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A weekly short story contest
Looking for a steady supply of christian short stories? Every week thousands of writers submit stories to our writing contest.
Coming of Age
People of Color
Teens & Young Adult
We'll send you 5 prompts each week. Respond with your short story and you could win $50!
Sigrid stepped out of her car and onto the parking space. She breathed in through her nose, silently rejoicing at the familiar scent of jasmine and cedar. Motioning the driver to remain in the vehicle, she heard the clicking of her boots against the concrete. If she remembered correctly… there was the curb, and respectively the sidewalk. She followed the sidewalk to the right, hearing the melodic voices of nearby birds--...
Sometimes I forget about you, God.
I know it’s crazy. How could I forget someone so amazing, so powerful… but you seem so invisible sometimes.
The stars are so vast. Or, rather, space is. I can’t see space, of course, but the stars in it are so far away. I am always amazed. When I take the time to look, they inspire me with awe and I have to acknowledge you.
It was a usual morning at the Sebastian’s. John was irritably looking for his glasses while he grumbled and squinted to read a new text message and Martha was arranging the table for breakfast while ranting about how the neighbor's dog again littered her walkway this morning.
“Why are the words so small and why does he have to message? Can’t he pick up the phone and talk, your busy son! And why do you mis...
One day a man wakes up feeling terribly ill, he’ s in his bed but doesn’t feels like his bed , he looks at his room but his vision is blurry and his eyes heavy, “strange” he thought, ”that doesn’t seem like my room at all”. He knows it’s all because of the importance of that day , he is feeling anxious, he is getting sick again. As he struggles to wake up a woman knock his door, ” Mr E. I’m you neighbour from apartment B ,There’s a letter for you, the mailman must have put it in my mailbox but it’s addressed to you!” He stands up quickly ...
He was poor and he was rich. He was loved and he was hated. He was a woodworker and a fisher, a realist and sought after ideals. He freed slaves and healed the sick. People called him crazy, they called him a liar. They said he was mad, that no one should listen to him. Yet people still came, and then everything changed. He wasn’t born in a hospital or at home, he was born on the road with only his mother and father. His mother loved him and rejoiced at the sight of the stars that shone then for him. His father knew in his hea...
You sit at the kitchen table of your little house, rifling through your mail. It’s the usual monthly bills: credit card, phone, electricity, mortgage, you name it. They are all there, waiting for you to pay them. At the bottom of the stack, though, you find something else. It is a creme coloured envelope without a stamp. You realize someone must have hand delivered it. You open it.
It is an invitation to...
Lili glanced around as she helped herself to a biscuit. It wasn’t any good – rancid, and old – but she hadn’t come to him for his cooking. The air was quivering hard all around her, hot and heavy against her skin. She couldn’t make out much of her surroundings.
“I heard that you’re done writing”, she said, and watched him turn around to look at her curiously.
“I suppose I am”, he agreed pensively, making hi...
It was...scary. Or no...angering? Maybe even…sadness. It was overwhelming? Like a whirlwind. All of it happening so fast. Never time given to process. It just sort of…happened. Everything was fine, and then…not. Like precariously balancing on a tightrope until you tip off and slowly fall. Fall down and down. It was numbing. It was painful. It was terror like the night. It was painstaking. It felt like forever. Slow, confusing, and forever. It was a burning in your chest and eyes when you try to hold back the tears...
The stars up above are unchanging. Reliable. Beautiful. Unsympathetic. Cassia watches them, not daring to move. Hardly daring to breathe. Wishing she could force her heart to stop pumping. Anything is too loud. She closes her eyes. The starlight will glint off them and make her more visible. Life is more valuable than sight. Hearing is still accessible. Grasses rustle somewhere to her left. Where her mother is. There is a gasp. A scuffle. A man’s voice. A man who is not her father. Her father ...
I close my laptop, shove it onto the bed beside me, and massage my forehead.“What’s the matter?”I look up to see my little sister coming into my room. She looks concerned and I try not to take my annoyance out on her. “My laptop isn’t working.”“Oh. I can go ask Mom if you can use hers.”“Thanks, but I need my stories from my laptop.”“Aren’t they on your phone too?”“They are supposed to be, but it’s not working either. It’s so weird. ...
The Weatherman had got it wrong again. Rain turned to snow and back again as Carl drove his rusty car, he didn't know what kind it was, home from work. "There goes the barbecue." He thought. Carl yanked the wheel of the car to the right as a grey car with its headlights off zoomed past him down the road. He muttered under his breath and turned to look over his shoulder at an old lady who was just then swerving back into her own lane. The car was already invisible, masked by the wet drops of snow that were be...
Wednesday, January 1st, 19978:10 AM - I secretly bought this journal at the local bookstore for $6.95. It is a secret because I want this to be mine and just mine. Grandma gave me some Christmas money and I was so glad that way I could buy a journal. I bought it so I can record my first teenage year. Yes, today is my 13th birthday and the start of a new year. My goal is to write every day so I can someday look back on what I did during my first year as a teena...
I look at my hair in the mirror. Fiddle with the short, layered ruin. A few hours ago, it was ear-length, straight, and glossy, just how I liked it, just how I told the perky blonde pimpernel behind the scissors and a pair of gigantic diamond earrings that I wanted to keep it.“But every girl with your face and complexion wants this haircut,” the African-American version of Dolly Parton piped as she locked a papery black sheet around my neck, “and they all look absolutely gorgeous, too!”I told her thanks but no, thanks. Just ...
War. When it first started, all I heard was Beethoven’s 5th. Urgency. Terror. Climax after climax.But then it sunk in. It stayed and festered as families separated to march on alone. We were cursed to keep moving on while the air was saturated with Adagio for Strings. I watched my father leave in his uniform, his old gun clutched tightly in his calloused hands. My mother kept the house in the country, opening it for people to send their children to when the bombs came. I had a little sister and brother who stayed ...
Who am I? Who am I when no one is watching? Who am I, really? The question was always there, but this was the only place she would let herself think it. She was deep between a set of bookshelves filled with unread knowledge, under a high ceiling that allowed the imagination to soar, lit by impossibly tall windows and huge chandeliers. She loved it here. Books could make it feel like someone understood. She picked out an unabridged version of the classic Little Wom...
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