Cerita Pendek Feel-Good Story & Novel Bias Face Slapping

After being apart for three years, I met my ex-girlfriend, Serena Jensen, during a police operation. She was the ambitious detective in charge, while I was a murder suspect who had escaped across eight states. When our eyes met, Serena was momentarily stunned. "Channing Jones... How could it be you..." I seized the moment and turned to run, but one of her men struck my shin. In the interrogation room, she yelled at me with reddened eyes. "Four lives are lost! Channing, how could you do such a thing? Tell me I was mistaken! Speak! Say something!" When I looked at her heartbroken eyes, I suddenly smiled. "You are indeed mistaken. It is not four, but five. Do you not care most about your husband and my former best friend, Myles Sheldon? How come you do not even notice he is missing?"

Mom and Dad aren't bothered at all when I completely start slacking off. Kennedy Quinlan, my girlfriend's brother, who has established a reputation as a genius inventor, completely breaks down, while I slack off instead of conducting research in the lab. In my past life, Kennedy files an identical patent application just one day before I do, causing everyone to brand me as a fraud and accuse me of blatant plagiarism. I try to explain myself, but no one believes me. Kennedy eventually launches a live stream to blast me online, accusing me of trying to scam my way into their family's fortune. They run a massive cyberbullying campaign against my whole family. Mom and Dad only want to clear things up, but Kennedy's crazed fans push them off a high-rise building, leaving them to die in unresolved grief. Unable to handle the blow, I fall into a severe depression and end up slitting my wrists. I still can't wrap my head around the whole situation, even in my final moments. It is obviously the fruit of my own painstaking research, so why does someone else get to file the patent first? I suddenly open my eyes and find myself back on the day before my invention is stolen.

The day after our wedding, Justin Hudson and I are finally about to leave for our honeymoon. A trip that's supposed to be just for the two of us. But as we're about to board our flight, his mother, Karen Cruz, shows up beside him with a suitcase and a warm smile. "I'm not here to get in your way," she says. "I'm just tagging along." I freeze. Justin simply takes my hand and tries to reassure me. "My mom raised me all by herself. It wasn't easy. If she wants to come, let her. Don't start acting selfish the minute we're married." The entire trip, the two of them sit together, reminiscing about relatives I've never met and sharing stories I've never heard. Karen even jokes that the neighbor's daughter used to insist she'd only ever marry Justin. Justin laughs as he peels an orange for her. "Mom, don't start." He never even looks at me. When we arrive at the hotel, the front desk informs me that the honeymoon suite I booked has been changed to a family room. Karen immediately takes my hand. "Zoe, I was just trying to save you two some money. We're family. Why pay for two rooms?" That night, she complains that the air conditioning is too cold, the shower is too loud, and my perfume gives her a headache. By the end of the night, she's called Justin over to sit beside her bed. He stays there until dawn. Only then does he finally turn to me. "My mom's getting older. Just let her have this." I stare out at the pale gray ocean. And in that moment, I finally understand. This honeymoon gives the two of them exactly what they want. As for me, I'm nothing more than the extra bride in their story.

To punish me for losing my autistic younger brother, Ezra Clement, Mom locks me inside a custom-made steel box. The box is about 20 inches wide and is welded in place in the deepest corner in our basement. "There's a walkie-talkie inside. You'll stay in there until you admit that you deliberately left Ezra beside the human traffickers' van." She locks the lid, plunging me into darkness. For the first three days, I cry and beg through the walkie-talkie, trying to tell Mom that I only let go of Ezra's hand to lure the traffickers away from him. One of the traffickers has slashed me across the back, and the wound keeps bleeding and festering. But Mom refuses to listen to anything I have to say. All I hear are her furious accusations. "Evelyn, you're just jealous of Ezra. A vicious sister like you deserves to be locked in there until you die." On the fourth day, torrential rain floods the basement. Muddy water rises past my knees, soaking the knife wound on my back in filthy water. The pain is so unbearable that I claw at the metal walls until all ten of my fingernails tear and break. I desperately press the talk button. But all I hear from the other end is Mom's gentle voice coaxing Ezra to sleep. To prevent me from disturbing him, she powers it off. When the water that is mingled with the blood from my mangled fingers rises above my head and floods into my nose, I stop struggling. Mom has no idea that on the back of our family photo, I have written down my plan to work hard, earn money, and pay for Ezra's treatment. Helplessly, I think, "Mom, I confess. In my next life, I will never be your daughter again."

My sister-in-law, Denise Snyder, sends a 60-second voice message in the family group chat with all my relatives in it. Through tears, she accuses me of being a bitch who destroyed her daughter's future. She claims I abused my power at work, deliberately kicking her daughter, Erica Cortez, off the final list of new hires and replacing her with someone else closer to me. All my aunts and uncles in the group chat gather like vultures, lashing out at me and calling me names. They flood the group chat with hundreds of messages. Even my elder brother, Simon Cortez, who has always been a man of few words, tags me and demands an explanation. I look at the insults constantly pouring in and feel all the blood drain from me. Firstly, I'm not working in the HR Department in charge of recruiting the new hires. Secondly, and most laughably of all, Erica never even made it past the first round of interviews.

In my past life, when Mom and Dad divorced, they made my sister and me choose. My younger sister, Keira McKellen, didn't hesitate—she picked our rich father, certain she'd become a wealthy young lady and inherit a fortune. But Dad already had another woman, and once his mistress gave birth to a son, Keira went from heiress to nothing overnight. Worse, the woman drove her out of the house entirely, and she was left to wander with nowhere to go. I chose Mom, and ended up living the charmed life instead: I got into a top university, married into a powerful family, and went from ugly duckling to swan—the very top of the world. My sister's envy of me curdled into madness, and on the day my whole family gathered to celebrate my birthday, she burned every one of them alive. When I opened my eyes again, it was the day of my parents' divorce, all over from the start. I saw her rush to choose Mom before I even could, and I knew—she'd been reborn too. What she doesn't know is that living with Dad is miserable, sure, but Mom is broke and out of her mind, and life with her is even worse.

The police officer turned the tablet screen around and held it in front of me. I stared at it for several seconds and read the information again and again. The household registration system showed my family status: divorced, one child. Child’s name: Luke Zane. Date of birth: June 1, 2019. My name was Maya Delaney. I was female, unmarried. "Miss Delaney." The officer frowned. "The child got separated from his family at the mall. As his only legal guardian, how can you deny that you ever gave birth to him?" On June 1, 2019, I worked as an exhibition planner and flew all over the country. I spent nearly 300 nights a year in budget hotels or curled up in plastic airport chairs. On Children’s Day, my ride‑hailing records showed my exhausted trip at 3 o’clock in the morning from the international expo center to the airport. I was so busy I barely had time to find a boyfriend. I could not have had a child. So then, whose child was the five‑year‑old boy who sat on the police station bench and cried his eyes out?

A new community center had just been set up right next to the local store. On the first day, my daughter, Chloe Parker, came home clutching a free carton of eggs. On the second day, she brought home a bottle of olive oil and a bottle of balsamic vinegar. On the third day, arriving home and panting, she excitedly carried in a pack of pasta. I casually asked her, “Did you get that from work?” Chloe collapsed onto the couch, her chest heaving as she replied, “No, it's from that new community center down the street. They're giving away free groceries to anyone who signs up with their phone number and home address.” She casually continued, “I saw a massive line of seniors waiting out there, so I figured I'd grab some for you.” I frowned. “No legitimate charity or business demands your exact street address just for a basic promotional giveaway.” Chloe retorted impatiently, “Mom, you're retired. Can you please stop treating every single person you meet like a suspect?” My son, Leo Parker, chimed in and said, “Seriously, Mom. It's a five-pound pack of pasta. How much is it worth? What could they possibly want from you? Just don't go down there and make a massive scene. We literally cannot handle the embarrassment.” They didn't get it. They couldn't—because I’d spent my whole life as a detective. Every big scam always starts with a piece of free candy.

Three days before the start of summer break, Mom sends a screenshot of nine train tickets to the family group chat. "We're not just going to hang around at home this year. The whole family's going to stay at your apartment for summer break." A few seconds later, she sends another message. "Aunt Elise and her family are coming too. There's going to be a lot of people, so clean up the master bedroom and let them stay there. Since you're still working during that time, you can stay in your company's break room for a few days." I stare at the messages in stunned silence. I'm renting a two-bedroom apartment by myself. I'm also paying for all the rent, utilities, property management fees, my parents' living expenses, and even my sister Tiffany Roth's livestreaming equipment. Five minutes later, I receive a notification from my bank. 2,680 dollars has been charged to my card to reserve a private room for a welcoming party. A note is attached to the transaction. "For the Roth family's welcoming party in New Grandia." Mom then sends me a voice message. "Everyone in the family knows you're enjoying a lavish lifestyle in the big city. Don't embarrass us in front of them." I reply, "Okay." I hope that they'll be able to maintain the same attitude once they arrive in New Grandia.

When my long-lost, wealthy family tracks me down, I thought my years of suffering were finally over. Then, a so-called accidental car crash happens. I wake up able to hear everyone's thoughts. My mother, Mandy Newman, gently strokes my forehead, yet in her mind, she complains, "Why didn't she end up in a coma? It would've been much easier to take her heart that way." My father, Carl Jenkinson, prays, "Please don't let her heart be damaged. The people Victor hired are completely useless. We should've taken it while she was still unconscious." My two-faced sister, Mia Jenkinson, screams internally in tears, "System, scan her heart now! My new heart cannot have the slightest damage!" A chill runs down my spine as the truth comes crashing down on me. It turns out my parents have approved of the car accident my fiance, Victor Stark, orchestrated. They have searched tirelessly for me all these years, not to give me a home, but to carve out my heart and save their precious fake heiress. Fine. If this is the game they're playing, I have no reason to play nice.

At my wedding reception, my twin sister, Beatrice Spencer, catches my bridal bouquet. Her face lights up with excitement as she takes the stage to give her speech, wishing me and my fiance, Julian Hudson, a lifetime of happiness. However, out of nowhere, I hear her inner thoughts. [If my fragile health hadn't robbed me of the ability to have children, Jules would never have made this woman his bride!] I turn to look at Julian, only to find him gazing at Beatrice tenderly. The very next second, his inner voice echoes in my mind as well. [Once Clara gives birth to my child, I'll divorce her and marry Bea!] If that's how they want to play it, I'm not going through with this marriage!

I ran a bakery studio in an old neighborhood for three years, focusing on good quality and fair prices. When neighbors came to buy cakes, I gave them a twenty percent discount. I also made it a habit to add an extra piece of pastry. During holidays, I handed out free samples. I believed that treating others with kindness would never go wrong. That was until my neighbor Rosalind Weber asked me to make a thousand-dollar money-pull cake but only transferred one hundred dollars as payment. “I’m supporting your business. Even at twenty percent off, you’re still making a huge profit. “Use the best buttercream and give me your most expensive pastries for free. I need it tonight, so don’t embarrass me.” Thinking we were neighbors, I held back my anger. When I pointed out that the thousand dollars in cash hidden inside the cake had to be covered by the customer herself, she flew into a rage. “What cake costs over a thousand dollars? Is it made of gold?” She immediately went online and accused me of hiking prices. She also used AI to create obscene images, falsely claiming that I smeared cream on private body parts to seduce men, which was why I had repeat male customers. She called the city’s business complaint hotline eight times in a single day. Her actions not only destroyed the reputation I had built over three years but also caused my fiance to break off our engagement. Because of that, I was forced to refund the money and apologize to her. Later, for her husband Marvin Smith’s birthday, she swaggered back to my shop. This time, she slapped the table and ordered a ten-thousand-dollar money-pull cake. I smiled and agreed. This cake would be my “congratulatory gift” to her entire family.

Jim Hartley, the most respected veteran specialist at Lydian Medical Center, sat for his final interview before retirement. When the host asked if any patient had left a lasting impression on him, he fell silent for a long moment, then let out a heavy sigh. "There is one. My worthless daughter. "She graduated from one of the country's top medical schools, and then threw it all away to be with some penniless nobody. "I only wanted what was best for her future. The night they'd secretly arranged to meet, I locked her in the house and kept them apart. "What I never imagined was that the boy would go on to study medicine himself. These days, he's the youngest oncologist at Fairview General Hospital." A murmur rippled through the studio audience. Sensing an opening, the host pressed further. "If it were happening now, would you still keep the two of them apart?" Jim faltered. His eyes slowly reddened. "It's too late for that. My daughter died of stomach cancer three years ago." The segment went viral the moment it aired, climbing straight to the top of the trending charts. Robbie McAvoy, the story's leading man, had no idea any of it had happened. He'd just wrapped up a critical stomach cancer surgery and was on his way home to meet his wife, Whitney Portman.

At the scene of a massive chain-collision accident, my police officer fiancé was being interviewed by the media. Facing the public’s praise for being “selfless and just”, he calmly stated that prioritizing the rescue of the female officer trainee riding in the same car was merely a police officer's instinct. It wasn’t until the cameras turned away that he tiredly rubbed his temple. He turned his head and asked the colleague beside him in a low voice, “Where is Lea? The core area was in critical danger just now, so I had to prioritize evacuating the injured Willow. Did the other teams manage to get her out?” His colleague looked completely taken aback. “Bro, your fiancé was trapped right there in your passenger seat! When everyone saw you carrying Willow out, we all assumed you were going to turn right back around to save her…” Shawn’s expression instantly twisted into a mix of fury and shock. Yet, he forced his emotions down and said sternly, “If that’s the case… then this is simply her fate as a family member of a police officer. By sacrificing herself to save those in greater need, she died an honorable death.” Meanwhile, I was sprawled in the freezing mud and water over a dozen meters away from the wreckage of the car. Just two minutes ago, the fire had engulfed the passenger seat. In a desperate bid to survive, I had used a shard of broken glass to slice through my seatbelt with my bare hands, crawling out of the sea of fire with a fractured right leg. At that very moment, what kept me awake even more than the excruciating pain of my broken bone was the death of my heart.

I had spent fifteen years in Rathai’s jade trade. Tonight was another routine trip to a private auction to pick up stock. On the outside, these auctions moved jade, but behind closed doors, they sometimes moved people. I had just walked into the back when I spotted a teenager huddled in the corner, covered head to toe in bruises and welts. He looked up at me with desperate eyes. A second later, lines of text floated across my vision. [This is Arden Carlisle, the fake son of the Carlisle family in Harstead!] [The real Carlisle son framed him, and his own sister shipped him out here to 'teach him a lesson'.] [It's awful. He's been shocked, whipped, and beaten. Now, they're about to strip him and put him on the block.] [The real Carlisle son and his people are in the auction hall right now, waiting to watch him get humiliated.] I lived by one simple rule. If it was not my problem, I would not get involved. I turned to leave. However, another line then appeared. [Oh my God! The jade dealer is his biological father!]

For three years in college, I was basically the dorms’ unpaid tech support. I was always on call, never charging for dust cleaning, thermal paste replacement, and operating system installations. Then senior year started, and Mickey, a freshman, called me out in the dorm group chat. “You know thermal paste only costs a few bucks a tube, right? Yet, he’s seriously charging you guys two cans of energy drinks for the job.” Mickey added smugly. “My family runs a computer store. Come to me instead. I’ll charge you a can for the service, and I can guarantee authentic parts.” The group chat blew up. “The kid’s legit!” “Well, Axis isn't getting any more energy drinks from me.” I read the messages and quietly packed away my tools in the cabinet. They had no idea the thermal paste I used cost nearly forty bucks a tube. The dust cleaning was done with professional-grade equipment. Little did they know, the so-called genuine parts sold on the market were mostly refurbished parts with a fresh coat of paint. I got into bed and pulled a sleep mask over my eyes. Honestly, this couldn’t have come at a more perfect time. I’d been wondering when these days of doing free repairs at my expense would finally end. Well, there's my ticket out.

I opened a restaurant in an alley, and business was booming. When the lease expired, I took the initiative to talk to the landlord about renewing it. The landlord, Jasper Smith, crossed his legs and said, “My dear Flynn, my dear little nephew Harvey Jordan, wants to open a restaurant too. So, this place would be perfect for him. “He thinks your food is delicious, so he went out of his way to learn all the recipes for your dishes and soups. Come to think of it, he has you to thank for your careful guidance!” The blood rushed to my head. Harvey Jordan had kept his relationship with Jasper from me and worked at my restaurant for half a year. He had stolen my recipes, and he was trying to kick me out to steal my customers? I was furious. “Mr. Smith, isn’t this going a bit too far?” Jasper slammed his hand on the table. “The shop lot is mine. I’m free to rent it to whomever I want! Clear everything out before the lease expires!” I laughed through gritted teeth. “Are you sure you want to go down this road?” I had a secret blend of spices that I had never shared with anyone. Without it, my soups would become increasingly bitter the longer they boiled. Harvey had only learned some surface knowledge. He had yet to grasp the soul of it. I was interested to see how he would manage running a restaurant without its soul.

I've been running a grilled fish restaurant in Millennium Square for six years now. Each time the queue for my restaurant gets noticeably longer, the mall management comes knocking on my door to raise the rent. At 5:00 pm today, the waiting list for my restaurant reaches the 200th table. I instruct my staff to prepare three additional cases of fish. At 6:00 pm, Walt Sutton, the mall manager, shows up at my office and slams a new lease contract onto my desk. "Congratulations, Mr. Connor. The mall's foot traffic has multiplied by three times this month," he says while pointing at the third page of the contract. "As it is, the mall is having a hard time keeping up with all the extra maintenance needs, so your rent will have to be increased by 50%." I glance at the contract. "That's not what we agreed on last time," I remark. "That was then, and this is now. You've got three days to decide whether you're signing the contract." In just six years, the rent has already doubled from 10 thousand to 20 thousand. Now, he wants to increase it by another 50%. After he leaves, I grab my phone and make a call. "Hey, Mr. Whitman, it's me. About that spot you offered to me in Avant Plaza, I'll be ready to move in after three days."

When I hand in my resignation and pack up my things, I make sure to box up my 100,000 dollars' worth of camera equipment. However, my colleague Reed Lanrod, an intern who joined the company after me, immediately throws a tantrum. "What are we supposed to use if you take all that equipment with you? You're already leaving, and you're still leeching off the company? That's not right!" I keep my cool and patiently explain, "I bought every single piece of this gear with my own money. It's got nothing to do with the company." Reed, who's been eyeing my equipment for the longest time, storms off. Not long after, the boss, Karen Halfpenny, calls me into her office. "You've been keeping the equipment in our office, so it's been using our electricity and taking up our office space. That makes it company property. You're not taking a single item with you." I can't help but laugh at the sheer audacity. When I first joined the company, Karen told me to treat the company like home. So, to get the job done right, I gradually spent 100,000 dollars of my own money to buy camera equipment and store it at the office. Now she's calling it company property? Fine. I immediately call the IRS and report the company for tax evasion and fraud. They insist the 100,000-dollar setup is theirs, yet they've never paid a single cent of tax on it. In that case, let's see what the IRS agents think about that.

Right before graduation, our Resident Advisor (RA), Jasper Hollister, posts a message in the group chat announcing a hygiene inspection in two days. At the same time, he sets up a pool and demands 200 dollars from each of us to hire a professional cleaner. I immediately ask, "How on earth does a cleaning service cost 800 dollars for a tiny four-person dorm room?" Jasper instantly gets defensive and snaps, "If we get held back from graduating because of you, are you gonna take the blame?" Not wanting any drama, I just pay up and spend the next two days quietly grinding out my thesis at the library. On inspection day, I get a furious phone call from our Residence Hall Director, Deborah Campbell, screaming at me to get back to the room immediately. I push the door open to find the other three beds are spotless. Meanwhile, my bed and desk are buried under a mountain of takeout containers and trash that reeks to high heaven.