Short Stories

Our Short Story collection is organized from shortest to longest. They range in content and style, but are carefully curated. We hope you enjoy what you find!

The mirror had worn many faces in its existence. The first was the man who peered into it as he polished the glass, making sure it was ready for final production and finishing. He had a thick, red beard streaked with grey, and smiling blue eyes. Other faces came and went, but none looked at it as intently as that first man.

                After a wood exterior was placed around it, it was placed inside the men’s bathroom at a high-end restaurant. It sat above the marble sinks and stared at door. There, with water flicked onto its glass and soap smudging its picture, it reflected hundreds – thousands – of faces.

                It reflected the health inspector, inspecting the building to prepare it for opening. In the privacy of the bathroom, he whispered his personal opinion to himself. “I hope this place succeeds.”

                The owner, an older man with crow’s feet and a bulbous nose, came in shortly after. “We did it,” he said, leaning conspiratorially to the mirror. “We have our own restaurant, you old devil, you.” He laughed as he left, throwing a glance over his shoulder. As he swelled his chest with pride, the mirror made him look how he felt – victorious and ready to take on the world.

                Faces came and went. Most just washed their hands, checked their hair, then left. Others would lean close to the mirror and check their teeth for spots or blemishes. One or two would wink at themselves while wiggling their eyebrows and straightening their jackets.

                The mirror didn’t care for these faces. It wore them out of duty, but without any real pleasure or fulfilment. No, the mirror loved those faces that let down their guard in front of themselves. When the only other person in the room was their face, the mirror found people where more willing to show their true colors.

                Like the young man who came in, nervously playing with his tie. As he washed his hands, he whispered words of encouragement to himself. The mirror’s lips moved in perfect unison as he did. “You can do this,” he told himself. “Yeah.” He reached into the left inner pocket and his eyes went wide. “I know I had it,” he said, frantically patting himself. He let out a sigh as he touched the area of his right inner pocket. His friendly green eyes beaming with relief, he reached in and pulled out a small, dark box. He flipped it open and looked at the ring one last time, then lifted his eyes to meet his own. “I can do this,” he said.

                The mirror made him look more confident, more ready to take on the task at hand. He put the box back in its pocket, then let out a breath, relaxing his shoulders. He was obviously still nervous, but excited at the same time. He pushed out the door, and the mirror, if it a face of its own, would have smiled to itself.

                At least two or three times a year, the mirror witnessed that same action, or something similar. Every time, it made the man look more confident of themselves. And every time, they left with the same mix of nerves and self-assurance. The mirror very rarely knew the outcome, unless the cleaning crew were talking about it as they came through in the evening.

                But the mirror didn’t only crave the good times. Indeed, it liked the opportunity to see the darker side of emotions and do it’s best to raise people out of them.

                A man, dressed in a dark suit, came in and locked the door, then wilted, sagging against the sink. He turned the water, hanging his head and sobbing. He looked into the mirror with red-rimmed eyes. “I don’t know if I can do it,” he whispered. “Mom, I don’t know if I can do it.” He let out deep, shuddering breaths. “Ah, Mom. You loved this place.” He took a paper towel and wetted it, wiping his face with the lukewarm water.

                The mirror found itself only able to reflect. There was no way to encourage this man by making him look more confident. Instead, it just sat, a welcome ear to the man’s grief.

                “I don’t know what I’m going to do without you, Mom,” he said, continuing to take deep breaths. He loosed his dark green tie, allowing his neck to vent. He hung his head again, then threw a glance over his shoulder.

                Words were exchanged, but without seeing the man’s face, the mirror didn’t know what they were. He went and unlocked the door, revealing a heavyset man, also wearing a dark suit. The second man wrapped the first in a tight hug. The mirror could make out the words he was saying. “It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.”

                The first man released the hug, then returned and turned off the water. He straightened his tie and threw himself a look filled with resolve. The mirror strengthened that resolve, pushing a determined smile onto the corner of his lips. The man accepted it without question, then turned away.

                Other men, with angry eyes and nearly inarticulate grunts frightened the mirror, if it were able to be frightened. Even then, it tried as hard as it could to put peace in their eyes and their motions. Most, if not all, of them would take a deep breath at the end and turn to leave with at least a semblance of peace.

                At the end of the night, the automatic lights would turn off and the mirror would be left in the dark. It did not know how long night lasted – anytime the lights turned off was like night to it. It may have been months, it may have been years, but one day, short dark-haired woman came into the room. She had dark brown eyes, which were filled with ambition. “We’ll have to replace the mirrors,” she said. “They’re a bit old fashioned.”

                The mirror, if could be, was insulted. But it was also powerless to stop the new store manager from pulling the mirror off the wall and wrapping it in cloth. Like the night, the mirror did not know how long it was under wraps. A new face unwrapped it, with compassionate gold eyes. Dark brown hair with purple highlights framed her olive skin and wide grin. “You’re a beauty!” she said. At first, the mirror thought she was talking about herself, but then the woman continued. “Whoever got rid of you was an idiot.”

                The mirror was set up with other mirrors in the thrift store. Even more faces, with even more diversity, came through and looked in her. There was the tired mother with her three children that the mirror tried to make look more alert and less exhausted. There was the young couple, looking to furnish a house, who the mirror made look more mature, more level-headed. There was the homeless man from just outside who would use the mirrors to check his face, who the mirror didn’t know what to do with. It tried to encourage him, but he seemed to refuse it.

                One day, a man in his thirties walked up to the mirror. He chuckled when he saw it, the skin around his green eyes crinkling. He picked it off the shelf and bought it. The mirror saw his face one last time, just before he folded wrapping paper around it.

                It was unwrapped by a woman with luxurious blond hair and vibrant blue eyes. Her soft lips parted in a bit of surprise. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “It’ll go perfectly in the guest bedroom!”

                “There’s a bit more to this one,” the man said, standing over her shoulder. “October 1st, 1997, we walked into Smithson’s. When we left, we were engaged.” He kissed the top of her head. “This is the same style of mirror I encouraged myself in when I went to the bathroom. When I saw it,  I knew I had to get it. Happy Anniversary, my dear.”

                If the mirror had lips of its own, it would have smiled. Fortunately, the couple was smiling wide enough for it. It pressed the corner of their mouths, making them even happier.

                The mirror was installed in the guest bedroom, over an old hardwood dresser. It listened as the woman’s parents came and discussed their daughter and son-in-law. It watched as their son wandered into the room and began jumping on the bed – and watched the scolding that came after.

                As more children came, the same son was moved into the guest room. The mirror watched him suffer through algebra, his first break-up and attempting to learn how to drive. The room changed colors, the bed moved and replaced, but the mirror remained. Pictures and stick-it notes were placed, then taken down. The boy grew into a young man, and moved to college, and the mirror watched his mother come into his room and weep for the growing pains. 

                For four years, the mirror watched the young man leave, then return, then leave, then return, in what seemed an endless cycle. Near the end, he dressed in a suit, looking in the mirror with those vibrant blue eyes that he got from his mother. He took a small, black box from the top of the dresser and flipped it open, looking at the ring inside. Then he tucked it into his right inner pocket and smiled at himself. “I can do this,” he said, with a smile.

                Soon afterward, he packed all of his things from the room and did not return. The other children grew and left, and the room became a guest room once again. Occasionally, the mirror would see the once-young man, now with children of his own, come back to visit his parents. He and his wife would take his old room, which was now redone with a larger bed and fresh paint. Some days, they would laugh and talk. Other nights, there was a stony silence. Before they crawled underneath the covers, however, they would always work whatever it was out.

                Just like their parents, the grandchildren would sneak into the room to jump on the bed, or have pillow fights. Just like their parents, they were reprimanded. If it had a mouth, the mirror would have smiled lovingly at them.

                One day, the pillow fight got out of hand, as it so often did. One of the pillows launched across the room, hitting the mirror’s base. It wobbled, but did not get steady. It fell forward. The mirror saw the floor, and felt itself cracking as it landed.

                The mirror reflected the shoes of the kids’ grandmother, who rushed in to see what the noise was all about. She lifted the mirror to see the damage, concern and frustration evident on her face, then turned to her grandchildren. They sat silent on the bed before her, already knowing that they had done something incredible wrong. A granddaughter – the one with the cute button nose and soft brown eyes, pulled her thumb out of her mouth and said, “We’re sorry, Grammy! We didn’t think it was going to happen!”

                There was no glass across the floor, thankfully, but the mirror was cracked beyond repair. Everything it reflected had massive fractures in its picture. These gaps got wider as the cracks were taped up to ensure they didn’t crack further.  “It was such a nice one, too,” the grandmother said as she and her son took it to the roadside to be picked up.

                “Yeah, it was,” her son said, smiling at it. Even through the fractures, the mirror smiled back. “I’m sorry the kids broke it.”

                It’s okay, the mirror would have said, if it had a voice. You watched yourself grow up through me. I’m perfectly happen with everything I got to show you.

                Yes, the mirror had worn many faces in its existence. However, it decided, the most important face to wear was whatever face was in front of it. It realized now that it had no power to change how someone looked – but maybe, just maybe, it had the power to change how they perceived themselves.

                And, the mirror realized, changing their perception might be even more powerful than changing their appearance.  

                It was a day of celebration.

                A day of anticipation.

                A day, for me, of total and utter trepidation.

                For today was the day my grandfather, Grand Ruler of the Angor Empire, He Who Was Hailed as Mighty – the invincible and magnificent victor of numerous wars and campaigns, the uncounfoundable pontificator of a million philosophies and ideas – would abdicate his throne in my favor. He would descend from his throne for one last time, and I, in turn, would ascend to take his seat.

                I woke, if the end to a sleepless night could be considered ‘waking,’ to the sound of a rapping on my door. As I was roused out of bed by my attendants and assisted into my royal clothes, my mind flew back to an experience of which I had no memory, but which my mother had told me several times.

                With a cry, the little boy launches himself into the bed of his grandparents, landing on his Poppy’s stomach. The man sits upright, bellowing in unison. “Who goes there?” he shouts, grabbing his grandson and throwing him into the air. His wife opens an eye at the sound and smiles at the sight.

                “I’m coming to take your crown,” the little boy says, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “And you can’t stop me!”

                “Oh, can’t I?” his grandfather asks, swinging his legs out of bed and throwing the boy over his shoulder. “I’ll throw you in the jail, you little rotter.”

                Today, ‘jail’ was the massive closet that held the emperor’s clothing. With carefully firm motions, he swings his grandson into the mess of robes and coats. Then, smacking his hands at a job well done, he turns away, pretending it ignore the little boy sticking his head out of the clothing, still wearing the same grin.

                As sneakily as he can manage, the child runs out of the closet, his bare feet barely making a noise on the stone floor. When he reaches his grandfather, he raises his hand and spanks the older man, right on the bottom.

                His grandfather turns, his eyebrow raised in shock. The boy grins up at him.

                From her place in the bed, his grandmother burst out laughing.

                While I didn’t remember the experience, it was one of my favorite stories. My grandfather was mortified, while I was oblivious. My grandmother thought it was hilarious. I was reprimanded of course, and I never spanked him again. But now, as an adult, it was a distant memory of which we would often laugh about.

                My robes on and properly fitted, I left my rooms, trying to quell the nausea and worry that rose within me. I was expected to attend the breakfast banquet, but I wasn’t sure I could eat any more than a small plate.

                The entire world would soon rest upon my shoulders.

                Unlike my grandfather, I was not a man of war and rule. I was an academic, who had a lot of untested theories and hopeful dreams. I was not strong like him. I could not make the decisions that he could.

                “And you… just order men to their deaths?” I ask, confused. “How can you do that?”

                My grandfather’s face is careworn, but tough. “War is not a pleasant place to find yourself in. These men knew that there was a good chance they were not going to return from this fight.”

                “All of them died,” I reply, my temper rising. “I knew men in that division – they are all dead now!”

                “One of my closest friends led the charge,” my grandfather says. “He knew he would not be returning, but he ran valiantly anyway.”

                “But how can you do that?” I cry again. I was near tears, yet my grandfather still looked unfazed by the atrocity we had witnessed.

                “It was the only way to get around behind them,” he calmly explains. “We had no chance of capturing their cannons if they weren’t occupied by a frontal assault.”

                The words sound empty to my ears, and I laugh without humor. “That’s supposed to comfort me? That they died so the enemy could be attacked from behind?”

                “It was this or to watch the army march, unhalted, into our country and allow them to destroy everything we know and love,” my grandfather replied. “You will understand this someday.”

                “I don’t want to understand,” I spit. I turn on my heel and stalk away. Before I left the room, I throw over my shoulder, “I never want to understand you.”

                My grandfather says nothing, but as I leave, I could swear I saw his mask slip, if only for a second. A true expression of pain breaks through, tightening his jaw. Then it’s gone, and the hardness sets in again.

                I hadn’t understood that hardness until more recently. It was the wall that leaders set up to distance themselves from the burden and weight of their decisions that would otherwise crush them. Some form of it had been built up in my heart, but it was far from what my grandfather carried. I worried about what would happen if I were given command of a country at war.

                I sat through the breakfast feast with hardly a word, which was well enough – the folks I was seated near were talkative enough. No one had the gumption to even dare ask me what my thoughts or feelings on the day were. Which, again, was well enough.

                I was seated near my grandfather, naturally. He, too, did not say much. I surmised that he, too, was contemplating how I would rule the empire. After all, as much as you plan or consider, moments do not become reality until they are occurring.

                My grandfather gave me a smile over the table, and I’m struck again by his dark eyes.

                My father and I both shared those eyes.

                “What are you painting?” my grandfather asks, standing over my shoulder. After a measure of silence, he coughs. “Is that your father?”

                “Leave me alone!” I shout, lashing out and sending the easel tipping onto one leg. It totters, then tips over, crashing against the floor. The unfinished portrait of my father lays face up, an attempt on how I last remembered him: sitting on his charger, his hand on the hilt of his sword, preparing to lead an expedition into uncharted lands. The paint spills, creeping across the ground, but somehow, misses ruining the picture itself.

                I refuse to look at my grandfather, and instead keep my eyes on the half-formed features of the portrait.

                “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

                I say nothing. He knows how I feel. And I don’t want to be asked to change my burning emotions. I don’t want to be talked out of the cold fury.

                So, instead, I leave the room.

                I never touch the painting again.

                My father, the rightful heir to the throne, died while exploring uncharted lands on our southern border. My grandfather had requested him to go personally, and my father had no choice but to agree.

                But now I was fatherless, and next in line to become emperor.

                I didn’t hate my grandfather – I was more mature than that – but it had taken a long time to forgive him.

                I left the table, following the procession to the throne room. As my grandfather sat in the old, golden throne, I realized that the day, long awaited and feared, was happening. I took my seat in front of the crowd, seated next to my mother and grandmother.

                The Archduke stands, walking towards the throne. He bows, and my grandfather indicates for him to rise with his scepter. The ceremony has officially begun. 

                “Grand Ruler of the Angor Empire,” the Archduke intones gravely, turning to face the crowd. “We gather here on the morn of a new year to celebrate the years that you have graciously and judiciously ruled us. In turn, we gather to recognize the end of your time as Emperor, and welcome your grandson as the new Grand Ruler.” He paused, letting it sink in for a second. “Grand Ruler, is it still your wish to continue with this ceremony?”

                Even as the words leave his mouth, my grandfather is already responding, “It is my wish, Archduke.”

                “Then let us continue,” the Archduke says.

                “And what if I decide I don’t want the throne?” I ask. The question is not hot-headed or rebellious. It’s an honest request from an earnest heart.

                “We both know what will happen,” my grandfather says.

                We stand on the balcony of the palace, overlooking the capitol. The night air is cool, filled with the lights of the fireflies and stars.

                I take a deep breath, filling my lungs. “And why must you go, Grandfather?” I don’t call him Poppy anymore.

                “I am a man of blood-soaked hands,” my grandfather says quietly. “We need a man of peace ruling our empire.” More quietly, so that I can hardly hear him, he adds, “A man who is not afraid to mourn those he commands.”

                He puts a heavy hand on my shoulder. “I am old. And I am stuck in my ways. The world, though – the world is always new. You a ruler who can adapt to this new world. It is time, my son, to take your place.” He calls me his son – not attempting to replace his son with me, nor replace my father with him, but as a sign of affection. “And I have full confidence that you will rise to the occasion like no one else.”

                With shocking finality, the ceremony is finished. I was called to take my seat upon the throne, and with equal portions fear and excitement, I came to sit. As I lowered myself into the chair, I remembered all the times that, as a child, I was kept out of this room, for fear I would climb onto it.

                The scepter was given to me, a long piece of twisted silver. At the end, a dark crystal, in a rough cone shape that always reminded me of a pine tree, glistens. The Black Ice crystal was one of the most famous pieces of stone in our land. Even I, in line to the throne, had rarely seen it outside of this room. And now, I held it in my hands.

                The crowd cheered in front of me. In their faces, I could see the same mix of emotions that I felt in my heart. Sadness at losing the Grand Ruler. Excitement and fear at the new prospect. And, in all of them, the realization that, no matter what happens, the country will never be the same.

                As the ceremony ends, I am asked once again to rise. I followed the Archduke out to the same balcony my grandfather and I rested at only weeks before. There, I can see all of my people. They’ve traveled from all over the country to be here for this day.

                As I came into view, they began to cheer, just as the crowd inside did. I nodded graciously to them, smiling and waving. My grandfather, next to me, whispered, “See? The people love you.”

                Yes, perhaps, I thought. But you held their trust.

                Once the perfunctory congratulations and introductions are made, my grandfather grabbed my arm. “Come with me,” he said, guiding me away from the crowd and down a hallway.

                “Behind us is the throne,” my grandfather said. “It’s the public seat of power. But here,” he said, opening the door to his council chamber, “Is the true seat of power.”

                As I walked in, my mouth opened in surprise. It’s not the gold pineapple resting in the corner – though it was indeed majestic. Nor is the fearsome carved wolf crouching in the middle of the room, though it was also impressive.

                No, what filled my mind with such surprise was the painting hanging on the wall.

                It was unfinished, but it depicted a man in radiant armor sitting on a golden charger. The man’s hand touched the hilt of his sword, and even unfinished, he had an expression of surety above him.

                “This,” my grandfather said quietly, walking toward the painting, “is my most prized possession. There is nothing in this world that I value more. Except,” he said, turning, “for the one who painted it.” He looked around the room, taking it in for the last time. “This is yours now, my son,” he said. “Do with it what you will.”

                Then, without another word, he left, letting the door swing close behind him. The soft thud reminded me that I was alone now. The responsibility was on my shoulders.  

                I walked to the council table, and my eyes caught the mirror hanging on the wall. I turned toward it, and my grandfather’s words came back to my mind. “The mirror reflects you. It does not reflect me, or your father or anyone else. You, my son, are your own man. You are your own leader. I do not expect you to lead the way I did, or make the same decisions that I did. In fact, I might be disappointed if you did.

                “Be your own man, my son. And whatever happens, know that I love you, and will always stand by your side.”

                I stepped away from the mirror and turned back to the portrait of my father.

               It was the dawn of a new era. What better time was there to finish what I had started?