r/AmazingStories

Went on a blind date last week set up by a coworker. She said “trust me, just go.” He was older than anyone I’d normally match with — I almost cancelled twice.

We ended up talking for four hours. No games, no weird ego stuff, just… direct. He asked better questions than guys my age usually do. I left more confused about my “type” than when I walked in.
Anyone else had a date completely rewrite what they thought they wanted?

The harsh sun bitterly glares upon a dry, desolate landscape, long isolated from the touch of life.

A young woman rests in the sand, basking in the light above. Time passes silently.

Slowly, she raises a hand towards the gaze, blocking the rays from some of her drying, weary eyes. A slight burn soaks into her delicate, pale skin. She rotates her hand, studying her nascent revelation. A torn ribbon gently drifts in the wind, breezing into her fingers, netting around the tips.

Mouth parched, soul starved, she sits up, straightening her slumped back. The blood-soaked dust crumbles off her gown.

Wandering the wilderness, she spots something curious. She bends her knees and lifts a sun-bleached carabao skull sunk into the ground. With a subtle amusement, she raises her exotic companion upon her head, forming a justly Outré hat, as she friskily dances under the cosmic rays, amongst the withered tumbleweeds.

Feet red, lungs dry, she knows it's time to leave, if she can.

Knees worn, she eventually stumbles across a dilapidated vehicle, burned by its previous victors. Aside lay a row of shallow mounds garnished by a rusty spade.

Her soft smile grows under her mask, amidst the dire land.

A collection of rust-dusted cans gathers on the vehicle's rear, as she puckishly pelts small stones at her newfound targets.

Diminished, she relents, reclining against a lone powerline, bracing her drained spirit.

From a distance, a low, subtle growl trickles across the ground; the vibrations wick up her spine. Slowly, her dreary eyes open; her muted curiosity now aback, she raises her head towards the expanse.

A dark silhouette breaks the horizon, the tearing wind unmasking a decrepit highway beneath the neglected dust.

The smell of the fuel poises her mind, as the deep rumble fills her lungs, constricting every breath. She arises, her feet gliding over the searing ground.

The man slows to a stop, bike purring under his touch, face masked behind his screen.

The motorcycle clinks in the heat, the exhaust radiating whispers of smoke as the aged chrome glistens in the sun.

Walking close, her hands impishly tease the cracked leather of the side satchel as she greets the man facing ahead.

“Nice wings,” he says, not looking back.

“You too,” she replies, grinning at the emblem stitched on his tired jacket as her weak voice barely escapes under her breath. The meticulous appliqué catches her interest, layered above the cracked leathers of a young rogue wearing a story older than the clubs he's outlived.

“Getting on?”

She hesitantly distances herself.

“You can’t touch me,” she mutters.

“I'm not asking to.”

She smiles, straddling the back of the bratted chopper, fastening the carabao with the torn strand caught during her gaze. Her hands featherily grasp his waist.

His arms hang from his handles, not daring to slump, thumbs latched rigid over the grips.

His heel kicks up the stand and sets off. Her delicate hair gracefully wisps in the wind.

Eyes closed, back softened, she tenderly cracks her shoulders, extending her silky sails, catching the wind as they trail behind. The dust breezes off as frivolous as her worries.

An old town grows close, her saviour charging ahead.

The music of the road refills her spirit. The growl of the exhaust drains her sorrows. Her chin gently kisses his roughed shoulder.

Soon she will be able to fulfil her mission, her destination drawing near, her purpose slowly becoming clear.

 

Inspiration songs: Owls Eye by Ivri, Pandora by Wisp, Change (In the House of Flies) by Deftones, Everything I Do Is For You by Amira Elfeky

This is my first short story. Excuse the awkwardness of my experimental vocabulary, as I am learning how to articulate the unusual and unsettling vibe of the story.

..

Let's write a story. Each user gets one word. I will start by commenting on a word. User 1 replies to me with the 2nd word, User 2 replies with a 3rd word, and so on. If you end a sentence or need a comma, add it at the end of your word. It is a fantasy story. Let's go! :)

Some conversations disappear forever, if you’re lucky, the memories don’t…

A few years before my dad passed away, I started noticing little things.

Nothing dramatic. Just enough to remind me that our parents don’t stay the same forever.

My friend Scott is a photographer and filmmaker. He had created a beautiful tribute to his own father, and after watching it, I realized something.

Everyone has stories.

The problem is we usually don’t ask for them until it’s too late.

I asked Mom and Dad if they’d be willing to sit down for an interview. I wanted to capture their memories while they could still tell them. They both loved the idea.

I spent several days putting together a list of questions.

What was it like growing up?

How did they meet?

What was it like raising three boys on a farm?

What were the happiest years?

The hardest?

The list wasn’t really a script. It was simply there to get them thinking.

When the cameras started rolling, I abandoned it almost immediately.

Knowing the questions let me follow wherever the conversation naturally wanted to go. That’s always been easier for me than sticking to a script.

For nearly four hours they talked.

They told stories about growing up.

About getting married young.

About making ends meet when money was tight.

About life on the farm.

About surgeries, adventures, and raising three boys who couldn’t have been more different from one another.

They answered every question in incredible detail.

I learned things I’d never heard before.

Some stories made me laugh.

Others made me wonder why I’d waited so long to ask.

Near the end of the interview, I asked one question I almost skipped.

“If you could change anything about your lives, what would it be?”

Neither of them hesitated.

They both wished they had spent more time with us boys.

…

I remember sitting there, not really knowing how to respond.

As the oldest, that wasn’t how I remembered my childhood at all.

I was with Mom and Dad constantly.

I rode in the combine with Dad for hours.

I tagged along with Mom in the grain truck.

Every spring we went mushroom hunting together.

They were at nearly every sporting event I ever played.

They somehow found ways to take us on vacations even when there wasn’t much money to spare.

Dad taught me how to fix things because on a farm, if something broke, you figured it out.

Cars.

Fences.

Decks.

Whatever needed repairing.

When Mom wasn’t home, Dad taught us how to survive on what he proudly called milk toast. Looking back, it wasn’t exactly gourmet cooking, but someday I was going to have to feed myself.

One story I’d never heard was about a calf stranded on a small island during a winter flood. Dad waded through freezing, neck-deep water to bring it safely back to shore.

Mom taught us different lessons.

She taught us to read.

To express ourselves.

To balance a checkbook.

(I wasn’t exactly her star pupil on that one for quite a while.)

Between them they taught us how to work, solve problems, laugh at ourselves, and keep going when life didn’t cooperate.

Listening to them that day, I realized something I hadn’t understood before.

Children remember love differently than parents do.

I remembered all the moments they were there.

They remembered all the moments they wished they could have been there even more.

Years later, while Dad was going through chemotherapy, he said something remarkably similar.

If he could do it all over again, he’d spend more time with his family.

Funny how the people who give us the most often remember only what they couldn’t give.

When the interview was over, Scott handed me the hard drive.

I copied everything to my computer and imported it into Final Cut Pro so I could begin editing.

I thought importing the footage meant it had been safely backed up.

I was wrong.

About two weeks later the hard drive failed.

Everything was gone.

Four hours of stories.

Four hours of laughter.

Four hours of memories that could never be recreated.

I took the drive to a professional data recovery company hoping they could perform some kind of miracle.

They couldn’t.

Scott searched for another copy but didn’t find one.

He still has boxes of old hard drives in storage and every once in a while he’ll tell me he hasn’t given up looking.

Neither have I.

Maybe someday one of those old drives will spin to life and those four hours will come back.

I hope so.

But if they never do, I’m still grateful we had that afternoon.

Most families never stop long enough to ask the questions.

I did.

For four uninterrupted hours, I got to hear my parents tell the story of their lives in their own words.

The recording is gone.

The conversation isn’t.

I can still hear Dad laughing.

I can still picture Mom telling stories I’d never heard before.

I can still see the look on their faces after I asked what they would change.

No hard drive can erase that.

If the people you love are still here, ask them the questions.

Not tomorrow.

Not someday.

Today.

Because one day their stories may become more valuable than anything they leave behind.

Credit: John Hardy, creator of Reddit whyareyousadcom

Can you guys give an honest feedback on this? It's my first time writing and id like to know if y'all would keep reading this.

Kate

California 2018

Mary pushed open the tall white front doors, and the moment I stepped inside, I felt like I'd wandered into a California summer postcard.

The house was one of those charming old waterfront properties painted crisp white, with wraparound porches stretching toward the bay as if they were still waiting for a ship that never came home.

The salty scent of seaweed drifted in on the breeze, and somewhere in the distance I could hear the hollow clatter of shells tumbling with the tide. Right then, I knew coming here with her had been one of the best decisions I'd made in a long time.

"My brother gets here next week. He’s always hated this place," Mary said as she gave me a tour.

"Everything with my parents and all that."

She said it with the weary tone of someone who'd told the story too many times.

"You mentioned it before. I'm sorry their marriage fell apart."

Mary stopped in front of the last window. For a moment, she just stood there, staring at the horizon.

"It was probably for the best," she said eventually. "But Chris was the one who paid for it the most."

She flicked her hand through the air, like she could swat away the memory the way you'd brush off an annoying fly.

"Why?" I asked. "Did he want them to stay together?"

Mary let out a short laugh that held no amusement.

"No."

She turned toward me.

"He was the one who found out Dad was having an affair."

The silence that followed was swallowed by the sound of waves breaking outside.

"With one of his employees," she added.

I blinked.

"He was seventeen," Mary continued, her voice quieter now. "Picked up Dad's phone by accident. Saw the messages. Then carried that around for weeks before finally telling Mom."

I had no idea what to say.

Mary shrugged as if she were setting down a weight she'd carried for years.

"That's why he hates this place. This is where everything happened. This is where he keeps all the guilt."

She started walking again, her footsteps echoing across the wooden floorboards.

"But he still comes every summer."

"Why?"

"Because Mom asks him to."

I followed her in silence, trying to process the story.

Christopher.

"He won't mind me crashing your family vacation?"

"Of course not," Mary said quickly.

But there was something in her voice that made me pay attention.

"Although I already warned him to stay away from you."

I laughed.

"What does that even mean?"

She hesitated, her fingers tapping against the banister.

"Chris is... complicated. Intense. And he never really dates anyone."

She gave me a look I couldn't quite decipher.

"So I told him not to mess with your head."

"Mary..."

"It's just..." She sighed. "I honestly think you two would be ridiculously good together if he weren't such an asshole."

She laughed, but it sounded forced.

"Come on. Let me show you the bedrooms."

She led me upstairs.

By then, I was already curious about her brother, though I'd never admit it out loud.

Mary talked about her family all the time. One thing had always been clear to me: they were close.

There was her mother, a brilliant psychiatrist and one of the kindest women I'd ever met. I'd met her once when she visited Mary at college.

There was Christopher, the complicated older brother.

And Theodore, the youngest, who was still in high school.

"When does your mom get here?" I asked as Mary opened one of the bedroom doors.

"She isn't coming this year."

Mary shrugged, but a flicker of sadness crossed her face.

"She has a few complicated patients and doesn't want to be too far away if they need her."

The room was spacious, its windows overlooking the ocean.

"This one's yours," Mary said.

"Chris gets the room in the back. It's the only one he can stand."

After a week there, I noticed that every night the lights from the boats anchored in the bay shimmered across the water like fireflies trapped in liquid amber.

I fell in love with the way the wind whistled through the cracks in the windows after dark. There was something comforting about it. It helped me sleep.

And sleep had never come easily to me.

Maybe that was why I was such a good student. If I couldn't sleep, I studied.

I would do anything to keep my thoughts from wandering back to the pain. To the absence of my parents. To the nightmare of living with Uncle Victor for a while.

But that summer, everything changed.

Because of him.

Christopher arrived three days later than expected.

Mary introduced me as "a friend from college who needed company for the summer."

I was wearing a linen dress the color of wet sand—the kind of dress that seemed designed to dance with the wind.

When he looked at me with those dark brown eyes, it felt like he could see straight through me.

Like every layer I'd spent years building—the brilliant student, the strong girl, the survivor—had dissolved in seconds.

His hair was hazel-brown, lighter at the ends as though the sun had spent too much time kissing it.

When he stepped closer, I caught the scent of something warm and intoxicating.

Amber.

Black pepper.

Something darker underneath.

It wasn't cologne.

It was presence.

Something I wouldn't fully recognize until weeks later, when I was already standing too close to walk away.

The scent of a man who never asked permission.

"Do you always stare at people like that, or am I special?" I asked as I brushed past him in the kitchen holding a glass of red wine.

I never drank.

But Mary insisted.

And after a single glass, I already felt slightly weightless and definitely more talkative than I should've been.

He studied me for a moment, those brown eyes taking in every word I'd just said.

"I don't know."

His gaze lingered.

"Are you?"

His voice was rougher than I'd expected.

Like he was fighting something.

I laughed.

Low and soft.

As though he'd said something far funnier than he actually had.

"Everyone's special until proven otherwise."

I drummed my fingers against the marble countertop, mimicking the gesture he'd made minutes earlier.

"Your reputation around here already proved otherwise, Christopher Zalk."

Then I turned and headed upstairs without looking back.

But on the last step, I heard his voice.

Low.

Almost a murmur.

Like he was talking to himself.

"This one's going to be harder to resist."

A pause.

"Mary's gonna kill me."

I didn't sleep much that night.

Not because of the wind rattling the windows.

Because of him.

Because of the way he looked at me.

And because of how it made me feel.

Seen.

Exposed.

Alive.

The photograph has been sitting in a police cold file for over a decade. Nobody talks about what's in it. Not the detective who took it, not the marine biologist called in to identify the thing in the shallows. What I can tell you is this — it was standing in four feet of water at the far end of Harken Lake, tall and pale and absolutely still, and whoever first called it a heron had never looked at a heron in their life. Because herons don't have fingers. And whatever was standing in that lake had fingers. Long ones. And they were spread wide, like something that was keeping count.

Watch full story here and subscribe.

https://youtu.be/Krqtevf7\_Qs

Three teenagers. One Dodge K-car. One instructor questioning every life decision that brought him there…

When I was a sophomore in high school, driver’s education was still a real class.

Not a Saturday seminar.

Not a website.

Not a thirty-minute video followed by a multiple-choice quiz.

An actual semester-long class.

We sat in desks. We studied the Nebraska Driver Manual. We drew intersections on the blackboard. We talked about right-of-way rules, blind spots, speed limits, and everything else required to keep teenagers from accidentally turning themselves into hood ornaments.

The class was taught by Coach Andrews.

Everybody liked Coach.

He had the rare ability to be both a teacher and a human being at the same time.

If you worked hard, paid attention, treated people decently, and stayed out of trouble, he liked you.

If you played sports, he liked you even more.

The classroom portion was straightforward enough.

The fun came later.

Driving.

Back then, after completing the classroom work, students were split into summer driving groups. Each group spent three days with the instructor, rotating through every driving situation imaginable.

Highway driving.

City driving.

Dirt roads.

Parking.

Parallel parking.

Emergency stops.

Everything.

There was one thing I noticed immediately.

There was a distinct difference between the farm kids and the city kids.

Not all city kids, of course.

Some were excellent drivers.

But farm kids generally had a head start.

By the time I took driver’s education, I had already spent years driving things that probably required more responsibility than a Dodge sedan.

I had operated tractors.

Pickups.

Farm equipment.

I was even getting experience around airplanes.

A car wasn’t particularly intimidating.

My driving group ended up being me, Chris, Joni, and Coach Andrews.

We rode around in what I remember as an ugly blue Dodge K-car.

It looked like somebody had designed a cardboard box and then decided to put wheels on it.

Chris was a city kid, but he was good.

Very good.

The only thing Coach ever got after either of us for was speeding.

Apparently, speed limits were not suggestions.

Who knew?

Coach would constantly remind us to slow down.

I tried to behave.

Chris, however, drove like he was auditioning for Days of Thunder. Coach was constantly reminding him that this was driver’s education, not qualifying at Daytona.

Fortunately, we never crossed paths with a county sheriff. I’m not sure Coach wanted to explain why a driver’s education car was leading traffic.

The interesting member of our group was Joni.

At the time, I simply assumed she was nervous.

A couple of years ago, nearly forty years after those driving lessons, something she posted online reminded me of the experience.

We got to talking.

That’s when she admitted something.

Driver’s education had been the first time she had ever driven a car.

Ever.

Suddenly every memory from those three days made perfect sense.

The first clue should have been our trip toward Herman.

We were cruising down the highway at normal speed.

Back then, the speed limit approaching town stepped down gradually.

Fifty-five.

Then forty-five.

Then thirty-five.

Then twenty-five.

Pretty simple.

Most drivers understand the concept.

As we approached town, we sailed past the 45 mph sign doing roughly 62.

We passed the 35 mph sign doing about 60.

Coach began calmly reminding Joni to slow down.

No response.

The car continued charging toward town.

Coach became less calm.

“Joni, get on the brake.”

Still nothing.

The speedometer barely moved.

Chris and I exchanged glances.

Coach repeated himself.

More urgently this time.

The 25 mph zone was approaching rapidly.

Joni appeared to be conducting an experiment to determine whether speed limits were merely decorative.

Finally, about a hundred yards before town, Coach intervened.

The car suddenly slowed.

Chris and I looked at each other in surprise.

Neither of us knew Coach had a brake pedal on his side.

Turns out he did.

And thank goodness for that.

Disaster avoided.

Lesson delivered.

Brake pedal identified.

Then came Blair.

More specifically, parallel parking.

To be fair, none of us were very good at it.

Most adults still aren’t.

But Coach patiently walked each student through the process.

Pull alongside the vehicle.

Back up.

Turn the wheel.

Straighten out.

Watch your mirrors.

Simple.

In theory.

When Joni’s turn arrived, I noticed Coach seemed a little more tense than usual.

Looking back, I’m surprised those three days didn’t turn his hair gray. If they did, we were probably watching it happen in real time.

Coach guided her into position.

Parallel with the parked car.

Perfect.

“Now back up and turn the wheel.”

Perfect.

“So far so good.”

Then came the next instruction.

“Watch the car behind you.”

A moment later we felt it.

BUMPER CHECK.

Not hard enough to damage anything.

Just enough to announce our arrival.

Chris and I immediately started laughing.

Coach remained remarkably professional.

He continued the lesson.

Now pull forward and center yourself in the parking space.

What I hadn’t mentioned was that Joni was pretty short.

Seeing over the steering wheel was already an adventure.

Judging the distance to the car in front of us was even harder.

She eased forward.

Everything seemed fine.

Then—

BUMPER CHECK.

Again.

Chris and I completely lost it.

Coach sat quietly for a moment.

A very long moment.

Then he calmly instructed Joni to put the car in park and turn off the ignition.

Class was apparently over.

Chris took the wheel.

We headed back to Tekamah.

At a speed Coach considered acceptable and Chris considered a personal attack.

The funny thing is that Joni turned out just fine.

She’s had a driver’s license for decades.

She’s raised a family.

She’s navigated thousands of miles of roads.

And we’re still friends.

What makes me laugh now isn’t the bumper checks or the missed speed limits.

It’s realizing how different our starting lines were.

To me, driving felt normal.

To Chris, it felt exciting.

To Joni, it felt terrifying.

We were all taking the same class, sitting in the same car, listening to the same instructor.

Yet we were having three completely different experiences.

That’s true for more than driving.

The thing that feels easy to you may be the thing someone else is desperately trying to figure out.

The thing you take for granted may be the thing keeping another person awake at night.

Sometimes a little patience matters more than skill.

And sometimes the person laughing in the back seat eventually discovers they had a lot more in common with the nervous driver than they realized.

Credit: John Hardy, creator of Reddit whyareyousadcom

hey guys, I'm Alexira! a new upcoming Sci-fi Fantasy book writer (odd mix Ik) writing a book with a subplot of romance and a fiery new feisty female MC whose a bit stupid:). Writing this to hopefully get some base readers before starting to upload. Is any artist willing to help me make a cover for my book? Also if you guys have any name suggestions, do write it down below! tytytytyty. Book's first chapter (a few aldready banked out chapters sitting in my drafts...) is coming out on 30th June !!! Pls do follow @ alexirasalvoris on WATTPAD for more updates!