Short Story Sunday is a library site showcasing a range of original, innovative and beautifully written short stories sent in from published and unpublished authors around the globe.
In June 2015 Short Story Sunday went on hiatus with a pause on the publishing of new stories. Previously private ‘members-only’ stories were also set public.
You can browse the full list of short stories featured on this site here.
For those looking for a good place to start you could try the below stories:
Short Story Sunday has been created and edited by Lydia Andal
Susan walked up the stairs as she exited the metro. One of her earphones fell out and she bent a little to grab it. Adele’s latest song was sneaking out as the earphone went back into her ear. She walked a little further and there it lay, right at the foot of the flight of steps; this old raggedy looking, dust laden overcoat. She stared at it for a few moments and then quite unknowingly, yet naturally, bent down to pick it up. As she made her way up, she felt it to be slightly weighty. She looked around to see if someone had dropped it, but other than a stream of people rushing up and down the stairs in front of her, she couldn’t see any claimants. She saw that she was already late for class and thus decided to hold on to it. She threw it over her shoulder and briskly walked up the escalator.
He thought she was a rock. Smothered in seaweed, motionless, her skin encrusted with salt. But then she moved, and he leapt back so fast that he fell over and landed on the sand, which was not as soft and accommodating as you might think.
She uncurled herself, her hair a tangled web of darkness, twisted with mermaid’s necklace and several pale starfish. Her face was darkened by sun and reddened by wind. She was tiny, a waif of a thing, with kelp wrapped around her body like a second skin, and she reeked of rotting weed. She looked like an urchin, a waif.
She hissed at him, baring tiny white teeth like oyster shells. Behind her, the sea breathed softly and rhythmically, whispering to itself, vast and impenetrable.
Ben drew back, but he didn’t run. He was seven years old, and he was not afraid of anything. (Except the dark, and climbing frames, and flying beetles.) He stared at her, and she watched him with dark eyes, lustrous and deep as the ocean. He glanced around. His mum was a long way down the beach, hand in hand with her boyfriend Darren, following the lacy edge of surf and leaning down to pick up a shell or a piece of crusty pumice. There was nobody else. The sun had nearly dipped below the horizon; the sea was glowing with that strange fiery light that comes when there are stormclouds looming, and the sky was streaked with gold and pink like candyfloss.
A little man made from one rod of wire, standing no more than eight inches, stood motionless on a high shelf. He shrugged off his stiffness and walked to the edge of the shelf to look across the studio. Strewn with drawing and painting utensils, it was chaotic clutter uplifted by striking watercolours and pastel pictures lying here and there.
The artist had left for lunch and the sound of the door locking signalled relaxation time for the wire man and his colleagues. Paper mache figures sprung to life on the worktop; two of them played sword fencing with paint brushes while the other three played tag. A dog made entirely of paper-clips, snatched a nearby glove puppet in its jaws and shook its head wildly, paper clips rattling while the glove puppet wriggled, annoyed and dizzy…again. The clay thinker just sat, thinking, looking. Being the first one made, the wire man had known each one since they were first put together.
William Andrew Morris, 78, of White Butte died Thursday night Nov. 8, 2009.
Graveside services to be held Saturday Nov. 11 at 2pm in Cliffside Cemetery.
Known to friends as “Wild Bill”, William was born August 16, 1931 in Clarksville, VA. Parents, William Jackson Morris and Betty Claire Ringwald, owned a small bakery where William worked as a youth and gained a love for the family trade. From 1949 to 1953 William served in the Army where he met Linda Whitfield. The two married in 1953 before moving to White Butte. William and Linda opened Wild Bill’s Bakery in 1954 where he served as head baker and Linda kept the accounting. Into retirement William continued to work part-time at his Bakery.
Survivors include daughter, Janette Mitchell; and two grandchildren, Samuel and Jeremy.
Sam Harrison read the obituary on Friday November 9th. Sam’s mother was hesitant about letting her son read the short script, preferring he stick to more uplifting material. “Wouldn’t you rather read the funnies, Sam? How did you even find out what an obit is anyway?” She asked him. Sam knew what an obituary was. He had stumbled across the two-page section of the White Butte Democrat one day about a year earlier in the leafy pile of pages his father had discarded in his search for the classified and sports sections. Sam enjoyed reading the “funnies” on Sunday morning when they were in color, but the weekday paper’s stale gray and white failed to pique his attention. The pictures of old people in the obituary section, however, fascinated him. He rarely read the actual pieces, preferring simply to imagine their lives in his head. He had read them at first, but found their sterile facts and summaries of life uninspiring – much like the gray and white funnies. In his imagination he filled in the details of those gray-white faces or even made up entirely new lives for them: valiant soldiers, movie stars, or even ancient wizards and knights on his more fanciful days.
I began to let myself slip into a commuting coma. Alongside the hundreds of other disengaged members of the public, I was consumed into the screen of my iPhone. Sure, an iPhone is interesting, it’s bloody interesting. Just yesterday I downloaded an app which tells me all the stars that surround me, I navigate it to the North, it tells me what constellations are above me. I navigate to the East, I still struggle to understand how space is EVERYWHERE, and it will tell me that there are some stars in the shape of an animal – amazing.
So I became disengaged from my phone, just like I just became disengaged from my story. It seriously takes me a millisecond to have my mind switch elsewhere. I disengaged, and the first thing I noticed was lots of lines. LINES.
Lines are a funny thing, perhaps it isn’t even worth calling them ‘a thing’. Some connect, some disjoin other things, some stand alone, they are in everything, but until it was a dull Wednesday morning on a Greater Anglia train, I never noticed them.
Fay tried to be honest. She thought of saying:
“No Sonya, the girl sounds dreadful. Just because she’s driven you mad, I don’t see why I should be driven mad too.” She really believed that life would be better if everyone was honest. She thought of saying:
“I do a lot of favours for you, Sonya. This one is going too far.” Or even:
“I’m rather offended that you think I’ve got nothing better to do.”
She pressed the telephone to her ear, and made a stern face at herself in the hall mirror, but her voice came out in a whine.
“But I don’t even speak French. Only schoolgirl. It’ll be dreadfully old fashioned.” Sonya laughed. A great, gurgling laugh that sounded to Fay, as if Sonya was relieved. As if Fay had already agreed to take the girl on.
“You needn’t worry about that, Fay. She never says a word.”
And indeed, Fay was already leafing through her diary. “We could have her Monday, I suppose. But only if Isobel’s free.” She tried to make it clear from the tone of her voice that she was not smiling as she spoke. “ You know what teenagers are like. Isobel may have plans that she hasn’t deigned to tell me, and I don’t think I could manage this on my own.”
So she agreed to spend a day with Sonya’s French student. It was bad enough last year, with Isobel’s French exchange. All the gesturing, the nervous laughter round the bathroom in the morning and her ill disguised distaste for English suppers. There was no scope for honesty with someone foreign in the house.