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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 $250!
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...
I love the sound of fresh snow crunching under my feet. The way the cold smells, the way the wind bites my face, the way Rosie (my dog) smiles at me… what is there to not love about taking winter walks? Every time I go, I wonder why I don’t go more often. My foot catches on a disguised root, and I land awkwardly, smashing face first into the wet white stuff. Spitting out snow from my mouth, I scramble back up to my feet. Continuing on! Braving the elements with my val...
“Great job with the play, Keri! You planning on doing one next year too?” I laughed, packing a garbage bag with dropped costumes, broken props, and my narrator’s script, then climbed down the stage steps. “I don’t know, Susan. These kids…” I mimed pulling my hair out of my head. Susan smiled with all her “pastor’s wife” grace. “I thought you did very well.” “Thanks. Where are you going for the countdown tonight?” “We’re ...
It was a frosty night when two weary soldiers stopped in the middle of a narrow, rutted lane leading deep into the Pennsylvania woods. The night was still, the bitter wind having died down and the tree branches frozen into stillness by the ice that hung from their limbs. Just beyond a little wicket gate stood a small brown house nestled in the rural county. Past thinly-curtained windows glowed the golden home light that both instantly moved towards without a word to one another. It had been a hard year; no words were necessary to ...
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