Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Confessions.
Turns Out I'm a Little Bent
A visit to the eye doctor had me laughing! I was there for yet another type of eye test. This is the fourth or fifth visit. I've lost track, the doctor just can't figure out what is wrong with my eye. The lovely technician looking at photos of the veins in my eyes says,
By Carolyn F. Chryst5 years ago in Confessions
Was I Dating a Narcissist?
A year ago, i was crying in my bed one day,it had been many days since i was crying at night, the reason was i haven't talked to my boyfriend since one week. We had a fight and we both kind of broke up, but i was missing him very badly. I was stopping myself from contacting him and thought it was not my fault and i should wait for few more days. A week passed like this and i didn't received a call or message from him. But i couldn't resist myself and called him up.
By Being she Blogs5 years ago in Confessions
My Boss Fell in Love With Me and Laid Me Off
Regret made me goofy. Sorrow gave me an enigmatic flavor. I was out of heart The existence of conscience makes the claws of regret sharp. And the stronger one, the deeper the other can penetrate a sensitive flesh. The depressing influence of this feeling creates the sensation of a jail in a living body. This emotion casts a grim look on life. The damp atmosphere that regret creates is suffocating. We need to learn how to dispel the smog from the past and at the same time to keep our hearts from being dried up.
By Olya Aman5 years ago in Confessions
I Am Not Her Negro
This was the scene. I had just watched the movie “I Am Not Your Negro” at the AMC Forum in Montreal. I quite liked it; many of the clips used to trace important moments in the life of the writer James Baldwin were material I had seen online or on TV programs too far back in my youth to forget them. What surprised me the most was the general premise of the movie: Baldwin intended to write a book based on the lives of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, and Medgar Evers. He knew all three men. He understood what they represented for black America and how they were molded and formed by their relationship to white America. And he saw that all three men wanted the same things: respect, opportunities, and hope for themselves, their communities, and their families. Those dreams would not always be granted in their lives, but it was earned in their deaths and the legacies they left to be discussed and debated. The moments when Baldwin’s own responses to their losses are shared by Samuel L. Jackson are very moving; some of the most powerful moments in the film have no visible action on the screen except his voice repeating Baldwin’s own deep feelings. And because of these moments, I considered the film a true success. The audience seemed to feel that way, too, although I could not measure all of the individual opinions next to mine. It was a movie I had to watch without being conscious of any after-credits discussion about its merits, problems, and what it was all meant. I never thought about what it meant. I thought about how I felt. I thought about James Baldwin. I thought that I had to see it again.
By Kendall Defoe 5 years ago in Confessions
Sunergy
I started working here in April 2018. I was hired as an inspection tech for $20/hourly. I thought this was great given my install and inspection experience. On day 1 I already found myself butting heads with my “supervisor” (not my hiring manager). This girl would add additional calls to my schedule with no knowledge or care of what jobs truly needed. She only demanded miracles out of me as she would say: “it HAS to be done today!”
By Blake Edward5 years ago in Confessions
My Inner Writer
I hate the word productive. It was the word my mom used to tell me she was disappointed in my choices. “I wasn’t using my time in a productive manner” or “You should learn to knit, because that would be more productive,” she would say. And so, I have a constant need to feel like I have spent my time wisely and a fear of wasting my time; fear of procrastinating or vegging out, yet I cringe and feel a visceral hatred when I think about being productive. Which is where creative writing, poetry, short stories, and epic DND campaigns, come into play. Writing allows my mind to be free, to wonder, and to create in a way that I feel is productive, without actively thinking I am trying to be so. I didn’t realize writing was such an outlet, until after graduating high school, then it stopped feeling like homework.
By Katherine MacKie5 years ago in Confessions
Coming Out of the Closet as a Naturist
For long enough, I could remember, I wasn't really self-conscious about my body until I reach the age of 30. I was the keep-fit type throughout my youth, going to the gym and generally happy with the body I had. I wasn't the show-off type at the gym, flexing muscles in the mirror as a female walks by.
By Paul-Anthony5 years ago in Confessions
I didn't Know This Wasn't My Diary P.S. Trauma
I've decided because I'm camera shy with performance anxiety that Youtube is NOT for me, but I do have a story time. I was in college when I first met Damien. My roommate encourage me to try dating sites after a really bad breakup, so I picked my poison; TINDER. I had a spree, the first guy I invited was a senior football player who had a gross kiss and when I told him that I was a freshman he said "Welcome to WIU" and gave me another wet sloppy kiss. I was not very happy when I escorted him out of my dorm room.
By Dominique Brewer5 years ago in Confessions
"To Planet Earth and Back"
"It's a UFO!" My mother's face would awash with an inaccessibly distant, childlike glow when she made these revelations. She would only be pointing to an airplane or shooting star, but I would never risk losing the mysticism on her face by telling her that. Those moments watching her observe the stars were the most fond to me, the most likely to cause choked tears to slide down my face upon recollection. I can't articulate what that look meant to me without breaking down into a sobbing mess, my computer screen turning into a spaghettio-soup of jumbled letters, like the kind she used to feed me when we were flat broke. Anyone who was lucky enough to see her expression while looking at the stars knows what I'm talking about - the strong woman that's allowed herself to be vulnerable only to the stars. Her ability to (or perhaps her need to) get so excited over unknowable things in the face of her own 'unknown'.
By Emily Jackson5 years ago in Confessions
Dušica for SOUL
I was in my freshman year at the University. I majored in theater but this was my first film audition ever. I inhaled deeply, I walked into the room knowing I’m animated and big, probably too big for the excruciating eye of the camera and spotted the director, who reminded me of a hamster, with his full cheeks. I plopped on the chair and just felt grateful that I was able to be in the room. That I was invited. I took another deep breath and listened carefully. The director approached waving his hands uncontrollably, I could see he was nervous too. “The story is about a young couple. They’re in love, and they just had a baby. I don’t want to reveal too much but the baby at the end… Well, it's not a happy ending.”
By Tjasa 5 years ago in Confessions
