How to Write a Short Story: 5 Major Steps from Start to Finish

by Sarah Gribble | 81 comments

Do you want to learn how to write a short story? Maybe you'd like to try writing a short story instead of a novel-length work, or maybe you're hoping to get more writing practice without the lengthy time commitment that a novel requires.

The reality of writing stories? Not every short story writer wants to write a novel, but every novelist can benefit from writing short stories. However, short stories and novels are different—so naturally, how you write them has its differences, too.

how to write a short story

Short stories are often a fiction writer’s first introduction to writing, but they can be frustrating to write and difficult to master. How do you fit everything that makes a great story into something so short?

And then, once you do finish a short story you’re proud of, what do you do with it?

That's what we'll cover in this article, along with additional resources I'll link to that will help you get started step-by-step with shorts.

Short Stories Made Me a Better Writer

I fell into writing short stories when I first started writing.

I'd written a book, and it was terrible. But it opened up my mind and I kept having all these story ideas I just had to get out.

Before long, I had dozens of stories and within about two years, I had around three dozen of them published traditionally. That first book went nowhere, by the way. But my short stories surely did.

And I learned a whole lot about the writing craft because I spent so much time practicing writing with my short stories. This is why, whether you want to make money as a short story writer or experiment writing them, I think writing short stories is important for every writer who wants to become a novelist.

But how do you write a short story? And what do you do afterwards? I hope that by sharing my personal experiences and suggestions, I can help you write your own short stories with confidence.

Why Should You Write Short Stories?

I get a lot of pushback when I suggest new writers should write short stories.

Everyone wants to write a book. (Okay, maybe not everyone, but if you ask a hundred people if they’d like to write one, I’d bet seventy-something of them would say yes.) Anthologies and short story collections don’t make a ton of money because no one really wants to read them. So why waste time writing short stories when books are what people read?

There are three main reasons you should be a short story writer:

1. Training

Short stories help you hone your writing skills.

Short stories are often only one scene and about one character. That’s a level of focus you can’t have in a novel. Writing short stories forces you to focus on writing clearly and concisely while still making a scene entertaining.

You’re working with the basic level of structure here (a scene) and learning to perfect it.

Short stories are a place to experiment with your creative process, to play with character development techniques, to dabble in different kinds of writing styles. 

And you're learning what a finished story feels like. So many aspiring novelists have only half-done drafts in drawers. A short is training yourself to finish.

2. Building contacts and readers

Most writers I know do not want to hear this, but this whole writing thing is the same as any other industry: if you want to make it, you better network.

When my first book, Surviving Death, was released, I had hundreds of people on my launch team. How? I’d had about three dozen short stories published traditionally by that time. I’d gathered a readership base, and not only that, I’d become acquainted with some fellow writers in my genre along the way. And those people were more than willing to help me get the word out about my book.

You want loyal readers and you want friends in the industry. And the way to get those is to continuously be writing.

3. Habit

Writing is like working out. If you take a ton of time off, you’re going to hurt when you get back into it.

It’s a little difficult to be working on a novel all the time. Most writers have one or two in them a year, and those aren’t written without a bit of a break in between.

Short story writing helps you keep up your writing habit, or develop one, and they make for a nice break in between larger projects.

I always write short stories between novels, and even between drafts of my novels. It keeps me going and puts use to all the random story ideas I had while working on the larger project. I've found over the years that keeping up the writing habit is the only way to actually keep yourself in “writer mode.”


All the cool kids are doing it. Stephen King, Neil Gaiman, Edgar Allan Poe, Kurt Vonnegut, Margaret Atwood . . . Google your favorite writers and they probably have a short story collection or two out there. Most successful authors have cut their teeth on short stories.

What is a Short Story?

Now that you know why you should be writing short stories, let’s talk about what a short story is. This might seem obvious, but it’s a question I’ve gotten a lot. A short story is short, right? Essentially, yes. But how short is short?

You can Google how long a short story is and get a bunch of different answers. There are a lot of different editors out there running a lot of different anthologies, magazines, ezines, podcasts, you name it. They all have slightly different definitions of what a short story is because they all have slightly different needs when it comes to providing content on their platform and meeting the expectations of their audiences.

A podcast, for instance, often wants a story to take up about thirty minutes of airtime. They know how long it takes their producers to read a story, so that thirty minutes means they’re looking for a very specific word count. An ezine might aim for a certain estimated reading time. A magazine or anthology might have a certain number of pages they’re trying to fill.

Everyone has a different definition of how short a short story is, so for the purpose of this series, I’m going to be broad in my definition of a short story.

What qualifies as a short story?

A short story word count normally falls somewhere between 1,000 words and 10,000 words. If you’re over ten thousand, you’re running into novelette territory, though some publications consider up to 20,000 words to be a short story. If you’re under a thousand words, you’re looking at flash fiction.

The sweet spot is between 2,000 and 5,000 words. The majority of short stories I’ve had published were between 2,500 words and 3,500 words.

That’s not a lot of words, and you’ve got a lot to fit in—backstory, world-building, a character arc—in that tiny amount of space. (A book, by the way, is normally 60,000 to 90,000 words or longer. Big difference.)

A short story is one to three scenes. That’s it. Think of it as a “slice of life,” as in someone peeked into your life for maybe an hour or two and this is what they saw.

You’re not going to flesh out every detail about your characters. (I normally don’t even know the last names of my short story characters, and it doesn’t matter.) You’re not trying to build a Tolkien-level world. You don’t need to worry about subplots.

To focus your writing, think of a short story as a short series of events happening to a single character. The rest of the cast of characters should be small.

How to Write a Short Story: The Short Version

Throughout this blog series, I’ll take a deep dive into the process of writing short stories. If you’re looking for the fast answer, here it is:

  1. Write the story in one sitting.
  2. Take a break.
  3. Edit with a mind for brevity.
  4. Get feedback and do a final edit.
  5. Publish.

Write the story in one sitting

For the most part, short stories are meant to be read in one sitting, so it makes sense that you should write them in one sitting.

Obviously, if you’re in the 10K range, that’s probably going to take more than one writing session, but a 2,500-word short story can easily be written in one sitting. This might seem a little daunting, but you’ll find your enthusiasm will drive you to the ending and your story will flow better for it.

You’re not aiming for prize-winning writing during this stage. You’re aiming to get the basic story out of your head and on paper.

Forget about grammar. Forget about beautiful prose. Forget about even making a ton of sense.

You’re not worrying about word count at this stage, either. Don’t research and don’t pause over trying to find the exact right word. Don't agonize over the perfect story title.

Just get the basic story out. You can’t edit a blank page.

Take a break

Don’t immediately begin the editing process. After you’ve written anything, books included, you need to take a step back. Your brain needs to shift from “writer mode” to “reader mode.” With a short story, I normally recommend a three-day break.

If you have research to do, this is the time to do it, though I highly recommend not thinking about your story at all.

The further away you can get from it, the better you’ll edit.

Edit with a mind for brevity

Now that you’ve had a break, you’re ready to come back with a vengeance. This is the part where you “kill your darlings” and have absolutely no mercy for the story you produced less than a week ago. The second draft is where you get critical.

Remember we’re writing a short story here, not a novel. You don’t have time to go into each and every detail about your characters’ lives. You don’t have time for B-plots, a ton of characters, or Stephen King-level droning on.

Short stories should have a beginning, a middle, and an end, though. They’re short, but they’re still stories.

As you edit, ask yourself if each bit of backstory, world building, and anything else is something your reader needs to know. If they do, do they need to know it right at that moment? If they don’t, cut it.

Get feedback

If this is your first time letting other people see your writing, this can be a scary step. No one wants to be given criticism. But getting feedback is the most important step in the writing process next to writing.

The more eyes you can get on a piece of writing, the better.

I highly recommend getting feedback from someone who knows about writing, not your mother or your best friend. People we love are great, but they love you and won’t give you honest feedback. If you want praise, go to them. If you want to grow as a writer, join a writing community and get feedback from other writers.

When you’ve gotten some feedback from a handful of people, make any changes you deem necessary and do a final edit for smaller issues like grammar and punctuation.


Here at The Write Practice, we’re huge fans of publishing your work. In fact, we don’t quite consider a story finished until it’s published.

Whether you’re going the traditional route and submitting your short story to anthologies and magazines, or you’re more into self-publishing, don’t let your story languish on your computer. Get it out into the world so you can build your reader base.

And it’s pretty cool getting to say you’re a published author.

That’s the short version of how to go about writing short stories. Throughout this series, I’ll be taking a more in-depth look at different elements of these steps. Stick with me throughout the series, and you’ll have a short story of your own ready to publish by the end.

A Preview of My How to Write a Short Story Series

My goal in this blog series is to walk you through the process of writing a short story from start to finish and then point you in the right direction for getting that story published.

By the end of this series, you’ll have a story ready to submit to publishers and a plan for how to submit.

Below is a list of topics I’ll be covering during this blog series. Keep coming back as these topics are updated over the coming months.

How to Come up With Ideas For Short Stories

Creative writing is like a muscle: use it or lose it. Coming up with ideas is part of the development of that muscle. In this post, I’ll go over how to train your mind to put out ideas consistently.

How to Plan a Short Story (Without Really Planning It)

Short stories often don’t require extensive planning. They’re short, after all. But a little bit of outlining can help. Don’t worry, I’m mostly a pantser! I promise this won’t be an intense method of planning. It will, however, give you a start with the elements of story structure—and motivation to get you to finish (and publish) your story. Read this article to see how a little planning can go a long way toward writing a successful story.

What You Need in a Short Story/Elements of a Short Story

One of the biggest mistakes I see from new writers is their short stories aren’t actually stories. They're often missing a climax, don't have an ending, or just ramble on in a stream-of-consciousness way without any story structure. In this article, I’ll show you what you need to make sure your short is a complete story.

Writing Strategies for Short Stories

The writing process varies from person to person, and often from project to project. In this blog, I’ll talk about different writing strategies you can use to write short stories.

How to Edit a Short Story

Editing is my least favorite part of writing. It’s overwhelming and often tedious. I’ll talk about short story editing strategies to take the confusion out of the process, and ensure you can edit with confidence.Learn how to confidently edit your story here.

Writing a Better Short Story

Short stories are their own art form, mainly because of the small word count. In this post, I’ll discuss ways to write a better short, including fitting everything you want and need into that tiny word count.


Weaving backstory and worldbuilding into your story without overdoing it. Remember, you don't need every detail about the world or a character's life in a short story—but the setting shouldn't be ignored. How your protagonist interacts with it should be significant and interesting.

How to Submit a Short Story to Publications

There are plenty of literary magazines, ezines, anthologies, etc. out there that accept short stories for publication (and you can self-publish your stories, too). In this article, I’ll demystify the submission process so you can submit your own stories to publications and start getting your work out there. You'll see your work in a short story anthology soon after using the tips in this article!

Professionalism in the Writing Industry

Emotions can run high when you put your work out there for others to see. In this article, I’ll talk about what’s expected of you in this profession and how to maintain professionalism so that you don't shoot yourself in the foot when you approach publishers, editors, and agents.

Write, Write, Write!

As you follow this series, I challenge you to begin writing at least one short story a week. I'll be giving you in-depth tips on creating a compelling story as we go along, but for now, I want you to write. That habit is the hardest thing to start and the hardest thing to keep up.

You may not use all the stories you're going to write over the next months. You may hate them and never want them to see the light of day. But you can't get better if you don't practice. Start practicing now.

As Ray Bradbury says:

“Write a short story every week. It's not possible to write 52 bad short stories in a row.”

Go write!

When it comes to writing short stories, what do you find most challenging? Let me know in the comments.


For today’s practice, let’s just take on Step #1 (and begin tackling the challenge I laid down a moment ago): Write the basic story idea, the gist of the premise, as you’d tell it to a friend. Don’t think about it too much, and don’t worry about going into detail. Just write.

Write for fifteen minutes.

When your time is up, share your practice in the Pro Practice Workshop. And after you post, please be sure to give feedback to your fellow writers.

Happy writing!

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Sarah Gribble is the author of dozens of short stories that explore uncomfortable situations, basic fears, and the general awe and fascination of the unknown. She just released Surviving Death, her first novel, and is currently working on her next book.

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  1. Bob Ranck

    ! ! ! JACKPOT ! ! !

    I mean it! Finally, after months and months of reading literally hundreds of blog posts and comments, I find that you have addressed the writing of short stories in a manner that is direct, practical, and clear.

    It is not my intention to write TGAN. It never was.

    I hope, rather, to entertain with short stories drawn from the experiences of my living. This post has illuminated a clear path through the (often valuable, genuinely valid, but – for me, anyway – not-directly-relevant) facts, experiences and anecdotes of other writers and would-be practitioners of the art that all seem focused on novel-length work.

    I would encourage you to entertain the possibility of more posts on the art form and production of short stories.

    Bob Ranck

    • Joe Bunting

      Wow, Bob. That’s so good to hear.

      Speaking of short story articles, have you read my book Let’s Write a Short Story? You might enjoy it! Check out

  2. Susan Barker

    The picture on how to write a short story is pretty much how I wrote my first one and have started my second. I had my first one critiqued, then revised it to the critters suggestions (they made perfect sense) and my story has improved considerably. I thought I was being lame on how I came to write them, but I see now, I accidentally stumbled on the formula for writing. Thanks Joe. I’m writing easier now.

    • Joe Bunting

      Love that, Susan. Like Neil said, there is no formula. You have to write the story the way it wants to be written. But I find that I need structure to keep myself motivated and moving, so this process usually helps me stay focused. Glad you’re finding the writing process easier!

  3. Dana Schwartz

    This is such a great post, Joe! I used to be primarily a short story writer but have been working on a novel for so long I feel as though I can’t remember how short stories work – but this brought it all back, and in a much better more clear cut manner than my old ways! I used to meander through a short story like a blind woman in the dark until I bumped into the ending – but I had a lot more time on my hands to do such meandering than I do now, so I’ll definitely give this technique a try!

    • Joe Bunting

      I’ve done the same, Dana. However haltingly and messy my process has been, though, it usually follows this rough pattern I listed above. Has that been true for you as well?

    • Dana Schwartz

      I was always a “pantser” for stories, and would start with a concept or opening scene, and then feel my way through. It could take weeks to get a first draft. Then I’d edit. The first step of yours blew me away, the idea of writing a “story” without any pressure to make it great, to just get to the gist of it, is pretty brilliant. I often put so much pressure on myself to get it right on the page that it slows me down. I’m already at work (in my head) on part 1 of a story I’ve been meaning to rewrite, and I feel very confident about it thanks to your advice 🙂

    • Cynthia Franks

      There is nothing wrong with pantsing it! I would be labeled a “pantser” but as I tell every one, it only looks that way. Outlines form around character so quickly in my head, it seems to be unplanned, but that is not true. I always have an outline, I just don’t spend a lot of time on it. The important thing is to write to end before doing any re-writing!

  4. Carrie Lynn Lewis


    I’ve never been a big fan of writing short stories. They’ve always seemed like “a good start on a novel-length story”.

    But your outline for writing a short story has me rethinking that philosophy. I may just give it a try.

    Thanks for a new idea on a Saturday morning!

    • Joe Bunting

      DO IT! And let me know how it goes, Carrie. 🙂

    • Heidi Staseson

      Agreed! ….on a Saturday afternoon! Fabulous tips to try. Thanks, Joe.

    • Cynthia Franks

      Short stories are an important marketing tool for all writers. And so is flash fiction. Lee Goldberg, creator/head writer for Monk and several other TV mystery series, writes short stories and novels using the Monk character. I hate the TV show Monk, but loved the short story Mr. Monk and The Seventeen Steps in the Dec 2010 Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. I plan to read some of novels. Lee Goldberg is an excellent writer. The stories and novels support the TV series and the TV series supports the short stories and novel.

      If you plan to traditionally publish, published short stories can get you a better agent and open door that may otherwise stay shut.

      If you plan to self-publish, free short stories using your characters can be a good way to turn non-fans in customers for your wears. Think on them as test for readers–but don’t think it while you are writing the story.

      I play to use this strategy to publish my Old West book series.

  5. Joe Bunting

    Wow, this is a very creepy story, Tom! You should work on it!

  6. Patrick WH Lee

    Reading this post made me reflect on my own writing routine. I tend to do steps 1-5 in one sitting, pumping out ~2,500-3,500 words in an hour, which is usually all I have for a short story. It’s the editing that definitely takes up the most time. I give it a day before going back and seeing how I can optimize the plot and the finer details.

    The number one motivating factor for me to finish writing is my initial interest and excitement of the original idea for the story itself. A wasted story is such a shame, after all.

    • Joe Bunting

      Impressive Patrick. I could do Steps 1-3 in one sitting, but breaking it into scenes, and especially the research, take me a lot of time.

    • Cynthia Franks

      Scrivener is a great tool for breaking it into workable chances. My second most favorite thing about it!

    • Cynthia Franks

      I had the exact same experience! I need to learn about the word count goals. My favorite feature is the ability to move scenes around and then read it as one long document without actually moving anything.

      I am new at it, but look forward to learning more! Great review!

  7. Cynthia Franks

    Love this post! Your first point, write the entire story, is great piece of advice. I say this all this time, “Write the story from beginning to end before doing any re-writing!”

    Research being the #5 is great! I don’t find many other writer’s agreeing with on this. They will insist on doing the research upfront. I will see them a year later and ask how the project is going and the answer will be, “I’m still doing research.” I call it The Blackhole of Research and many writers get sucked it. I fell into it once myself when working on a play based on Shakespeare’s Sonnets. I got caught up it wanting to know if Shakespeare wrote the sonnets or not. I never wrote the play. The research thoroughly obscured what I believe would have been an interesting musical. For my series of novel set in the old west, I’m using a time line of events with scant details. I found I need this for the storytelling. But that is it.

    I agree with you 100% about Scrivener. It has a bit of learning curve, but is worth it. I started to using it on my last story and now am using it to edit my novel. You can rearrange your scenes any way you want and then read is if it was a continuous document, but without changing the original order of scenes. Valuable in the editing process. It made me happy!

    The Only Story They’ll Ever Read. This is excellent advice. It is where many talented writer’s fail.

    How I Write Short Stories
    It takes me about 30 hours to do a draft of a story and then three times that to edit. If I have a real deadline (Not the self imposed kind) I can write it in 8 hours or less and edit it in 12.

    I have learned that all I have to do is start writing and a story will emerge. Every time I do a writing prompt, I end up with a story. Every time I write for practice or to take a break from another project, I end up with a story. They are not always good.

    Something unusual about me. I hate writing first drafts and love, love, love re-writing them.

    • N

      How is that “unusual?” I know lots of people who enjoy rewriting over first drafts…? (There’s always someone who believes their “strange” in their habits. You must be from a small town or something lol

  8. Collis Harris

    Once again, Joe, you cut through all the garbage that’s usually out there about writing to make the process simple. I especially like the idea of doing research after fleshing out the story. I was doing research before starting and I drove myself into a sticky mess. Thank you for pointing out the obvious – even though it wasn’t obvious to me.

  9. eric miller

    I was alone, sitting next to a window on a commercial flight paid for by another who I was convinced cared little for my well being while offering an all expense paid year in a foreign land, no strings attached accept the one holding the sword of Damocles.

  10. Senator

    One thing I would add, and it’s the best practice I’ve picked up over the years, is to start with the ending. So for number #3, I would suggest come up with both the open and close and fill in the rest.

  11. Jill Upshaw

    Thank you so much for this post. It finally got me started on a short story I have been wanting to write for more than a year. Writing down the basic story helped me see the story first.

  12. Kakeu Flora

    Thank You… the guide is helpful. Our Lecturer gave an assignment she obliged that we must write a short story in our Journal but i think with your guide i’m going to make it great in the procedure of writing my short story…Thank Alot.

  13. Rachel Myers

    Thank you for this guide! My son is in eighth grade and assigned to write a short story in his honors English class. He’s very analytical and excelling in science and math. He does well in English but this short story has him flummoxed. He keeps saying he doesn’t know how to write a story, which is perplexing because throughout elementary school he wrote long, imaginative stories well above his grade level.

    He desperately wants to write this short story but It’s as if his analytical mind has blocked access to his imagination and creativity. What served him well as a child has been squashed by puberty and the inevitable march to maturity. Oh, the sadness.

    I just have a feeling though your guide will provide the structure he’s seeking and reopen the pathway to his creativity. It’s still there. We see it all the time. Your guide is organized around the process with time frames to boot! What more could an analytical mind want.

  14. Sara

    Thank you so much for this post. Sometimes the story gets lost while spending time researching. I always believed the story benefited from a little brewing time before taking on a life outside of my mind. I see now that I’ve been missing out on the valuable steps that can take place once the story is down and the transformation that can take place to form a short story. Your advice is elegant in it’s simplicity.

  15. Szymon K. Paczkowski

    Great post, but I have one question though to the numer 5.

    What am I supposed to research? Research for what? I just don’t understand this.

    • Felicié

      To me you research for different things. Location and setting of the storiy, maybe it in La Havana, Cuba you should know they speak Spanish, they were in a economy regression so the building are not painted.
      Maybe one character has some type of illness (PTSD, Lupus, etc.) You would have to know how would that influence how they act, are perceive or look in a story. If he has PTSD he may have flashback’s, or deprecion, ect.

      Maybe is a historical fiction you need to know how people acted in that time, what they wore, what was happening, etc.

      It give you a better understanding of what is happening. So what you write is believed or make senses.

  16. Jacqueline Kwan

    Thanks for breaking this process down into simple steps! I naturally tend to sit down and spill out the whole story but often don’t know where to go from there. Your post gives me guidelines on how to approach the editing process that I know my work needs.

    The best part is your distinction between “the story” and “the short story”. Knowing that makes it so much easier to write that first draft – without agonizing over a sloppy beginning or the overly vague details that require more research.

    What a great way to get into your writing with the confidence that you’ll know how to make it better later!

  17. Mwai Gichimu

    Wow! You make it sound soo easy. Got a load of stories at different stages and feel I should try your steps.

    Mwai Gichimu

  18. pat m

    I didn’t realize until fairly recently that short stories were . . . well, so short. I typically write fanfiction that would be consider more of a novella at least 40,000 words. I actually don’t like reading short stories less than 7 chapters and/or 10,000 words. I don’t know I just like more meat on my books than the typical 7 chapter deal.

  19. The Cyan-sinity

    A Day in the Life of the Samurai.

    It was an ordinary day — in the life of the samurai, that is. Samurai and heir to the Hagi residential, Kento Kadesheke, was engaged in a duel with his well recognized, self esteemed master.

    “Dodge,” commanded his brain as he curled into a ball and escaped a fatal blow by what marked his people, the sword. Then he leapt up and swished his sword here and there, in defence. Next, he went all-out in a sword batting contest with his master. This gave his time to regain his breath. Now, as many know, the more experienced mostly comes on top, so was the case here. Tired and impatient, Kento tried to disarm his master and opponent. His master expected it and dodged it, not so long before launching a barrage of sword hits, disarming Kento.

    Per the rules, disarms end battles, so Kento bowed and fetched his sword. He asked “What did I do wrong, milord,” His master smiled and gently said ” Nothing but thou were a bit impatient,” he added “I can see quick and great improvement,” Now all of this was said in Japanese, but I daren’t mention in imagined sesquipedalophobia

  20. Jolyon Sykes

    The importance of step six cannot be overstated. I think a second pair of eyes is essential for editing. For example, this non-sentence is from Joe’s promo for his book: “Even more importantly, to practice deliberately have to put your writing skills to the test.” See what I mean?

  21. Arikateku

    “Run Isola!”

    Isola’s mother yelled over the wind. Isola’s heart was pounding, and she felt as if she might faint. Her brown hair whipped fast, stinging her face. Her mother was rushing her into the safe house. They prepared it a month before when they heard about the Vortex Storm. The name was fitting because there was a big whirl of dark, ravenous clouds. They seemed to eat the whole sky.

    “Where is Will and Dad?” Isola asked. “I thought they were coming with us!”

    “I am going to get them,” Isola’s mother answered. “Just go and get there before you get hurt!”

    She turned and went back to the house while Gloria went toward the safe house.

    The wind was so strong, Isola felt as if it would lift her and pick her off her feet. Debris flew everywhere. Other people in her neighborhood were gathering belongings, children, pets, and driving away to the community safe house. Isola was tempted to follow them.

    Isola finally made it to the safe house. Its interior was located underground and the door were made of steel. Underground Isola knew there were also steel bars to support the roof the steel ceiling. The lock on the door was located inside. Her father was a construction worker so getting the materials to build it was easy. Isola’s mind flashed back to the time her father stayed up for weeks at a time making sure everything was secure. When she asked if she could help or see what he was working on, he simply told her that it wasn’t time yet. Whatever that meant.

    Isola began to open the door, when she heard familiar voices behind her.

    “Isola! Watch out!”

    Relief comforted her heart for a moment. It was Will’s voice, and he was okay. He’s head popped out around the corner. His brown curly hair waving on his face in the harsh wind. But, that relief was replaced with panic when she saw a big massive tree branch about to fall. On her.

    Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to build a safe house by a tree Isola thought. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to build a safe house, period.

    That was all Isola had time to think about before the tree branch fell, and she was forced back by some invisible force. It felt like a hand grabbing her. She stumbled backwards and bumped into something.

    Or someone.

    “Isola, what are you crazy? You just stand there watching it fall on you, and do absolutely nothing while the branch almost crushes you!”

    She turned around to the look to who was speaking to her. And a concerned, upset, face was peering down back at her. Her father. Despite her father scolding at her, she was relieved to see he was okay. Her mother came running in after them.

    “Are you okay? What happened?” She turned to Isola’s father. “Mark.”

    Mark put a hand on his wife’s arm. “Anna, she’s fine” He started toward the safe house again. “Let’s just hurry and all go inside-” Mark stopped.

    “What? What is it?”

    Isola followed to where he was staring. The tree branch was on top of the safe house. Blocking the only entrance inside.

    Mark shook his head. Swore a few latin words. Anna shot daggers at him covering Will’s ears.

    Will looked to me with eyes of confusion. I shrugged.

    “Why are we going in here? Why don’t we go in with the other kids and adults?” Will asked.

    Will spoke with an accent that his mom said came from his father. When he said ‘adults’ he pronounced it adoolts He pulled his mother’s hands off his ears.

    “Will-” His father said will a warning tone in his voice.

    “There is a branch on blocking the door. Besides, everybody else is going!” Will argued.

    “They don’t want to go to the Community safe house, Will.” Isola told him.

    “But, all my friends are there! I wanna go too!” Will whined.

    “We have a safe house right here.” Anna said ignoring Will.

    Isola made a motion to the safe house which was still stable, but had an impossible entrance. She opened her mouth to say something sarcastic but her mother must of saw the expression on her face because she held up her hand.

    “That is enough Isola.” Her mother yelled over the wind. “You have been complaining about this the whole time, and show no appreciation for what your father is doing for you-”

    “Dad what are you doing?” Will interrupted.

    Gloria and her mom turned around to see what Will was talking about. Mark was pushing the branch-or at least trying to-off the entrance. Anna looked to Will and Isola.

    “Come on, don’t just stand there, go help out your father!”

    They didn’t need to be asked twice. They all went over and helped Mark push the branch. They pushed, pulled, lifted, but the branch didn’t move more than a couple of inches. But, even by then they were all tired and each second they stayed outside was each second to their death.

    Mark reached through one of the openings of the branch and opened the door. “Will or Gloria, one of you can fit in here. Try to go through.”

    Will crosses his arms. “No way! I want to go to the Community safe house. Besides you guys could lock us in there and go without us so you can go have fun.” Will stared at his mom and dad with accusing eyes. He had his jaw set in way that showed he wasn’t going to budge.

    “Will” His father said angrily.

    Isola started toward the entrance. “I’ll go, if you won’t go. Let’s just get in before we get hit by one of those meteorites.” She pointed to the sky. It was darker now blocking out so much sun, the light detectors triggered on the street lights for night time.

    Isola started in, going feet first, having a little of a hard time getting in. When she felt her feet touch the ground she called up.

    “Okay I’m in!”

    There was no response. She looked up to see if anyone was looking in but she saw no one there.

    “Mom? Dad?”

    She heard something up there that sound like arguing, then panic, and then a moment of silence.

    “Isola, are okay down there?” Her mom asked.

    “Yeah, what are you guys waiting for?”

    “We are going to the Community shelter.”

    Isola didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.

    “Isola, don’t worry you can wait down there-”

    “Wait here? No!” Isola said shaking her head. “Bring me up with you guys.”

    “The branch is stuck here, and plus we are running out of time, we are going to see if we can make it-”

    Isola heard her father’s voice in the background. She only caught a few words and sentences like: ‘he said’ and ‘not good idea’ and ‘listen’

    “I don’t care about what Jem thinks, we are leaving.” Isola heard her mom say.

    And the door shut.

    Isola heard screams outside. She heard some of Will’s screams, mixed with her mother’s, and other screams of children, frightened animals, and other people. She didn’t want to think about going out there. She knew she couldn’t. So, when the door shut Isola locked the door and went to the furthest corner of the room.

    There were blankets, food, water, first aid items, and a radio there. The food and water was packed into four different black book bags. Looking at them made her feel anxious and worried. They’ll be okay. Everything is fine. She thought. When she still didn’t feel any better, she said out loud, “It’s okay. Everything is fine.” Even she knew the words sounded empty and unconvincing.

    She wasn’t hungry at the moment. Fatigue washed over Isola so suddenly, that she felt dizzy. Grabbing her blanket from the corner she moved the rest of the items by the door. After, she walked to the corner, sat putting her knees up to her chin, and wrapped the blanket around herself, over her head and ears. She tried to huddle as far as she could into the corner. She wanted to be as far away from the screams as possible. Isola shivered. Though it wasn’t against the cold.

    ( For more or the rest of the story email me at 🙂
    Tell what you think.

  22. B. Cole

    This has been incrediably helpful! Making myself put off researching wasn’t something I would have thought would make a big difference but it really has.

  23. tomthiessen

    I might be a bit late to the party…my 15 mins.

    Hugh set the knife against his knee and started sawing through the skin.

    As the pain coursed through his nerves, he lost his grip. “Damn bugs,” he hissed as his fingers failed to listen to his brain.

    Laying his head against the cold metal of the bathtub, Hugh swore he could feel the lowjack implant in his spinal cord thrumming. A few moments later, the door opened on rusty hinges, allowing the light from the rest of the apartment in.

    A falsetto voice spoke from the doorway. “Human, you have sustained an injury to your right knee. Medical personnel have been summoned.”

    Hugh turned suddenly, knocking the knife to the floor. “Don’t you dare let those butchers in here!” Sitting up, he started to sob. “I’ve got nothing left for them to take.”

    A six foot tall mechanical figure strode calmly into the room. “Human, I’m going to freeze you until the medical personnel arrive.” A green light started blinking in its eye socket. “Do not be alarmed, it is for your own safety.”

    Hugh was half way out of the bathtub before the lowjack cut off any control he had over his body.

    The android moved to the tub, and gingerly picked Hugh up, moving him through the spacious apartment to a chair by the front door.

    “I will be in stasis until they arrive,” the android stated.

    Hugh couldn’t detect any difference from a few moments ago. The android stood stone still, the only difference an irregular pattern to the blinking green light.

    Waiting a full minute to ensure the thing wasn’t aware, Hugh tried moving his hand. The fingers twitched.

  24. Kav M

    i have a short story , would it be too late to post here , i need some opinion

  25. Pamela Gregson

    I opened my eyes to see a dark shadow in my bedroom, it looked like a figure of a man. I had been thinking a lot about my uncle Herbert who had died in the first world war ,l was stunned! Could he be the person on my bed? To stunned to talk to him l recalled speaking to a medium early on in the day about Herbert he came through and said he wondered what his life would have been like if he had lived he died aged 26 . I looked more closely at this figure on my bed then he said come on Pam get up!! We’re on holiday now!!! Pew!!!

  26. photoricko

    Thanks for the great advice Joe Bunting. What I read, helps me know what’s ahead of me to be a writer. I love how you explained about it being hard to finish a story, when you are in the middle of the story. As to rowing a boat to an island. I’ve started stories, got to the middle and didn’t know where to go. Now I know that’s common to happen. I’ll close at this point and get started writing something that I wrote in High School that others loved. Thanks again for inspiring me with what you wrote.

    Rick Olmsted

  27. tinkertaylor

    This is a great intro in short story writing! Usually the only writing I do is assignments and essays. I’ve been toying with the idea of writing a story for a while and this post provided great motivation.
    So here it is.. my first 15 minute attempt at putting ideas down in words.

    The time had come to meet face to face with her biggest rival. She had never met her before but the stories were enough for her to realise the threat that she posed. The environment wasn’t one which forged the women together, to bond. It promoted rivalry. Only the fittest would survive the night and walk away with cash in the hand. Tonight was the same as every other night. It started out with the usual routine. She would meticulously apply her make up to accentuate her pale blue eyes. Her greatest asset, or at least that’s what they told her. The blackness of the eyeliner was unforgiving; no amount of it could cover up the turbulent storm brewing in her blue eyes. Her reflection showed no hint of the emotions she was trying to deny. Her hair was down around her shoulders, glistening from the heat in the room. The air was muggy despite it being a cool night. She looked around the room wondering how her life had brought her to be here in this moment. The walls were as red as bitten lips, that’s what they reminded her of. The other girls were getting impatient that she had taken so much time in the one mirror, which covered the wall above the alcove. There was barely enough room for all four of them to get ready in there. Bags of make up, shoes and dresses, if you could call them that, were scattered at their feet. The buzz of the dryer in the adjoining room reminded her that there was work to be done. Fresh sheets and towels needed to be put out in the rooms before the men arrived. This job gave her a reprieve from being in that suffocating red room. She left the girls to decide on the dresses they would wear tonight.

  28. bernadette

    I was fine, good in fact, realizing that I was stuck in a rut of step 1, Telling my stories. I can do step two, even three. Now I’m lost at step four: I’m writing a short story, not a novel. I’m stopping here; lost my interest, for the moment.

  29. Christina Thompson

    Tara is unhappy with her life. She always has been. No one ever understood why. Tara comes from a great home, with a great family; yet she always seemed to be downtrodden and meloncholic. At 21 Tara isn’t even doing things that her peers enjoy. This should be the time in her life where fun, adventure and discovery are a must. Tara doesn’t follow crowds, has no real friends to speak of and is always quiet; except if called on in a class setting. John and lydia French, tara’s parents have sought help for her from many professionals, and none have been able to point out a diagnoses to fit tara’s personality flaws. There was a time once when tara was younger perhaps four or five when she was at summer camp. She showed light in her eye and a possibility of hope glimmered that maybe she had found her niche. The latter part of that camping trip showed the worst side of tara yet. It seemed she regressed even more than when she arrived. Fisher is a guy who grew up with tara and has know her and her family for many years. He has concocted this plan to attempt to court tara with these simple steps that he has been putting together to turn who he sees as the love of his life into a more loving and joyful human being. The first step was to be seen accidently by tara at more than one occation during her day. Of course it’s not accidental, he’s planned the whole thing, but in fisher’s mind maybe tara never got the attention she needed. On Saturdays tara frequents the same internet cafe near her University, then she goes running at a nearby park, following this she heads back to campus. Fisher was sure to be seen by tara in all but the last place her home, so as not to seem to creepy. He pb believes he may have saw tara grin or smirk once or maybe, he just wants to make her happy so badly that he imagined it. He did this for three saturdays, then finally askds tara to the movies. To his surprise tara says yes. Fisher is ecstatic. They schedule their date for the following week. Fisher picked tara up on time from her dorm and they stap for a street car meal before heading to the movies. He excorts her home and when he reaches in for a kiss tara scream can be heard throughout the city. Campus security arrives and tara is take

  30. Ania

    Sarah was shaking over the little table staring at her coffee. Her eyes looked as black s the liquid in the cup. She couldn’t speak, it was too much for her at the moment. Besides apart of maybe weak squick nothing else would come out from her mouth. She was so scared to go back home but she couldn’t stay in this coffee shop forever. Sarah didn’t have any idea what to do. She quit her job without finding the new one, all of her savings were gone already so she couldn’t really afford to move right now. But she also couldn’t face her landlord from hell and his crazy family. It was like the worst nightmare.

    Sarah moved in to this house thinking it’s going to be a lovely place to live. She would share it with two friends and probably rent the third bedroom to another familiar face. At least that was the plan. The landlord was white with black hair and spoke good English. She assumed he was an English man. After seeing the place with her two mates they made the decision instantly. Paid cash for deposit to black haired man and received the keys. When asked for receipt he said he will provide it next time as he had no receipt book on him. Fair enough.

    A few days later Sarah, Daniel and Becky lived together in the lovely semi-detached house with good sized garden. The trio opened some beers and decided to celebrate their new nest completely unaware of what is yet to come…

  31. crystalangelxiv

    love your book! Keep on the good job

  32. crystalangelxiv

    “Do you think Petraeus will like the red hood, or the blue hood?” Charlene aksed her brother, “or is the yellow one better? Hmm… the orange one is also very appealing. What do you think, Eustace?”

    “I think you should just take one and go see him before it gets late, sister.” He sighed, annoyed.

    The tall brunnette, turned around to face her brother. Why was she even asking him that kind of stuff anyway? He’s a boy, he wouldn’t care one bit. “If you are going to be such a ogre, why should I even ask?”

    “I wish I could understand that too, you know.” he said, preparing himself for the trip. Lifting his simple dark brown hood from the floor, he sat down to fix his boots. “But I personally think I am not the best person to help you change the color of a piece of cloth, Charlene. It’s just a piece of cloth, you do not have to make such a big deal about it.”

    She groaned angrily, while taking the red one.”I do not understand what is your probllem, really.”

    “Guess what? Me neither.” he laughed as he ran through the door. Eustace could hear the angry blabbing of her sister, but decided to ignore.


  33. Natalie Jenkins

    Wanted Child

    The siren’s screaming to the neighbors, waking them from their peaceful slumber. The red and blue lights blinding everyone who looks in its way. A little girl, not later of the age of 9, being carried out of a home in the arms of a police officer. Her crying silencing everything else to the man’s ears. The child clutching onto his navy-blue shirt, begging for the awful image out of her head. He looks at the girl in pain, wishing for a miracle to break through. He sighs and looks forward, his face a mask of pain. He looks around and spots a woman with her back turned to her, talking to one of the girl’s neighbors. He approaches her and acknowledges her. “Corrine,” he started. The woman turns around and lightly nods. “Chief Jacob Ray.” She states, concern written in her strained voice. She is a lawyer working on a case where she is defending a man who was framed for the murder of his brother. She might have been yelling at a court trial. She spoke, “What do you need? Poor child. She didn’t deserve to witness that.” She is right. She never deserved to witness such a horrible thing. “I need a blanket for her. And, also, give her water.” He looks down at her to see her asleep. He sighs and looks back at the woman. “She will stay with me until we find her a home.” She slightly widened her eyes, looking at Jacob confusedly. She replied, “Are you sure you can take care of a child? Jacob, you don’t have anyone else to help take care of this girl.”

    She stopped when she heard the girl sighing. She looked at her with both pain and hope for her. Jacob also had hope. Hope that her life was going to change for the better and not for the worse. “I’ll go get the blanket and water.” He heard Corrine say. He didn’t acknowledge her, to let her know that he heard her. She sighed in content and walked away, yelling for a blanket and water. He looked down at her. Her blue eyes fluttered open, looking around. She looked up at him and smiled. She let go of her shirt and hugged him. His eyes widened slightly as she hugged him. His eyes slowly went back down as she started crying. He started shushing her, whispering that it is all over. That she doesn’t have to worry anymore. He was going to make sure of it. He was going to be on a hiatus to take care of her. A few moments later he hears a distant voice saying, “Here we go dear.” Corrine’s voice makes the girl look up. She sniffs and wipes her eyes, muttering a quick thank you while doing so. Corrine looks at the poor girl in despair and calmly says, “Drink. You must be thirsty.” Corrine holds a glass up, showing her that she has something for her to drink. The little girl nods, agreeing with the woman. Corrine gives the glass to her, holding it to her lips. The little girl drinks happily, sighing in content with the refreshing feeling, soothing her parched throat. Jacob asks, “So, what’s your name?” The girl stops drinking and looks at the man. She replies, “Elly, but my real name is Elizabeth. My parents used to call me “Elly”, but after their.” She stops, closing her eyes

    This is all I have and I am writing 2 different versions. One is for a short story contest and one is for publishing (which is this one)

  34. George McNeese

    I love writing short stories. I believe what turns me on to the format is the fact that it makes for quick reading. At the same time, you can get so much out of it like you would a novel.

    I do think I’ve been writing short stories the wrong way. It takes me a couple of weeks to get a story down. Most of it is due to time constraints. But I have tools to lessen that time. And I’m so worried about getting it right the first time that I miss the point of the process. It takes diligence and patience to write a great story.

    I will take these tips to heart and work as hard as I can to write the best stories possible.

  35. Shauna Bolton


    This story is about Rafa, a five-year-old boy born during the final years of Israel’s wandering in the wilderness. His father, Duriel, is a Levite who serves the tabernacle. His mother, Ronit, has just died. His older sister, Miriam, is ten years old.

    Duriel is a bitter, heartbroken man. His wife is dead. His firstborn is a girl, and his only son will never be a man, have a family, or serve the tabernacle. There will be no one to continue his lineage. He feels that God has ruined his life, and it angers him. He is often critical, unkind, and angry at home, especially with his young daughter, who is desperately and imperfectly performing her dead mother’s duties: cooking food, caring for the household, and tending Rafa.

    Rafa has Down’s Syndrome. He doesn’t understand death and believes his mother has abandoned him. He thinks she’s hiding somewhere in the camp. He keeps running off to find her, which causes stress and anger for his family and his Levite relatives.

    Miriam cooks the meals, cares for the household, and tends Rafa while her father is at the tabernacle. Miriam is also learning to spin and weave. Her grandmother, a former slave in Egypt, is a master weaver. She is going blind and feels a desperate urgency to teach her granddaughter everything she can before she can no longer see. Miriam is caught between her grandmother’s insistence that she spend her time weaving and keeping track of Rafa. Her friends complain that she’s always working and never has time for fun.

    One night, after Duriel has lost his temper and spanked Rafa, Miriam comforts him in bed. She tells him that their mother lives with Adonai. Rafa’s father has impressed both his children that Adonai lives in the tabernacle, the place where Moses speaks with Adonai. Miriam falls asleep, but Rafa doesn’t. He now knows where his mother is, and he leaves the house to find her.

    Rafa wanders through the camp, unsure of where to go. When he sees torchlight, he follows it to the tabernacle. The guards are not at the door. Rafa parts the curtains and looks inside. A man’s voice tells him to come in. When he enters the Holy of Holies, he sees a shining man, Adonai, sitting on the ark. The man holds out his arms, and Rafa comes running to him. The man puts Rafa on his lap and asks what he wants. Rafa says he wants his mother.

    The man calls Ronit. She appears in a pillar of light. Laughing and crying for joy, she gathers Rafa into her arms, carries back into the light, and they both disappear.

    Adonai summons Moses and Duriel. They both come to the tabernacle. Moses enters; Duriel stands outside the door. Adonai tells Moses how to handle the situation. Duriel is not to be punished because Rafa entered the tabernacle. Instead, Duriel is to be relieved of his work for one year to spend the time mourning for his wife and son, caring for his mother, and comforting his daughter, Miriam. If he humbles himself sufficiently, Adonai will receive his service again, give him a woman to love, and more children, including sons to carry on his family line.

    When Moses comes out of the tabernacle, he carries Rafa’s body wrapped in a new woolen blanket. Duriel recognizes the blanket as something his wife was making when she died. It had lain unfinished in their tent since her death. He examines it. The blanket is now completely finished. Taking his son’s body in his arms, Duriel falls to his knees sobbing. Moses lays his hands on Duriel’s head and begins blessing him.


  36. Pippy Longstocking

    Suddenly, there was a strange noise outside. Clare tiptoed across the creaky floor. She looked from behind the curtains. Strange shadows lurked from the misty town. They were unlike anything she’s ever seen before. As tall as a telephone booth but the limbs were strange… the legs were lean while the arms were strong. Clare lit a torch and went downstairs to investigate. The door slowly creaked open and into the ghostly streets she went.

    There was suddenly a crack of lightning, and behind her, were the shadows. She ran as fast as her little legs could carry her but they were fast. She jumped into a nearby bush and waited. She saw the go into a tree. She decided to follow along. Pure curiosity powered her.

    “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!….” She whispered screamed as she fell down a big hole.

    She saw some vines in front of her. Her heart was racing. What was she going to see, a mystical land, an evil lair or the centre of the earth? She pushed aside the vines and thoughts and gaped at what she saw. Everything was unspeakable, she had to get out of this nightmare. Left was right, up was down, good was bad. She couldn’t breathe. Where was the exit? What is this place? Why did the men go here? Why? Why? Why?! She was trapped in her own thoughts and in the world.

    She woke up. “It was too real..” She muttered.

    Clare opened the curtains and screamed. Her heart was thumping hard and her brain was numb. Her eyes were frozen. Little did she know that this was just the beginning of mass terror and horror. Would she live or would she die? That is the question that remains unanswered…

    • Pippy Longstocking

      Ignore this

  37. Ting WANG

    The first time I noticed her was a rainy day. She was sitting in a chair and talked to herself. I was so curious about her who behaved strangely. I thought she was a weird person, but I wanna know her stories. I was sure she had a story, at least one. I said” Hi, you are beautiful.” She answered” My mom always says that, but she is gone.” “Where is she?” She said with a sweet smile” She is there. ” She pointed to her heart with small and thin hands.”In my heart and my dream.”

    In a moment, I remembered that I was so jealous when I saw my friends and their mom hold hands. I understood this girl who missed her mom. But I thought her mom had a good reason to leave. We all have a reason when we make a choice.
    Sometimes we think only for ourselves. Sometimes we choose to sacrifice for love. Sometimes we are selfish. But no matter what decisions we have made, we still have hope and belief, and we have to.

    I told the girl” Your mom lives happily. Your mom loves you.” She said” I always know that, but when will she be bak to see me ? I only wanna see her.” I said” She is already on her way to look for. She needs time.” The girl smiled like an angel.

    But I lied to her, I have to.

  38. Ting WANG


    • Lusapho Nyangule

      love it

  39. Ophelia

    She sought refuge in all except what she knew she could possibly thrive at. The fears, the shaky voice, the anger in her eyes and the misery in her soul. Nothing could begin to explain to the world how tortured and jaded her spirit had become. She never asked for this and loathed those who felt she could learn to live life differently.

    How does one learn to live life? Is it in the way we were raised? Is it the choices we make? Is it how we perceive things? She was not raised like this. No one would make choices to feel like this and perception is reality, no? If her scars were on the outside instead of on the inside, she would be immediately raced to a hospital. The room would fill with doctors and nurses scurrying to make her lively. But the scars remained on the inside so the world did not see the wounds. The pain remained unseen and the rush for help was nowhere to be found.

    Dying was the answer. Of course! She’d read the bubbly bullshit quotes about death being a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Who is to say it’s temporary? Cancer may be temporary. A patient may go into remission but no one judges them for feeling like death may be a better way. Why would she be judged? Demons are revolting things to handle and some, like the girl, simply cannot handle them alone. Would one allow their child to be tormented by another person, or would they help them? Why didn’t they help her? Why were her bullies not confronted?

  40. Missy

    This was a short short story I wrote that was submitted for a contest. It had to be 150 or less….

    She could not explain the feeling she got when she saw him, and he touched her. Every time she tried, the words would just fall out in random order.

    One day as they were laying on a blanket watching the drifting clouds, she looked at him and whispered, “I love you.” As he smiled he said, “I know you do,” his hand gripping hers tighter. “No, I mean I really love you. Do you remember when you were a kid and you would swing? The feeling you got in your tummy the higher you went,if there were a million pterodactyl-sized butterflies in there?” He rolled to his side and said, “Yes, that was the best feeling as a kid.” She smiled and said, “That’s the way I feel about you.” He reached over and sighed as he placed his lips to her forehead and whispered, “I love you.”


  41. Tayyaba


  42. Naomi

    Short stories, to me, are the perfect literary form. The most amazing way to get across complex and critical concepts without bogging stories down with unnecessary melodrama. I’m actually looking at putting together an anthology-type short story periodical in the next few months. Anyone who’d be interested in being printed, maybe, shoot me a message
    nmoo651 (at) aucklanduni (dot) ac (dot) nz

  43. Tom

    It’s a dark night, unknown figure runs across the cold wet streets, flooded by intense rain. There’s a curfew, and this character is breaking it.
    Running across the stone alleyways and switching corners so swiftly is easy to mistake them for a shadow.
    Look. An officer. The figure expertly knocks them out by hitting when they are not looking, then hides the body Faster now, the hooded figure is speeding in the darkness, remember why they’re here.
    They have to escort a parcel across the country in a relay manner, and the figure is an amateur, and want to succeed they’re first true test. Everything’s going fine currently
    Until they slip.
    Makes a clanky noise as they fall and attracts numerous guards to their location, but before they can reach, hides in a crate. That was close. But his leg is hurt after the fall, and he is know limping, still needing to deliver his package to the other side of this county.
    Behind them by a couple 100 meters, a man of somewhat authority walks past. in his hand, a revolver. He enters the area where the figure knocked out an officer and hid him, and easily finds where the figure hid him, as he has dealt with his kind before.
    The figure creeps into an empty restaurant, where the server greets him happily. The figure asks for a map of this county, something they should have probably had earlier, but hey! They’re an amateur. The server in exchange asks for the figure’s name, to which they respond ‘Max’ after glancing at a Maximum Voltage sign.
    Max escapes by climbing onto the roof via ladder inside.
    authority guy returns, and hears Max above, and shoots server (NOO), and climbs up.
    He shoots max, and max almost falls off the tall building, saved by grabbing onto a gutter flowing with water. AG (authority guy) points gun “give me the parcel” Max puts it slowly into the gutter he’s holding on, and it drifts off. AG makes a break for it, trying to get the parcel before it falls, while max jumps off, landing on another ladder outside an adjacent building.
    When Ag opens the Parcel, he finds nothing (Ha ha!).
    Max continues to Victory!
    –Just a draft, and I apologize for any grammar mistakes.–

  44. Notion Press

    I found your “How to Write a Short Story from Start to Finish”, very useful. I represent a self-publishing company, Notion press and this information means a lot to our network of writers, to whom we will be sharing it. We also have similar useful content on our academy page. Please feel free to check out and get in touch with us.

  45. drinkyoupretty

    A fish fought so hard not to know me. I fought harder to know him. We spent hours at our contest. When exhaustion had taken us both, we acquiesced. As he boarded the boat it was apparent his bravery and powerful fight was over and all I had to do was claim victory.

    It was a victory that was sour to me. Something inside of my old self changed with meeting this fish. I loved that fish and our fight, it was just what I wanted. What was unexpected was the emotion of caring that poured out afterwards. I lack the skill of caring, not having any experience in how to care or being cared for will do that to a man. Hard life living without those things.

    I held him gently in the water for what seemed like eternity, he got his strength back, thrashed and swam away.

    goodby and hello, I said.


      You have a great idea here, I think you can extend this idea into a short story. I like your style of writing, easy to understand.

  46. Alexandria Kellogg

    This is rough idea I’ve been playing around with. Let me know what you think I can do to make it better. Thanks.

    Ariala was led into the throne room of her own castle to face the man who had just taken over. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man in heavy metal armor. His long blonde hair was left to hang loosely around his body and his eyes were so dark that they seemed black to her.

    “Hello Princess, we meet again.”

    “I’d say it’s a pleasure to see you again Prince Demitri, but I was taught not to lie.”

    “Charming as ever I see. Not to worry…I’ll change that little attitude of yours soon enough. For now…there’s something I want you to watch.”

    Ariala watched as her father, the true King, was dragged into the room. He looked so battered and it broke her heart to see her father’s strength reduced to this. He had bruises covering his face and she was fairly certain one of his arms was broken.

    “Why are you doing this? We have never done anything against your family or your kingdom…”

    “You have not…true…but your father here has angered me greatly by denying me the one thing I wanted from him.”

    “What might that be?”

    “You, dear Ariala. I requested your hand in marriage…he refused.”

    “So you decide that taking over my home is somehow going to make me want to marry you?”

    “It doesn’t matter if you want it or not…I will marry you and you will do as you are told or suffer the consequences.”

    “I will most certainly not be marrying you and nothing you can do to me will change my mind.”

    “I was afraid you might be this way. Men…”

    The soldiers holding her father up dropped him to the floor and pulled their swords, and she watched in horror as they ran their swords through her father’s body. As they pulled back she tried to go to his side but Demitri grabbed her by the waist and pulled her against his body causing her to lash out at him, kicking and hitting any part of him she could reach. He raised a hand to cradle the back of her neck and began squeezing gently, applying more and more pressure until she lost enough air to blackout. He handed her limp body to one of the castle’s royal guards.

    “Take her to her chambers for now. Perhaps when she wakes she will be less unpleasent.”

    The guard carried her to her bed and was soon joined by his Captain. “We need to get her out of here before it’s too late, Sir.”

    “I know, and I have a plan for that. Do you remember John?”

    “He’s the one that was always by her side when they were kids right?”

    “Aye, that’s him.”

    “What about him?”

    “He’s the leader of a small band of mercenaries now…and they happen to be in the city below us right now.”

    “You’re going to hire them to get her out of here?”

    “No…I’m going to tell him that she’s in danger and I need him to help me get her away from this place as soon as possible. In the meantime…guard her door and let no one enter this room.”

    “I will protect her, Sir…with my life is I must.”

    “I’d rather it not come to that. I will be back as quickly as I can…hopefully with a plan.”

    The Captain had faithfully served the Sky Kingdom’s royal family since he was a boy. His father had been the Captain of the Royal Guard at that time and he frequently followed the man to learn all he could from him…now his King was dead and his Princess was in danger. He kept the hood of his cloak up over his face as he slipped into the Queen’s Garden to meet with a man he never actually thought he’d see again.

    “Why would the Captain of the Royal Guard want to meet with me in the middle of the night?”

    He froze in mid-step as a soft baritone voice sounded out of the darkness, carefully lowering his hood to reveal his heavily greying hair. “Hello again, John. You seem to have done quite well for yourself, being the leader of a mercenary band now.”

    “No thanks to you, of course…convincing the King to ship me off to be a squire to some low-level knight…that wasn’t very nice of you.” The man slid out of the shadows like he was a part of them. His jet black hair fell in a soft curtain to his shoulders while his bright blue eyes seemed to pierce the Captain like a spear.

    “You were gettig too close to her. We couldn’t risk having her fall in love with someone of such low birth.”

    “You mean because I was born a bastard right? What exactly do you want from me?”

    “The Princess is in grave danger…and I am hoping you still care enough to help her.”

    The man’s gaze sharpens at those words and his voice takes on a darker edge. “What kid of danger?”

    “Sky Castle has been overtaken and the King has been killed…in front of her. The man responsible wants to force her to marry him to cement his new role here but she is defiant and I fear he will hurt herto get what he wants. I can get her out of the castle through one of the secret passages…but I cannot get her off the plateau without being caught. I am too well-known here.”

    “If you can get her to the Royal Stable at midnight…my men and I can take care of her from that point.”

    “Take her to Obsidian Castle in the North. Our allies there will help her.”

    “I will take care of her, you have my word…whatever that’s worth to you.”

    “When it comes to her…I know I can trust you to keep her safe. I will have her in the stable at midnight, her personal gryphon doesn’t have wings but it will follow her wherever she goes.”

    “Wait…she still has that little guy? The blue panther with the bright little tail?”

    “He’s not so little anymore…he’s quite large actually, and that tail is a thing of beauty. He’s one of the rare type that have no wings but he’s as loyal as they come…at least to her.”

    “Good, she’ll need all the protection she can get. I will see you at midnight…stay safe Captain.”

    “You as well, John.”

    Later that night four men in dark cloaks were lurking in the shadows behind the Royal Stables, though one of them was clearly unable to remain still for long as the curly blonde begand shifting restlessly from one foot to the other. “Why are we hanging around here at this time of night anyway? This is boring.”

    “I told you already. We’re here to help my childhood best friend escape from danger.”

    “Right…but who is he?”

    “You’ll see soon enough now stay still.”

    “Gentlemen, good to see you made it here safely.”

    “Same to you, Captain.”

    “Wait…the Captain of the Royal Guard? HE’s your friend?”

    “Of course not…don’t be ridiculous. The two of us can barely tolerate each other.”

    “Wait…then who…?”


    “Hello again, Princess. Miss me?”

    “John!” Ariala ran into the waiting arms of her friend, wrapping her arms around him and crying softly. “Why did you leave me?”

    The dark haired man glared at the Captain before responding to her. “I was sent away little one…they wouldn’t let me go say goodbye to you. I thought they would tell you but it seems I was mistaken.”

    “Captain? Is that true?”

    “Yes, Princess…I’m afraid so.”


    “You were getting too close…you father worried that you two would fall in love.”

    Ariala took in a deep breath as she turned to face the Captain, planning to give him a piece of her mind, but the darker man placed a hand over her mouth with an amused smirk. “As much as I’d love to watch you verbally berate the man…I’m afraid we haven’t got the time right now. We have to get you out of here before they realize you’re gone.”

    “I assume you have a plan already?”

    “Of course…but first…” He snapped his fingers and her bright blue gryphon came out of his hiding spot, his tail fanning out in his happiness at seeing his favorite human. The princess wrapped her arms around the it’s neck and then laughed happily as John lifted her up onto it’s back. “You do realize I can do that on my own right?”

    “I know…but it gave me an excuse to hold you for a moment.”

    “You’ve never needed an excuse for that before, John.”

    “Uh…John, perhaps we should get moving now?”

    “Right you are my friend. Everyone mount up so we can get down the side of this plateau and down into the forest.”

    The four men mounted their own gryphons. John had a hawk and panther gryphon, the curly blonde had a cheetah based gryphon, the auburn haired man ahd a lion and eagle gryphon, while the last man had a massive tiger based gryphon to bear his muscular body. Once they were all mounted they urged their gryphons over the stone wall around the castle grounds and began searching for the least treacherous path down the side of the plateau without going near the main road that led away from the castle. They ended up by the edge of the upper part of Queen’s Lake near the top of the waterfall that fell into the lower lake. “We’ll have to make our way down from here.”

    “Can’t we just fly down?” The antsy blonde was, well, still antsy. The princess watched the man fidget every few minutes and constantly shift position. He reminded her of some of the village children withhow they had too much energyu to remain still for very long…most adult grew out of that but this one clearly hadn’t done so.

    “We could…if we want to risk our gryphons breaking a wing trying to maneuver the dense branches with us on their backs.”

    “Which we don’t…so we have to let them climb down this way.”

    “Correct. You alright little one?”

    “I’m fine…not the first time we’ve come down this way…remember?”

    “How could I forget? You shoved me over the edge of the falls.”

    “You were being a jerk…you deserved it.”

    “I did…but it was still cold that day.”

    “You lived.”

    The other men all seemed to be amused at hearing about their leader’s childhood with her so she decided that she would share more stories once they were out of the danger zone. “I’ll tell you boys some more embarassing stories later.”

    “You will not.”

    “I will too…and you can’t stop me…you never could.”

    “I’m a lot stronger now little one.”

    “I can see that.”

    The way her eyes roamed his figure left him feeling like she could see right through him and he heard more than one of his men snort softly in amusement as his face turned red. The princess gave them all a saucy little grin before mounting her gryphon.

    That’s as far as I’ve gotten on it so far. Let me know what you think.

  47. Mari Hill

    I have written short stories that I’ve worked on or kept in my keep file for up to 2 years. I didn’t know how to write a short story, but kept trying now I don’t think I could write another 300 page novel again if my life depended on it. However, I find my new love (Short Stories) thriller, horror difficult to sell to magazines or enter in competitions…I’m obsessed and won’t stop writing them!!!! Anyone know more about this Kindle Short Story Section?

  48. pehilton29

    I’ve been challenged (by a writing instructor) to write a short story of about 500 words or one full page. This seems a bit constraining to me, but I’d welcome any tips.

  49. pehilton29

    Morgan’s Fiasco

    Our dinky rented room on the edge of Ohio U’s campus was really the basement level of an old frame house built into the side of a hill. Gabe, the rather eccentric old lady who owned the place lived above us in the rest of the house. We had our own entrance, so whatever went on in there was pretty much up to my roommate, Morgan, and me.
    One evening in the semi darkness of our room, I was trying to study by the dim light of a gooseneck lamp over our ancient second hand desk. George Shearing was issuing forth some soothing sounds on our 45 record player. Suddenly, Morgan, lying across the bottom bed of our double bunks, suddenly broke the silence by blurting out of nowhere, “We can fix that!” My muttered and obviously disinterested response was, “Hunh?” His convoluted answer increased in volume and conviction as he addressed the fact that our ceiling was made up of old, gray, tongue and grove wood slats. It was similar to many old porches built in the 1930’s, and was, indeed, rather ugly for a bedroom. His brilliant inspiration was that we could make up a huge batch of paper mache from strips of torn newspaper soaked in a mix of water and flour, and coat the ceiling it it. When it dried, we could roll on some of that fancy new Kem-Tone paint. “It’d lighten the place up – we’d have a great looking room at almost no cost,” he enthused.
    Dumb me. I went along with it, little guessing the horrific outcome of our folly. After a day’s hard work, and not getting too much paint or flour mix dripped around the room, it did look pretty good. At least it was brighter. The next night as I lay in my upper bunk trying to get to sleep, I could still smell the freshness of our beautiful new ceiling just a foot or so above my head. Suddenly I heard a funny noise close at hand. “Skritch, scratch, skritch . . .” My eyes popped wide open with the sudden realization of what I was hearing. Rats! There were rats attracted to the flour in our paper mache mix and they were between our ceiling and the floor above trying their best to get at it. I was off that bunk in a bound, pummeling and yelling incoherently at my hapless roommate who had no idea what it was all about. Needless to say, I spent a wakeful night trying to sleep on the floor, keeping one eye open in case of a “break through.” Some rat baits were set out next morning, and no further gnawing was heard for a couple days. But the worst was yet to come.
    Try to imagine the putrid aroma of one or more dead rats who met their demise in the confined space between the floors of our rooming house. It took weeks for the smell to dissipate, and just about that long for me to forgive Morgan’s creative genius.

  50. Jackie Houchin

    I just got an idea – a spin off from my Fall Contest Short Story. But I’m afraid to write it here. I might expel all the “juice” and then not write it all out.

  51. Jackie Houchin

    Oh, gosh! You had me quaking and looking over my shoulder. What visuals! What imagination! What suspense and…. horror! Good job. Did you do that all in just 15 minutes??? If so, I have no hope.

  52. Larry McCormack

    I can’t seriously take writing advice from a man that hasn’t yet grasped the situational spelling of your.

    ‘You don’t have to follow your scene list exactly, but they definitely help you work through your story, especially if your writing over multiple sittings.’

    • Alice Sudlow

      Those pesky grammar slip-ups happen to the best of us. It’s fixed now. Thanks for pointing it out!

  53. Colbat Comet

    “So they lived happily ever after,” finished Ms. Taslahm.
    Heather Giron yawned. The one thing that was worse than cleaning the poop of the old brown mare the school owned, a scrawny one that was called Marigold, was listening to Ms. Taslahm’s long, boring tales of this and that that were supposedly supposed to help them during life, like they had for A+ student from more than 100 years ago, Briar Rose, who later became Sleeping Beauty, or wishful Ella, who later became well-known Cinderella.
    Heather, really, didn’t see anything in her future that may lead her to a wonderful fortune and a story of her own. But that was okay. She didn’t exactly mind. It wasn’t as if she was expecting a wonderful fortune such as someone…
    Heather cast a side-glance at Savannah Rivers.
    Savannah Rivers was an annoying, pesky know-it-all of a girl. She had curly black hair and perfectly glossed lips. She had tanner, richer skin than most people in the village, and always wore beautiful, colorful gowns, a obvious contrast to Heather’s dull ones. Today, Savannah’s gown was a pale pink, and it matched her lip gloss and eyeshadow on her heavy lidded gray eyes.
    Noticing Heather watching her, Savannah smacked her lips and smiled the beautiful princess smile that all the boys fell for. She flashed it at Heather, who returned it with a big, exaggerated motion of someone flipping her hair, a.k.a. Savannah.
    Sincere Roque leaned over and laughed.
    Sincere Roque was one of Heather’s’ friends. He had a unique combination of eyes, 1 amber and 1 green. He loved acting. He had honey-colored hair and exactly 14 freckles…not that Heather noticed.
    Savannah shot them a frown then turned again, listening to Ms. Taslahm as she described the next task they were going to take.
    “After all, you never know when you’ll get your fortune, or your clue, that with the right knowledge can lead you write to your prince or your damsel in distress.”
    Kaden Kidd, Sincere’s best friend and ‘Prank Master in Training’ (as Sincere called it), raised his hand. Kaden’s family all had the same dark eyes and black, straight hair. Most of Kaden’s family, though, had pale, white skin, but Kaden had the opposite. He had bronze skin, which he was quite proud of.
    “Yes, Kaden.” Ms. Taslahm said with a hint of exhaustion in her voice.
    “Did you ever have a prince, or were you ever ad damsel in distress?”
    Ms. Taslahm narrowed her eyes. “Yes once…with another girl. The prince swooped in to save us, but he could only take one. He took the other girl, and Wizard Foaly’s henchman, Todd Fincher, had to save me. It was the worst day of my life.” Ms. Taslahm buried her face in her hands.
    Kaden snickered. “Isn’t that Old Todd from the Village Block. I thought he was Ms. Taslahm’s brother, not husband.”
    Now Heather had a question. Do you really have to be a damsel in distress to get a prince or a fortune? And do you hafta get a fortune? Can’t we just live like this?
    While she debated if she should ask the question or not, she stretched on her tree stump. Yes, tree stump. The villages’ school was so small and poor, that they couldn’t afford desks or chairs for everyone, proper lunch, or actual books so the students could read along with the teacher. All this was because of the School Overseer. He was a greedy old man, and whenever the payings came for the teachers and school, he often just took it himself. His office was a dream, and the only reason the teachers stayed teaching was because the loved and felt sorry for the kids. Heather just couldn’t see why. She felt sorry for herself now, and just thinking about it made the boring, fidgety ache come back. And a bit sorry for Ms. Taslahm. But she still tortured Heather everyday and night, and no matter what Ms. Taslahm did or feel was going to change that.
    Finally, Heather raised her hand, ignoring the snickers coming from Savannah’s side, and the fact that her ripped, tattered sleeve of one of her 5 dresses was growing short.
    “Yes?” Ms. Taslahm looked more than a bit annoyed.
    “Do you have to be a damsel in distress to get a prince and a fortune? And what’s so important about a fortune?”
    Silence settled around the class. Now Ms. Taslahm looked like she was going to go bonkers.
    Ms. Taslahm’s face became red and splotchy. Then, her voice softened. “I really hope you guys learn and listen to everything that I teach…it’ll help, a lot. Now, excuse me for a sec…”
    After Ms. Taslahm got out of hearing range, Sincere whooped and Kaden patted my back.
    “Congrats, Heather, you won. You made her blow big-time!”
    Dimly, Heather remembered the contest the boys and Heather had made. Whoever made their teacher ‘blow’, won. But that was by far the last thing on her mind. Is life really like that. You get a prince, you win, if not, you lose and perish…wow.
    Heather rubbed her temples as the full force of life slammed into her, and as she did, her strawberry blond hair swooped around her, covering her in what seemed like a safe, copper, veil, away and away from reality and, well, life. Away and away.
    (Comments, Suggestions?)

  54. Mary M

    Life could be hard most of the times and it could be horrible. The worst thing about it though, is that people come and go. Living in the moment, we are all blissfully ignorant to the fact that maybe one day, the person in front of us could be a thousand miles away. We don’t usually think about it. What we usually think about is the future we could have with that one person together. We are hopeful that no matter what happens, we’ll always stay the same. We start building that perfect image of the future and how it would be with that one person beside us, but we always seem to forget that, in fact, people do come and go.

    To me, it was great shock when that one person left me. I was very close to her: we were practically sisters. I had known her since we were kids. We grew up together; in fact, I can’t remember what my life was like before her. Both our parents believed that we are inseparable, and they made me believe it. What I didn’t know was the fact that they knew. They knew that one day she could leave me. They knew that in all honesty we weren’t inseparable. Most importantly, they knew that people come and go.

    We were in the same middle school. We would go to school together and laugh along the way. She would pull me from my arm and drag to the school ground. Life was merrily moving on and we were mere kids living our lives. The last day of middle school – I remember it clearly- the sun was shining brightly in the sky. It was one of those hot, burning days. We were heading back from school, racing through the tree shades and laughing. Obviously, the excitement of the vacation hyped us up. If only I had paid attention at that time, I would’ve seen that my friend’s steps lacked their usual bounce and her smile lacked the usual sparkle. Thinking back to it again, I realized that her dreadlocks fell dead on her shoulders and gently swayed with the heat-filled wind. Her shoulders were slightly hunched with the weight of the news she had carried.

    I was too excited to notice any of those little details, and I should’ve. We pranced all the way to our houses (we lived beside each other). As we were used to, we both ran through my front door as soon as it was opened. On the inside wasn’t what I expected. Mrs. and Mr. Sullivan were in the living room. It wasn’t something out of the ordinary though; they were always over at our house. Their faces, I will never forget the solemn look they had on their faces. Mom ushered me and Nancy into the house hurriedly. We both threw our bags next to the couch. There was tension in the air and I could feel it.

    “What’s wrong?” I asked as I sat on an armchair. The adults present all looked at one another sharing worried glances. Nancy walked slowly to her parent’s side and clasped her hands together. She sat at the edge of the couch with her head hung low and feet bouncing fast. She was nervous, I could tell.

    “There’s something we need to discuss…” Mom moved her gaze towards Mrs. Sullivan motioning for her to start.

    Mrs. Sullivan swallowed nervously and cleared her throat. “We know you and Nancy are such great, close friends,”

    “And we know we’ve always dreamt of you two growing together,” Mr. Sullivan continued.

    “But there are some times when things don’t always go the way we wanted them to,” my father laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. I looked at him confused then turned to everyone.

    “I don’t get where this is going.” My voice was shaky fearing what they could say.

    “Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan have gotten a new job opportunity in France-”

    “Well, that’s great! They’ve always wanted that!” I interrupted my mother and beamed at the Sullivans.

    “Yeah, it is, honey, ” my mom smiled sadly, “but…”

    “But what?”

    “We’re going to France, Lee.” Nancy spoke for the first time. I was very proud of the Sullivan couple for finally reaching their goals. However, it took me a few seconds to actually comprehend what she had just said. Slowly, the smile was erased from my face.

    “No…” One word. Only one word, but it was packed with emotions. Tears burned my eyes. I covered my mouth in shock as my gaze raced from person to another, searching for a sign that this isn’t true. This isn’t happening! But they all watched me with sad faces and guilt.

    “No, this can’t be happening. This can’t be happening!” I got up to my feet with thoughts racing through my head. “What about our high school years together? We’ve always wanted to go to high school together! It is an experience that cannot be relived any time! What about the parties and sleepovers we were gonna have? Huh? How are we gonna do that now when we’re thousands of miles apart?”

    “It wouldn’t be that bad, you know we can chat over the internet.” She tried saying weakly as the tears ran don her face.

    “Chat over the internet? You and me both know that isn’t going to happen! Or have you forgotten about Cassandra?” She took in a sharp breath at Cassey’s mention. “You promised you won’t leave me the same way she has!”

    “I don’t have a choice!” She was on her feet by now.

    “Sure you do! You can stay here!”

    “And leave my parents? Lee, you know I can’t live without them!”

    “So that’s it? You’re actually going to leave me?” Both our eyes were bloodshot. The adults just sat there, barely holding their tears.

    “I guess that’s it.” A second’s pause passed before we embraced each other. Our sobs were loud as we held onto each other. We slowly slid onto the ground; the adults soon joined us.

    That moment I would never forget. The moment my best friend left me behind. It was the moment I realized how hard life could be. You truly never know someone’s value until they’re taken away from you. Even through the heartbreaks and break-ups I’ve went through in high school and college, nothing was worse or more painful than that one moment.

    People come and go, that’s the way life is. They always leave an imprint of themselves behind, but their memories last long.

    People will always come and will always go, but their memories will last long and strong.

  55. Chase S.

    The river was our life, yet it was our death. If it wasn’t for the current, and the water of the river, our crop fields would be nothing more than dry, dusty, useless plains.
    But the river was a deathtrap, after we would get a great harvest, the river would flood our small town, destroying houses, building, and lots of the crops. Livestock would die, and our villagers would be killed. As the main farmer, I tried to make a wall or a levee on the branch of the river that flows next to my lush crop field, but every time, the river would wash over, breaking the wall and destroying everything, I was determined not to let that happen.
    On July 2, just three months away from harvest, I got up at 5:00 AM, tired, and sleepy, being up 30 minutes earlier than usual. I’ve thought of moving to Italy or Israel, but even if I sold the crop field I wouldn’t make it, and the citizens here would die without me. I sighed, it was a hard life, but at least my wife and family was with me, well most of them. Last year My son moved to Greece, and my daughter, was killed by the flood.
    The grief follows me everywhere, my other kid is too young to remember them. I also fought with the guilt of my daughter’s death, if I just tried a little bit harder, got up a little bit earlier, I could have saved her, but I didn’t and now it’s too late. I sat there for a second and wiped a tear from my cheek, for her, I will stop the flood and make sure nobody else must suffer the pain and grief I have, NOBODY.
    I got up and got dressed. I looked in the mirror, and could barely recognize the man in it. I had calices, and wrinkles, and grey hair. My hair was messed up, my boots dirty, and my clothes ripped and torn, I don’t care how I look anymore, after her death, I quit caring about my looks, I just got up and left. Hygiene wasn’t a number one priority either, I barely brushed my teeth, and took a shower every one or two weeks.
    I didn’t care much for food either. Every morning I would get up, drink a cup of coffee, eat a slice of bread, and an egg. Then in the afternoon, I would retire to the house, my wife would cook something, then I’d drown my sorrows and burdens in whiskey.
    But to the current task, I was as determined as ever, and wasn’t going to waste any time. My servant would be tending to the farm all day, while I worked on the river. I grabbed a stale piece of bread, and shoved it in my mouth, barely noticing its terrible taste and its staleness. I skipped having a coffee or anything else.
    I went outside, the sun wasn’t up yet, but there was a faint red line the west, signaling that it was coming soon. I mounted my horse, and rode to the supply store.
    Once in town, I stopped at the store and bought tons of bricks, I paid for it, and left, determined to waste no time.
    By the time, I got back to the farm, the sun was up, and it was around 6:30. I had already wasted too much time. I went to the river and started putting the bricks together.
    I left a hole in the bottom, so the farm could still get water. I grew tired and tired, when eventually, after lugging a heavy brick, I fell, and I heard a crack.
    The pain was fierce, like I was getting stabbed with a million needles at once, and it kept going, the pain was sharp and searing, and it was in my back. I couldn’t move, I tried calling for help, but my mouth wouldn’t cooperate, I started seeing stars, and eventually, everything went black, and my head fell down hard, hurting more.


    I asked the servant if he’d seen him, and he said, “I reckon I haven’t, seems a bit suspicious to me. Tell me if you have, he still owes me some money.” He started chuckling, but when he saw my solemn face, he quieted and got a somber look, “I hope you find him, good day ma’am.” He tipped his hat and kept milking a cow.
    I don’t know what to think, but eventually, I saw some bricks, then I saw a huge rock laying by it. When I realized, it wasn’t a rock, it was my husband! I nearly fainted, and choked back a sob, the pain of my daughter’s death became all too real again. I looked at him, he was breathing, but he wasn’t moving at all, his eyes were closed, he looked as if he was in another dimension and he looked like he was falling away, I gagged, and chocked back another sob.
    I ran up the hill and called for the servant to get the medic, and told him the situation, he complied, and I rushed back to my husband.

    * * *

    Everything was black, I was completely numb, and all feeling and heat went right out of my body, everything was cold, and I began to shiver inside my skin, then the memories came…
    I just exited the barn when I heard the screaming, it was oddly familiar, and I felt like I should know, the voice was tugging at me, when I remembered with a sickening nature, it was my daughter! I tried to run to her, at least my brain did, but my body wouldn’t comply. I was stuck there, helpless and my daughter screaming.
    What’s happening? I began to move when I heard the familiar gushing, the sound of the waves, and the river, it was flood season! Oh, no, my daughter, she must be there! I started sprinting, when I was stopped short.
    The gushing got louder, and louder, then BAM! The river exploded with an ear-cracking sound, like it did every year, except this year was different, the river noises were mixed with the screaming of my daughter, and I tried to run, but I was engulfed in water.
    I swam with all my might against the strong current to get to my daughter, but I couldn’t, I tried for a little bit, then, became tired, and couldn’t do anything, I had to use all my strength just to stay above water so I wouldn’t drown.
    I hoped that maybe the current would push my daughter to me, but I abandoned it when my daughter was pulled deep into the gushing, overflowing, imploding river, I then realized that this would be the end if I didn’t do something, so I swam as hard as I could, but after I moved a few feet, my arms burned, my legs roared with pain, and my body screamed for me to stop, but my brain told me to move forward, but I couldn’t, not one bit, my body shut down, and I couldn’t move, I sank to the bottom, and abdicated all hope of being able to rescue my daughter, Don’t worry, they’re going to find her, I just know it! The optimistic part of my brain said.
    But the rational part of my brain knew it wasn’t possible, and soon the rest of my mind agreed, and I felt defeated, like someone had come and took a huge chunk right out of my body and left it there. And I began to hope they wouldn’t save me either, so I could be with my daughter and live in eternal peace, then I could apologize that I wasn’t man enough to save her.
    I was at the bottom of the water, and I felt like paper, with no soul in me, and the water moved me, until I passed out.

    The memories kept coming, one of my daughters funeral, one when my son left, one when me and my wife got married, and I let them come, until the second part of the daughter catastrophe came, then I began to fight, I didn’t want to see another atrocity, I wouldn’t let it happen, but the memory flood in anyways and I gave up.

    I woke up, the water was gone, and the river was flowing like normal, I was accompanied by many medics, when one of them yelled, “He’s awake!” and they cheered, I would be cheering too, if I wasn’t the one about to die, almost nobody survived the flood, even if we recovered them, we could not get them to live, and some people would wake up, but die in the hospital.
    “We need to get him to the hospital immediately!” A medic with a white jacket and a red cross yelled, whom I assumed was the head medic.
    “No!” I yelled, and coughed up seawater, “My, daughter,” I got out and then the pain attacked me again.
    The doctor got a solemn look, and it looked like my wife choked back a sob, “I’m sorry to inform you of this, but we recovered your daughter and brought her back to life, but she was paralyzed, and soon died from a stroke.”
    I tried to be tough, but it wouldn’t happen, and began to sob, the doctor patted me on my back, and said, “I’m terribly sorry, but we are going to take you to the hospital, and our flood prevention donors are going to pay for her wedding and your medical bills.”
    I wanted to resist, I wanted to stop them from taking me to the hospital, I wanted to do something, anything, but it wouldn’t happen, and I let them take me, with the pain attacking me, fiercely, and I felt like I was imploding, I sighed, and fell asleep.

    * * *

    I woke up, finally away from the terrible memories, I attempted to sit up, but pain seared through me, and the pain engulfed me. I choked back a sob, the memories making the pain all too real again. I attempted to sit up again, when I realized I wasn’t where I was when I fell.
    I was in a hospital, the same one I was in when my daughter died, my first thought was that this was another memory, but I thought better of it when more pain seared through me.
    Then, I couldn’t move my right arm, or my left leg, and most of my body wasn’t responding, and it and the pain were threatening to engulf me. I tried to sit up, but all that happened was another searing pain, I cried out in agony. Then, the doctors came rushing to me.
    “I can’t move.” I managed to get out through gritted teeth, just with that little amount of talking, I felt tired, and more pain came.
    The doctor looked though some papers, then examined, me, and looked at a device, “Oh, dear.” He said, which made me feel a big scared.
    “What happened?” I managed again, the doctor looked at me, sighed, then talked, “When you were lugging that brick you fell, assuming because you were tired, and you landed on your arm wrong, which broke it, but when you fell, the brick fell on your back, breaking it, and,” he took a deep breath, then said, “making you paralyzed.”
    He left with a solemn look as I let that sink in, he had to be wrong, I tried to move, but couldn’t and tried to remain calm, but screamed inside my brain, fear, and pain attacked me, and me not being able to take it.
    I laid there, not knowing what to do or think, I was paralyzed, I’ll never be able to prevent the floods. I felt defeated, I surrendered, abdicating my chances of stopping the flood, and inside my mind, I was dying, I couldn’t take it, and pain seared through my body.
    Then, with a start, I awoke, and got ready to get to work.

  56. Kathie Berry

    Hi Everyone,
    Just getting started here and it looks like a wonderful spot to become a better writer. I like the forum setting also to exchange ideas and get input from others. Speaking of input, I have had a certain novel that I have wanted to write for a long time. I have a site and am starting to make a home for it and other works but it’s a sweeping storyline spanning years.I see my first lesson is to write a short story instead. I am not sure that I can pare this one down to a story in that amout of words and time.

    So I would love some advice. Should I choose a subject from the list that was given to me or do a “partial ” story choosing a specific time frame, happening, or incident that could have a beginning and end derived from the book I want to write later? Thank you for any ideas and/or advice!

    • Elmer Homero Reyes Castillo

      Gabriel García Marquez has a short story, “monologue of Isabel watching rain in Macondo”, which was originally part of a novel (like a chapter or something) but he decided he wasnt gonna use it, even tho he had already written it. So I’m guessing he wrote each chapter like a new short story, almost. His style is kinda difficult to copy, so maybe thats not a good example. Perhaps it doesnt really matter what you write, as long as you write it. Looking forward to reading some of your stuff, short or long 😀

  57. Hannah Foust

    This is my 15 minute writing practice. Usually, I do a lot more detail and something along the lines of romance, but for some reason I had a small idea of it having to do with a robotic girl and I just expanded onto it as I went along. I hope you like it! I’d like to know your thoughts on it too, what I did good and what I need to work on. If you have any interest in contacting me, just let me know. Thanks!

    “When she was little, she never touched a Barbie doll like the other girls. She never thought about makeup. She was different. She read constantly. She learned to write stories at the age of 7. She could calculate the answers to basic Algebraic equations when she was 9. She didn’t just want to learn, it was as if she needed to learn. So that’s why I wasn’t surprised when the doctors told me she did.

    Whenever I’d go over to her house and visit her, she’d be listening to music with her earbuds in while she did something like a puzzle on the floor. She’d never hear me walk in. But as soon as I asked her, say, maybe a mathematical question, all focus was on me and she’d be determined on getting the correct answer. She was strange. I never understood her ways or why she was the way she was, but I accepted it. I accepted her. I didn’t realize I’d be accepting an it.

    I got the call on Wednesday morning around 3 A.M.. It was an officer from the police department. I was confused and scared. What could possibly be wrong? A million things. A million things could be wrong. I asked every question I could think of or manage to get out of my mouth, but all I could get for an answer from whoever it was on the other line was: “Come down here and see for yourself.” So I went down there to the police station. When I arrived I was wondering why we weren’t somewhere such as a hospital already. As I walked in, I knew why. For Lilith, we don’t need a hospital, we need a mechanic.

    Lilith was sitting in a chair while uncertain medics, police officers, mechanics, and many others were surrounding her. At a distance her father was holding her mother in her arms as she cried, I’d expect him to, but he wasn’t. He was just staring at his daughter, a blank expression across his face. I ran over to them, only a few of the million questions I had, spilling out of my mouth. I couldn’t get a response from either.

    I turned and barged into the crowd of people surrounding Lilith. “Lilith!” I screamed. No response from her, no movement, no words spoken, nothing. It’s as if there was a switch on her and it was turned off. I pushed through the crowds and they obliged, allowing me near her until I was on my knees crying as the wires that were strewn out of her knees lay twisted and coiled on the floor around me. What happened to her? What happened to my best friend?

    To answer that question for you, the government persuaded her father that it was the right thing to do. That it’d be alright. That’d it’d be safe, for them to experiment on his daughter. They had a theory that if they somehow rearranged body parts and substituted wires and motors and such for things like organs and tissues, later in life the average human would be invincible. They’d be capable of learning anything. They’d be capable of learning everything. But Lilith, she learned everything already by the age of 19. What else was there for her to do? Her life goal was to do such and she’d done it. Her body was shutting down. She needed to know more, her robotic body needed it. Her mechanical mind needed stimulated by something.

    Although she was mostly robotic, she was also partially human. She had one of the most humane things, emotion. And she was suffering as she grew weaker everyday. Literally dying to know more. As the robotic part of her began to give up, so did the human part. She gave up. She didn’t want to be just an experiment, and she definitely didn’t want to give any result to the scientists who thought this would be alright, that it was successful. So she let them know that it failed as she slashed through the wires and circuits inside her, turning off all parts of her, both motorized and mortal.”

  58. Gordon Jeffery

    I am currently working on a collection of short stories. It is in the beginning stages but the process is by far the most enjoyable part. I have about two thousand words completed so far. I roughly have spent about 5 hrs. The tips in this site have given me a clear path to creating a great story.I just want it to be able to relate to the reader grammatically. That’s my main concern but doing research is part of the journey.

  59. ajaib

    Amazing tips. I have written a mystery novella with twist in the end. When I started it I intended it to be a short story but it got stretched to 46 pages of length. It’s available on my blog. You may check it and feedback will be highly appreciated

  60. Larry Bone

    The most challenging part of writing a short story is having an idea from personal experience. Having a general idea of it as a slice of life. But what is the theme? You get a sort of theme in what you want the story to communicate. You write bits and pieces but the biggest challenge is making all fit together. Particularly you want a series of actions and you want the reader to think of the theme naturally occurring out of accumulated flow of the story.
    Larry B.



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