Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Confessions.
The Unlit Ballroom
The weight of it, Jesus, it was a physical thing. Sat across from her at the kitchen table, the fluorescent light above humming, buzzing, too bright for this hour. For this moment. It bleached the color from everything, made Eleanor’s face look stark, tired. My hands, clammy things, were clamped tight under the table, knuckles white. Stomach twisted in knots, a fist clenching around something sharp, something metallic. Been practicing the words for weeks. Whispered them into the bathroom mirror, into the empty air of my car on the way to work, into the deep, unforgiving night. Never sounded right. Always too small, too flimsy for the chasm they had to cross. My tongue felt thick, a slug in my mouth.
By HAADI29 days ago in Confessions
Now Be Thankful
Introduction The inspiration for this was the Fairport Convention song, and while I feel we should be thankful for things in our lives, we should not just accept the bare minimum in things, but we should always be part of what makes things better for us.
By Mike Singleton đź’ś Mikeydred 29 days ago in Confessions
The Silent Resonance. AI-Generated.
The story follows Elias, a world-renowned violinist who has lost his "spark." Despite his technical perfection, his music feels hollow. He meets Zoya, a woman who lives life with a quiet, fierce devotion to everything she does—not out of duty, but out of love. Through her, he learns that technique without soul is just noise.
By Zahid Hussain29 days ago in Confessions
The Stain of Blue
The rain came down in sheets, a cold, relentless drum solo on the city's concrete stage. It wasn't a gentle drizzle; this was the kind that soaked through your jacket in minutes, clung to your eyelashes, and made every neon sign bleed into the slick, black puddles. I walked slow, head down, the hood of my worn-out sweatshirt doing little to keep the chill from my neck. Each puddle was a shattered mirror, reflecting the lurid greens of the liquor store, the frantic reds of the Chinese takeout, the electric blues of the strip club called 'Heaven' that was anything but.
By HAADI30 days ago in Confessions
The Power of Being Heard
In a world overflowing with opinions, updates, notifications, and endless streams of content, the idea of being heard can feel both simple and impossibly complex. We speak more than ever—through social media posts, voice notes, comments, emails, and messages—yet many people feel deeply unheard. The paradox of modern communication is this: despite having countless platforms to express ourselves, true listening has become rare. The power of being heard, therefore, is not just about speaking louder or more often; it is about meaningful recognition, validation, and connection.
By Aiman Shahidabout a month ago in Confessions
The Grand Accident of Absolutely Nothing
Nobody knew exactly when the problem began, mostly because nobody was paying attention. This was normal for the town of Blunderfield, where attention was considered a dangerous hobby and thinking too hard could result in mild confusion or, worse, responsibility.
By Gaurav Guptaabout a month ago in Confessions
The Shard Below
The cold seeps into my bones quicker these days. Not just the ocean cold, though God knows there's plenty of that down at six hundred feet. No, this cold is older, colder. It's in the marrow, a reminder of what I saw, what I did, what I *didn't* do. I'm too old for this, my hands shaking even before I clip the lines, but I keep coming back. Gotta keep coming back.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Confessions
We Were Pulled from the Dark: Voices of Titanic Survivors
They say memory is the quietest kind of thunder — it rolls and rolls until it becomes the only sound you can hear. The men and women who were pulled aboard the Carpathia that April morning carried that thunder tucked under their coats: the shock of icy water, the weight of someone lost, the small, stubborn warmth of a blanket.
By Sorea Cataabout a month ago in Confessions
Confession from cell 217
Confession from Cell 217: A true story I am writing this from a concrete room no bigger than a parking space. The walls are gray, scratched with the marks of people who came before me and thought they would leave sooner than they did. The light above my head never turns off completely. Even at night, it hums softly, like it’s watching.
By Sorea Cataabout a month ago in Confessions
