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Include an unreliable narrator or character in your story.

Posted in Character on Sep 19, 2025

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✍️ 34 stories

Sweet Cherry Pie

Submitted to Contest #321

Storms are the conductors to Mother Nature’s greatest orchestras. The flow of rain hitting ceramic roofs, the distant rumbling of thunder, and the wind gently caressing the beautiful chimes hanging on a neighbor’s porch. They all come together to cover the night’s silence and provide comfort to those who have troubles keeping them awake. Ernest was one of these poor restless souls. The outside might have been pitch black, but the dozens of candles positioned around the living room illuminated the chamber with an orange glow. They gave off th...

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Spring Cleaning

Submitted to Contest #321

Spring cleaning should be done in just that- spring. The summer sun was too intense, warming the back of my cut-off as I loaded yet another box onto the bed of my pickup truck. As I dropped it into the bed, I wrapped my fingers around the bottle like a vice, the glass slippery in my sweat-slicked palms. The cool beer slid down my throat and I relished the pleasant tingle that crept up my arms as I finished off the drink.My wife sat in the corner of the garage, smiling at me. Her long black hair flowed over her blue sundress and her bare feet...

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Obsession

Submitted to Contest #321

*Hailey's POV* Warning: this story contains scenes of stalking and mental health issues... Aaron Matthews walked into the coffee shop at 8:00 am on the dot. He wore his plain, white shirt tucked into his jeans and his blue jeans - paired with a belt - accentuated his long lean legs. On his neck, a locket which isn't something I would peg him to wear, but it was fine if he was doing it. He had this regal, arrogant cloak on, but he still picked up an elderly lady's wallet she had dropped. I would have just taken the wallet, but he-he tapped he...

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Falling in Love

Submitted to Contest #321

FALLING IN LOVE (1317 words) He looked as forlorn as a greyhound’s tail. He didn’t care. Not caring had become like breathing, the oxygen of despair. His head was uncovered but for a tabard of wiry hair as short and as prickly as he was. Mortgaged by the past, his face was shadowed and crevassed, slouching towards the corduroy skin of his neck. Ruddy was his dominant colour infused deeper by the day’s salt breeze. His blue-sky eyes were clouded now as much by events as their constant flicker below to the grass that bearded the cliff edge. Hi...

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The Hunt for Mozom

Submitted to Contest #321

CW: Mentions of cannibalism and murder Between us my dear reader I think you’ll realize that my story is worth sifting through, my truth is worth learning so that you can make your own judgement of my character. The last few months had been a blur of activity as the case of the Cannibal had consumed me and my team, not literally of course at least not yet. A small town like ours in the middle of nowhere was not that garnered much attention from the rest of the country and yet as I pulled my beat up cruiser into the station parking lot I coul...

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The House Across the Street

Submitted to Contest #321

George liked to keep the blinds open in the evenings. It was perfect for the plants on the windowsill to get the sun and moon they needed. Though he wasn’t even sure if the plants needed moonlight. Most people defended themselves from the dark, but George insisted on the open window. Behind his cover up, the truth was he liked the house across the street. More so he liked to watch it. It was built of brick, a dusty red color that reminded him of the toast he usually burns. The windows were rectangular and perfect, the drapes always sitting i...

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The Sweetest Sacrifice

Submitted to Contest #321

Not many people can tell when they have gone overboard, added too much, or left a bitter taste in your mouth; it's for this very reason that La Petite surpasses the bakery fronts on Main Street, because divinity wretches out spoils, even the smallest of inconsistencies. It's disapproving to speak so highly of your own business, especially in a tall-poppy syndromed country like Aotearoa. Of course it is, and I wouldn't say anything out loud. But to just know it, to understand your hard work is reaping the love (and also the heartache) that we...

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The Four of Us Are Dying

Submitted to Contest #321

It was another Friday and the four of us hopped on GTA at 4. Always 4. Had to get situated by 4:20 and smoke together in one of our respective penthouses. Been that way since college. It’s our tradition: A bottle of cheap vodka and a chaser next to a fluffy bowl of ganja packed in our respective bongs while we virtually clinked glasses and drank them in reality. We got on the party chat at exactly 4pm and Gloria was the first to break the silence. “You guys I can’t even.” “You always say that.” I said. “Yea but doesn’t change the fact t...

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The Rough-Hewn One

Submitted to Contest #321

“Am I seeing an apparition?” Bob asked through eyes so almond-shaped that I thought he was constantly squinting. Wrinkles brought by age sure didn’t help, either.I swallowed the thick Louisiana air, eyes roaming the shelves for Milton’s Wheat Cereal. I wish I could say I was happy to see Bob. After all, there had been a time when I ran into the store and straight to the candy aisle, the gleaming boxes of licorice and gumdrops upright, like little soldiers. Now, my childhood memories are tainted with the inappropriate innuendos between my mom...

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Dear Maddie

Submitted to Contest #321

Dear Maddie,Nothing much has happened since my last letter. I woke at seven. Breakfast at eight in the dining room with George and Mary. Bridge until ten. They’ve taught me this new game, Rummikub, played with these numbered tiles. It’s hard for George to see the numbers with his cataracts, but Mary lets him win anyway.I like to take a walk before lunch, when the sun isn’t so hot. There are pleasant gardens out back. You’ll see them when you visit. I’m not so good with plants. Mary has twelve pots in her room. George says he can’t stand the ...

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The Testimony of Sheriff McCloud

Submitted to Contest #321

My right hand won't stop shaking since the Marshal arrived. I tell myself it's age - sixty-two years will do that to a man - but I know it's a lie. Angus McCloud never lied to himself, until today. The young man sits across from me, little notebook open, pen poised like a loaded gun. Thomas Hartwell. Pretty name for a boy who's got the eyes of an old wolf. Came in this morning on the nine o'clock train, asking about James Morrison and asking questions a regular Marshal shouldn't know how to ask. "Sheriff McCloud," his voice cuts through the ...

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The Trick and the Trickster

Submitted to Contest #321

The phone rang once and, for just the second time that afternoon, I got an answer. "Hello?" Of course. The old ladies always answer. "Hello, ma'am this is Mark from HavenOne security. How are you today?" "Oh I'm fine honey. How are you?" I couldn't tell her I was surviving off of 3 cups of office coffee, a Snickers and 2 hours of sleep. "I'm fine thanks for asking. I have a question for you ma'am. How safe do you feel in your home?" "Well, since Gerald died I guess a little less. And the neighborhood is going down you know. It'...

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Best Friend

Submitted to Contest #321

As night falls at the birthday party, I continue to be the centre of attention. Deflated balloons and hushed conversations signal the near end of the event I had painstakingly planned and hosted, which I give myself a solid pat on the back for. This party scores at least a nine out of ten, I think to myself, grinning at the guests I roped in text by text, call by call. How could they not show up after hearing that it was my best friend’s birthday? He was turning twenty-one. Let me help you visualise how awesome this party is. I planned for ...

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The Prenatal Memoirs of Sir Banjo Barkley the Third

Submitted to Contest #321

The Prenatal Memoirs of Sir Banjo Barkley the Third I am Sir Banjo Barkley the Third, heir to the noble lineage of Barkley’s, destined to be the most glorious puppy ever to grace the linoleum floors of 25B Twain Street. I am currently residing in the womb of Lady Barkarella Barkley, my mother, who is – how shall I put this delicately? – a bit of a drama queen with a penchant for chewing antique furniture and barking at existential threats like vacuum cleaners.Now, I know what you’re thinking: “How can an unborn puppy narrate his own story?” ...

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The Worst Kid

Submitted to Contest #321

The Worst KidIt was the middle of the summer when our worst camper arrived. We had survived the deaf and blind Friendship camp with all of its challenges and had yet to face the inner city group. This was a hectic week for us, with all our base camp cabins full and all our outposts—Cowboy, Wilderness, Water Skiing, and Indian camps—running. Every counselor had a full cabin, wagon, tent, or tepee.I shall call the worst kid John, because I have forgotten his real name. Plus, if he has survived this long, he has a right to some anonymity.John w...

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