing the scurry of spells that circle my head, and so the control is shifted. Contemplation turns. The lullaby is silenced.

• 

  Daddys Boots
  by meerimages

  US$3.99–US$91.20

• Chloe
  by Danny

  The Mother was hard pressed to remember her daughters name and often made remarks that claimed her offspring was less than human

  Ummm…..... Another one I found in my pillow. / Not quite what I would write normally but if it was in the pillow it had to be written. / I can’t decide whether it is enlightening or depressing it seems to go to both ends of the spectrum very quickly. / But I do know I got the order right. / I don’t think it would be effective the other way round.

• Reminiscing
  by Jo O'Brien

  NSFW

• 

  Thoughts
  by meerimages

  US$3.99–US$91.20

  This is a photo i have taken of my six year old daughter ( Tashlyn ). Been the school hoildays in NSW, I thought i would take my three children away to the river for a week. / ” It was a long week “( just playing ). on a good note it was alot of fun, swimming running around and cooking some SCAREY meals lol, as we had no power just bushing it.

• 

  Sweet Cow Girl
  by meerimages

  US$3.99–US$91.20

  This is a photo i have taken of my daughter, real little cow girl just like her mother. She has been riding from the age of two. Has fallen of but just gets back on. A moment that i will keep in my mind and heart for life.

• blush
  by burntblue

  NSFW

• 

  In Thought
  by meerimages

  US$3.99–US$91.20

  My ten year old daughter in thought, she had know idea that i had the camera on her. It was a moment that i thought was very special.

• Delilah
  by LittleHelen

  NSFW

• "Thankyou.....for holding my hand....."
  by David Murphy

  In a faraway corner of the farm, I stumbled across the small cairn of rocks, with the little brass plaque, and the memories came …

  In a faraway corner of the farm, I stumbled across the small cairn of rocks, with the little brass plaque, and the memories came flooding back. The propellor had long since rotted, that had long gone, but my mind was very much alive, and as my nostalgic look traversed the land, her words came slowly to me…......... / They were an eccentric couple, for war-torn England, dashing about the countryside, thrilling the crowds with their stunts and aerial magic, the ancient Tiger Moth never letting them down. With their flowing scarves and leather flying gear, the romantic lives they lead was the envy of all. But what was most obvious, to all and sundry, was the deep affection each held for the other…...always, the loving embraces, the eye contacts, were prevalent, and everyone was touched by the camaderie and the connection between the two daredevils. They owned the skies, and the hearts and minds of those who watched. / It seems so odd now, reminiscing, that they would choose to embark on the dangerous stunt that had such fatal consequences. Why, was the never-ending question. They had it all, and risked everything, all for nought. And who would have contemplated flying a wooden plane across the Channel, she strapped to the wing, to fly over Calais, with the strongest concentration of flak and Messerschmidts in France, and then to turn around and return to the adoring English crowds? Why did they think that? / Well, they did. And one cold and bleak September evening, bedecked in their leathers, they warmed up the Moth and flew into the night, joyfully waving to the awed crowd as he waggled the wings with her in place, and every single person prayed to the heavens they would return. ......Everyone…... / All went well, the crossing smooth, but, as luck would have it, a bomber flight had passed earlier over Calais, and the dreaded flak crews were still at their posts…....waiting for stragglers. And who knows what they thought when a lone, wooden Moth, a woman on one wing, flew slowly into range…...perhaps they couldn’t see, perhaps they suspected a ploy, who knows…....but they let forth with a terrible enfilade, the deadly shrapnel, super-heated and menacing, becoming a wall of hot death….....and like moths to a flame, the foolhardy lovers pressed on. Miraculously, they were not instantly obliterated, but alas, a nearby bursting shell sprayed the little flying machine, puncturing the flimsy wing fabric, and holing the timber frame…..and the Moth wheeled around and dove for the English coast, aflame. Flying skill prevented them from plunging into the cold, dark sea, as he wrestled with the shattered controls. Unbeknownst to her, he was mortally wounded, and, unbeknown to him, she had hot metal embedded in her thigh. And on they flew, mouthing words of encouragement, as their craft burnt all around them….. / ........the coast!! They had made it, the White Cliffs resplendent in the moonlight as the stricken Moth approached. The farms paddock, just beyond the cliffs, was the nearest point for the crashlanding, and he skillfully brought the blazing Moth down as gently as he could, his beloved clasping the struts on the shattered wing, the aircraft aflame, himself nearing death…...the dying Moth bellied onto the ground, sliding, grinding, smoke and dust and flames everywhere…......the wooden propellor sheared off and bounded to god knows where, she was flung head first into a gorse thicket…....and all the while, he rode the Moth to her, and his, eventual resting place….....a firey inferno, for both. / I saw it all, I was the first there, I didn’t know where to run to….....the plane, to him, or to her, unmoving, in the cushioning gorse. She moaned, and i chose her, and as I neared, I could see she was terribly injured….....fatally so. She looked at me, with the fire in her eyes, tears forming, knowing…....and grasped my hand, a grip of iron. Her eyes said everything, she knew her fate…......I watched as her life flashed before her, an amazing existence, full of fun and pleasure….....the lids started to close, the grip weakened…... / .......and then, for an instant, her eyes flared open, and she gazed at me, full and true, her last effort was to pull me close, and then whisper into my trembling ear …... ............”thankyou…...for holding my hand…...”“

• 

  Page 32, Lilly says to Linus, 'Well, go and get it.'
  by Marilyn Baldey

  US$3.99

  Princess Lilly is getting impatient and tells Linus to go and get the ball, instead of talking about it.

• The End
  by Jo O'Brien

  Life was just one big beginning. But all beginnings must come to an end.

  A reflection of some sort.

• 

  Emund prepares for the Dance - pen and ink
  by Rayjun

  US$4.32–US$98.80

  He saw them gathering in the trees around the edge of the property. / He heard their conversation as he prepared his dance floor / ‘He’s very good at what he does.’ one watcher said / ‘It’s an excellent location and he gives such good, reliable follow-up care,too,’ said another

• The One.
  by PJ Ryan

  The shoes still have the mud on them.

• bad news
  by Jo O'Brien

  Only yesterday I was talking about wanting a big family / About how I’d keep going until my body gave up / I never thought it would give up…

  a work of faction, or fiction…. I forget which / trying, failing, hoping, falling, realisation, numbness, waiting Follows Relief / her circumstances

• *Writing Challenge* - Journey
  by Xavier Russo

  OK, so let’s kick off a writing challenge, just for fun. Poems, short stories or non-fiction of less than 500 words on the theme “*journe…

  OK, so let’s kick off a writing challenge, just for fun. Poems, short stories or non-fiction of less than 500 words on the theme “journey”. Add your contribution to this forum topic and as a journal entry. That way people can read them all from the one forum, as well as having the writing show up on your profile.

• Werewolves
  by xstephens

  When we were kids and not playing marbles, we’d play werewolves. One summer in particular we played it almost everyday. The game starte…

• The Kookaburras
  by Pilgrim

  When I meditate / The kookaburras laugh.

  This was not designed as a six word story. I simply could not add another word or take another word away. It was complete.

• Guidelines for the short story group, Spherical Scriptings
  by Damian

  Welcome to Spherical Scriptings, a group dedicated to short stories. *What can you a…

  Welcome to Spherical Scriptings, a group dedicated to short stories. What can you add? / More groups will come in the future, so can you save your flash fiction, non-fiction/essays, multi-part stories, memoirs, novellas (hehe) for their future groups. Poetry already has its own dedicated group here What is the point? / This group is a home for short stories and their creators. Take us on a journey – explore dark depths, or leave us laughing in delight. All genres of fiction welcome. Participate! Write! Throw out a challenge; ask for advice. How do you generate ideas? What’s the best tip you’ve received? Constructive Criticism / Different readers will spot things you’ve missed. Do you want to know about it? If you would like helpful suggestions, clearly say so, or you probably won’t get any. / If you spot something and would like to make a suggestion, remember the ‘play nice’ rule. Instructions to add an item to a group Go into your ‘mybubble’ section. click ‘writing’ Find the piece you want to add, and hit ‘edit’ Now, right down the bottom will be tick boxes for the groups you’re in, click the group you want to add it to Save changes, and you’re done!

• A Single Lonely Tear
  by InfinityRain

  A Single Lonely Tear / By Rain / Sometimes when I am lying in bed, the darkness enveloping me tightly, too tightly, the lonelin…

  A Single Lonely Tear / By Rain / Sometimes when I am lying in bed, the darkness enveloping me tightly, too tightly, the loneliness setting in, I drift off to sleep, a single lonely tear cascading slowly down my cheek, caressing my skin like an old lovers touch…I feel the Sandman taking me by my hand and drawing me deeper and deeper into his web of tangled truths and forgotten realities. As my eyelids flutter and my mind lets go of its last traces of the here and now, I feel at peace for a moment. I want so badly to hold on to that feeling. I know that if I stay right where I am I can still get out to safety… but the sandman can be cruel and twisted, he drags and he pulls, he always keeps me moving ever downward into the darkness. Suddenly he is gone and I am left alone in darkness so deep and sinister it comes towards me with unseen hands. I try to stay calm but the hair on the back of my neck stands up, I feel a shiver in my spine that won’t go away, eyes watching me, I want to fight the need to turn around and see what is there, maybe if I stay calm I will make it through the night without them finding me. Just stand still, breath quietly…oh no!! I can hear my heart beating so loudly, they will surely hear it too. The voices of a thousand tortured souls waif past me growing more persistent, they come from all directions…I reach out in my sleep, hoping to find comfort, someone wake me please…All I get is a cold sheet beneath my quivering fingertips…the air grows heavier, getting hard to breath, darkness closing in, I am trapped…PLEASE won’t someone wake me, why is there no one that can hear my pleas for help? Why am I alone in my terror?? Then the waiting is over, they have arrived, they come forward in the darkness, taunting, teasing…laughing at me. They try to surround me but I break into a run. I know they will chase me and yes they will catch me but I have to fight this time, no matter the consequences I must fight…I swear to myself they will not take me alive this time, if they must have me it will be a shell. They run so much faster than I can, it feels like I am running through thick murky water, my feet will not rise and fall fast enough. Maybe I can lose them if I turn a corner and hide somewhere, maybe they won’t hear my heart beating out of my chest, maybe they won’t hear my mind screaming for mercy…. they may just pass on by…perhaps this time they will leave without taking my dignity, my pride…my world as I wanted it to be! Shhh I can hear them, they are coming this way now, their footsteps have slowed down. Are they confused? Have they lost me? Or…maybe they are taunting me like a cat after a mouse. NO NO NO NO NO PLEASE NO!!!!! I scream. They found me, they smell like they’ve been rolling around at the brewery, oh that awful smell, I feel rough hands on my arms forcing me down, hear horrible words spat in my face like an animal. My head hits the pavement hard I can feel it swelling already…someone please wake me up; I can’t do this again, not another night of hell. Why am I alone? Why can’t anyone hear my pleas for help? I try to resist, I try to fight, there are so many…they are so strong. I just want to go home, please can’t someone see what is going on, won’t they stop it? Can’t they see what they say about me is not true? As I smell the oils and the trash in the alley I feel my clothing being removed very roughly, they can’t wait to get started…to kill the little girl that wasn’t ready to grow up like this. They laugh and talk about who will go first…Warmth between my legs, something hard pressing against me. Oh God help me it hurts so badly… My eyes open…I am shaking, my body is covered in sweat but my skin is cold. I can still smell them, I am back in my room…alone. And a single lonely tear cascades slowly down my cheek, caressing my skin like an old lovers touch…cold and unfeeling!! Everything in life happens for a reason, even something as senseless, hurtful and terrifying as this.