Short Story With Metaphors And Similes Novels & Stories

I feel so tired, and I just want to close my eyes and never wake up. I watch in awe as I slice one wrist once, twice, and thrice for good measure. I feel no pain, just white noise and a calmness. I change hands, and the glass feels heavy; I feel it go deep and deeper; I let the glass drop and get into the tiny shower and turn on the water; it’s lukewarm it reminds me of my shitty apartment . I let it wash over me clothes and all. I slide down against the wall all the way to the floor and watch the water wash the blood away, but it keeps coming back every time; soon, I am feeling sleepy and cold, oh so cold. I can feel the darkness pulling me, and I want to surrender. My thoughts suddenly tur

Her writing was simple, yet each sentence carried the weight of her hidden emotions. She wrote about the cool touch of the marble floor, the soft murmur of conversations in the office, and the fleeting smile that had lit up her heart when their eyes met. The journal became a private sanctuary for her thoughts. It held the secret language of her soul—a language of hope, longing, and quiet determination. Even though the words were simple, they were full of meaning and emotion.

They scattered bluebell petals on the wind, watched them rise and fall and catch on the cracked, bright stone. Mira leaned in and whispered, “Tell me a story.” Carolina did: A city on the edge, a girl with nothing, a garden that ate and rebuilt its world. It ended not in triumph, not in loss, but in the risky, painful, gorgeous fact of living — together, wild and unafraid, with nothing but their own myth to guide them. The twins howled with laughter, and Mira kissed her again, and the market shouted her name, again and again, until the story was no longer hers, but everyone’s.

This was no feel-good fluff piece meant to reinforce some trite, overexploited message like 'love was real' or 'love always triumphs. Gray and I weren't actors. Our clothes weren't from a wardrobe department. Our words weren't printed on a script. Our home wasn't a set full of curated props. Our happy ending wasn't guaranteed. In our living room, I spoke ad libitum, straight from my heart. With her beside me on the couch, I told her how things had changed for me. Working within the confines and limitations of language, I turned to metaphor, to simile. As evinced by the mere existence of poetry itself—to concretize ambiguous ideas such as 'love' or 'happiness' using plain language always, alw

“Let me finish this simile of mine first, Mrs. Yulia Kammal… You’re really like a fish living in a small pond for almost your whole life. One day, you bumped into a tortoise. This tortoise actually derived from the similar small pond of yours. But, because she was a tortoise, she could live both on land and in water. This tortoise had just come back from her holiday on the mountain. “This tortoise was going to tell you like this, ‘I’ve just been to the mountain. The scenery over there is immensely beautiful, breath-taking and picturesque.’ “Of course you didn’t understand, so you asked again, ‘Mountain? It must be muddy, wet and full of water. How can it be beautiful, breath-taking and pictu

Then the handle turned a fraction and stopped, as if the door was making a promise to both of us: not yet. I lifted the pillow, slid the journal out again, and opened it at the glossy word. It gleamed back at me like a tiny knife under a streetlight. Whoever had rewritten it wanted to make sure no one mistook the metaphor for accidental doodling. The rain leaned on the house like a man comfortable in his skin. I exhaled, slow and heavy, and tasted ink on the back of my throat. Somewhere down the corridor a clock began to insist on counting seconds. Elky’s study still smelled like lemons of a better century.

the old man suddenly said in his soft yet firm tone listening to which he looked at old man who was looking at him with same smile which making him more angelic. "You've heard of mirages and musk deer???" old man asked him again. Abhimaan did not give any answer to this. It was not that he did not know about it but he wanted to hear about it from that man's mouth and God knew why??? Old man smiled more seeing his curious eyes and again started “Let me tell you a story today. There is a musk deer which has musk inside, whose fragrance attracts him. He follows her scent to find where it is coming from but he never realizes that it is coming from inside him. He just frantically searches for her

With each word that spilt from my lips, I infused the story with my own sense of awe and imagination, wanting to share the magic with Ezio. Ezio's eyes shimmered with anticipation, his tiny body leaning closer to mine as the story unfolded. I wove intricate descriptions of castles with towers reaching towards the heavens, adorned with golden tapestries and stained-glass windows that shimmered with kaleidoscopic hues. The air was thick with the scent of blooming roses, their petals velvety soft against the skin. As I continued to read, my voice shifted, becoming hushed and filled with tenderness. I whispered about the whispers of fairies that danced beneath the moonlit glade, their ethereal b

A man hit by a car in New York in 1977 got up uninjured, but lay back down in front of the car when a bystander told him to pretend he was hurt so he could collect the insurance money. The car then rolled forward and crushed him 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!

“You think this world, this pack, is all there is? That Simon is all you can get? It’s a cage, and he’s just another faceless crow, no different from the rest of them. And you’re the prettiest little bird sitting in it that all the crows want to maul. One day, you’ll wake up and realize I was right, and one crow is like another…. No crow is ever going to be a match for the prettiest little bird. But by then, I’ll be long gone. Finding all the other pretty little birds to fly with.” Eve with her maddening metaphors. Flashing red eyes and obvious anger, my way... The underlying storm brewing in her soul, and I can taste it. Facing me now, her hair whipping gently in the wind, pale under the mo