Classic Short Stories Novels & Stories

Kandy gets up from the floor and climbs up into the couch, curling up on it without a word as she keeps her eyes on the window. Lightening flashes and I get to see more of the beauty beside me. She is wearing another one of my clothes and one of those tiny shorts she seems to have a thing for and again, she's wearing them without panties so I can see a lot more than I am supposed to. Her supple ass is barely covered in those wet dream inducting shorts and I see how the smooth skin of her thighs are calling out for my touch. As if giving me a silent show, Kandy moves slightly and her shirt rides up to show me a sliver of her flat stomach.

"What about these tulips—got any stories behind them?" She picks up a yellow one, holding it out. "These are my favorites. They remind me of spring back home, starting fresh. Want a closer look at the rest?" I nod quickly, and she comes around the counter, leading me to another display. As we move, our arms brush—accidental, but it sends that little buzz again. She points out different ones, explaining colors and meanings, and I ask questions to keep her talking. She opens up a bit more about settling into the city, how the shop's her way of making roots. I share a story about wandering the markets as a kid, skipping the royal parts, and she chuckles at the funny bits, her eyes lighting up.

The Underground Fighter The underground fight club smelled like blood, sweat, and cheap beer. Concrete walls, dim red lights, and a chain-link cage in the center where two men were beating the shit out of each other. The crowd roared every time a punch landed. I stood near the back, notebook hidden in my jacket, trying to look like I belonged. My name is Caleb. Twenty-four. Rich kid turned journalist, chasing a story on the illegal fight scene for a big exposé. I was not supposed to be here. But the deeper I dug, the more I needed to see it for myself.

WARNING‼️ THIS STORY IS A PARANORMAL STORY 🔞 Chapter 1 My skin felt sticky from sweat as I peeled off my damp shirt and stepped closer to the tall antique mirror I had dragged out of the closet earlier. I wiped sweat from my neck and stared at my reflection, for a second everything matched. Then my reflection smiled a heartbeat after I did. My pulse jumped. I blinked hard and shook my head I was just tired that was all. I turned away to grab a towel but something made me glance back. My reflection stared at me, eyes darker, lips parted.

Poor Belinda! TO BE CONTINUED...

"Once upon a time...There was a little white rabbit who, one day, ate a large carrot and with a bang, turned into a big white rabbit." Diana asked, "And then what?" John replied, "That's it." "That's it?" "Yeah." John furrowed his brow slightly, unable to hide a hint of embarrassment on his face. "Is it not interesting enough?" Diana paused, unsure of how to respond. It wasn't particularly captivating, but... it was cute. She said slowly, "Well, stories should be longer, more intricate, and a bit more fantastical. You know, like 'The Ugly Duckling,' 'The Little Mermaid,' and 'The Three Little Pigs.' Kids love those kinds of stories."

I was definitely putting the cart before the horse. As soon as I dropped Charlie off at Middle School Wednesday morning I headed home. My heart was already beating a little faster thinking about lunchtime. Sandy was coming over! I'll admit I didn't get a lot done on what I was working on, although it was definitely better than that horrid manual had been. This was an anthology of short stories from an independent publishing house that I'd worked for before, with all the authors under twenty-four years old. The clock seemingly was moving at a glacial pace, but eventually my phone chimed.

Pinky squinted to read it, her eyes tracing the loops and crosses. "Collection of short stories for ladies," the title read. "Stories of desire, of awakening, of the first time." Pinky blinked, her eyes widening as she read on. The handwriting was feminine, secretive, as if the writer were sharing her most guarded thoughts with only the pages. It was a confession. A revelation. As she began to read.

~Clara My name is Clara. I’m twenty-six. You can judge me for a lot of things, but never for being a damn slut. That part? I own it. I went to school, I studied hard, I even bagged a second-class upper. And what did that degree get me? Endless applications, interviews that went nowhere, and a pile of rejection letters that could wallpaper my apartment. Surviving meant compromise, and compromise led me here, spreading my legs for men who could pay enough to keep me breathing.

Her mind got stuck on the mention of Dabir's name. "And then Mom told Zamin to... Aunt Iman?" Madiha was halfway through her story but realized Iman was not listening. "Huh? What were you saying?" "Nothing." Madiha shook her head. It wasn't anything important. "Can you please make laddoo for me?" The sweet little balls of gram flour were Madiha's favorite, especially the ones that Iman makes. "Of course." Iman andwers as memories of past flodded in her brain.