6 Word Stories Novels & Stories

In the cafeteria, Dexter opened our chat with a strange, distracted look on his face. "Did you get to the hotel? Have you eaten?" He hit send, but the message bounced back as undeliverable. He couldn't believe it. He backed out and went in again, but no matter how many times he tried, it was the same thing. A colleague ribbed him. "Well, well. Even our resident genius gets blocked sometimes. "Can't say I blame her, though. Look at this. She sends you all those messages, and you reply with one word. Who'd put up with that?"

Suit pouted childishly at Anderson, and continued, “Do we have a deal, Mr. Anderson?” Anderson stared back and forth between Suit and the scroll. His mind was racing. The contract sounded simple enough. Straightforward, but he did not understand. ‘What did he mean by survive ten stories? Did he not say I was going to tell a story? What does survive the story mean?’ Question after question popped up into his head. He could not help himself. He had no idea exactly what it meant, but one thing was for certain; He would not move forward if he did nothing but constantly question the situation.

On the day I went to pick up Fred from the police station, I was blindsided by a pack of journalists rushing at me, all hurling questions about our parents embezzling project funds and the pressure that had driven them to suicide. Fred, furious at the sight, slapped me in front of everyone before storming off, leaving me to drown in the crowd. The reporters waited for my response, but when I didn't give them one, they slowly dispersed. I leaned against the wall, feeling defeated, when I saw Dean approaching. His hands were tucked in his pockets, and he wore a gleeful expression. "Veronica, seems like this is all you've got." I knew he was holding onto the words I had spoken to him days ago.

Once bitten, twice shy, as they say. Two years later, I was pregnant again. Time seemed to have passed by so quickly. Sometimes Horace would ask me, "How many years do I have left?" See? He was sharp, too. Just because he didn't ask often didn't mean he couldn't sense something was off. When he asked, I'd answer, "Only tomorrow. You should hurry up. When you're gone, I'll use your money to fill the house with young men. You know I could do it, right?"

Enjoy! I don't own any of this stories. I found them in some creepy books. I'm thinking of writing my own scary stories, but not anytime soon. You can send me your short stories for a feature if you feel like it. Thanks for reading. Enjoy!

Each word was a seed planted in the fertile minds of the young ones, inspiring them to dream, to question, and to create their own stories. The children, their eyes wide with wonder, hung onto every word, their imaginations painting vivid pictures of the tales spun. This was not just storytelling; it was a cultivation of creativity, a lesson in empathy, and a gateway to understanding the complexities of human nature and the world around them. The elder's stories served as a bridge, connecting the past to the present and framing the future.

He grinned, wiggling his fingers mysteriously. “It’s called ‘Story Fingers.’ You take turns telling a story, but here’s the catch—you can only speak one sentence at a time, and you have to include a finger count with each sentence. For example, I start with ‘One fox ran across the river,’ and then you continue with two of something happening, and so on. It gets tricky, and hilarious, especially after a few rounds.” Jaiyana laughed, already intrigued. “Sounds… complicated. But fun. Okay, I’m in.”

'Don't say a word. #

Jordan asked. "20, 000 words," Trix replied dryly. Jordan whistled, not expecting that response. How could a slacker, sophomore with no writer experience write 20,000 words in one night. "What do have to write about," Jordan asked amused. "The retelling of a fairytale." "Which one are going to choose," Jordan asked a small smile on his face. Trix furrowed her brows in concentration. "I don't know," she said after a long gap of silence. Now more than ever, she wished that she had done that book review. She sighed frustrated.

Some stories started with hate. This one ended with everything.