ChromedOutCortex

Shucks... thank you so much! Truly appreciate that. 💕

You are so right... we only have so much time, we should learn to make the most of it.

The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the warmth, the kind that wraps around you, sinks into your skin, and makes you forget the cold edges of the world outside. The second thing was Jon. As I lie there, the quiet of the night settling around us, I realize just how much I enjoyed the time I spent with Jon. It wasn’t just the physical connection, it wasn’t even the first time I’d shared something like that with someone. But there was something different about being with him. Something

Hey Peter - Thanks for pointing that out. I usually re-read several times before posting and I must have missed that. My apologies. 😞

Late in the evening, my phone buzzes, the soft glow of the screen cutting through the dim living room. It’s a text from Jon. Hey Jim—hope Alex’s lesson went well. I’ll follow up with the instructor to see how things went. I sit up straighter, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Jon. Just seeing his name makes me pause, but I shake it off and type a quick reply: Thanks for the note, Jon. Yeah, it went well. He was a bit disappointed, but in the end, everything worked out. I hit

Hi @riccardo - Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts and for taking the time to read the story, especially during such a difficult time. I’m deeply sorry for your loss, and I can only imagine how challenging it must be to navigate grief while finding moments of comfort. Please take care of yourself. 💕

I thought about it... but the restaurant mentioned, MeeT is actually a real place (eatmeet.ca). I ate there when I was in Vancouver, BC - great food! Hope it's OK to post their URL.

Finally, Friday night. That meant I’d be picking up Alex early Saturday morning. I was excited to see him. I always looked forward to our weekends together—especially after our last one. I pulled up to the house and noticed Alex sitting on the front step, his backpack slung over one shoulder and another bag beside him. As I stopped, Alex got up and walked over to the passenger side of the car, opened the door, tossed his bags into the backseat, and settled into the front. “Hey, bud,” I

Saturday rolls around, and without Alex this weekend, I decide to take Jon up on his offer for the running clinic. It’s been years since I’ve done something like this, and honestly, getting some feedback on my form might not be a bad idea. I hop into my car and drive over to Jon’s office. A few cars are already parked out front, and as I step out and head toward the entrance, I catch a glimpse of a couple of people chatting inside. I push open the door and step in, taking in the clean, prof

I met Teddy at Andy’s party. I didn’t want to go, I was exhausted from school, job hunting, and a recent breakup that left me feeling stupid for thinking we’d be together forever. But Andy showed up at my place and insisted. “You’ve been holed up here for weeks,” he said, his usual easy smile replaced by a look of concern. “You need this.” Reluctantly, I went. And I’m glad I did. The party was just getting started when we arrived. Andy’s apartment was filled with familiar faces, frien

“Taking Teddy Home” follows Carter on a cross-Canada journey to fulfill a promise to his late husband, Teddy. Along the way, memories of their love, struggles, and dreams unfold. A chance encounter with a kind stranger in Newfoundland brings Carter closer to letting go, as he prepares to scatter Teddy’s ashes in the Atlantic—a final act of love and closure.

As I drive home, a smile rests on my face. This had been a good weekend with Alex. He opened up in ways I hadn’t expected, and it felt good—like we were at the beginning of something new. This was something I could follow through with, instead of just jumping in and out of his life from time to time. Once I parked the car, I thought it would be nice to celebrate this small win. There’s a neighborhood pub not far from my apartment, so I decided to walk. Besides, if I’m going to drink, I don’

Hey @Summerabbacat - You are correct, there is a bit of an age gap between both brothers. 💕

As we get into the apartment, Alex heads straight for the living room and flops onto the couch, grabbing the remote and turning on the TV. I take his swimming clothes and toss it into the washer, the sharp smell of chlorine still lingering in the air. Once the laundry’s going, I join him, sinking into the recliner across from him. He flips through the channels aimlessly, landing on some random movie neither of us is interested in. I’m about to ask him if everything’s okay when he breaks the

Thank you for the kind words. 💕

Thank you all for the comments - I really struggled with this one, especially naming it. While I'm not religious, I know that many are and was really worried about the title of the story -- but I'm glad that nobody has found it offensive. 💕

The thought lingers there, like an itch I can’t scratch: marriage. My parents have talked about it often enough—my mom dropping hints about a nice girl at church, my dad always asking when I plan on settling down. And I’ve heard it, too—how being married is supposed to make you whole, how it’s part of the plan, part of the path that God set for me. A woman, a family, that’s what I’m supposed to do. But then I think about it—really think about it—and the idea repulses me. How can I marry som

In His Image is a short, introspective story about Ronald, a young man in his mid-20s, struggling with his faith, identity, and feelings for a male co-worker, Chris. Raised in a conservative religious family, Ronald faces confusion and shame as he grapples with his desires and beliefs. As his friendship with Chris deepens, he experiences a pivotal moment of emotional and physical intimacy, marking the start of his self-acceptance. The story ends with Ronald’s breakthrough, leaving the outcome open-ended for readers to imagine.

Sitting alone in the apartment, I can hear everything. The hum of the fridge as it kicks on, then off again. A faint drip-drip-drip echoes from the leaky faucet in the kitchen—I should get that fixed. I hear the neighbors’ children above, their feet pattering across the floor. It’s not the silence that gets to me; it’s the noise. The emptiness behind every sound. I used to love the chaos of family life—the laughter, the noise of Alex and Keith running through the house. I remember Cammie ca

After a long period of emotional distance and self-reflection, Jim, a middle-aged man recovering from a divorce, is learning how to navigate life and fatherhood. When he meets Jon, a younger, confident man with whom he shares a mutual interest in fitness and running, Jim feels a spark he hasn’t felt in years. What begins as a casual friendship soon develops into something more, but Jim’s hesitations and fears about his age, his past, and his responsibilities as a father complicate his emotions.

Michael suffered so much near the end. He never complained about the pain, never cursed his fate; instead, he poured his last bit of strength into making peace with his past. Although they had talked in the park, his final wish was to see Sarah one last time, but she never came, and neither did his children or anyone else from his old life. It broke my heart to watch him fade without them by his side. He told me not to call his parents, and as painful as it was, I kept my promise. When he f

I took Sarah and Roger to the park. Michael was sitting alone on a bench, his posture hunched. David stood a few feet away, watching the interaction with a mix of anticipation and concern. Roger and I lingered further back, giving Sarah the space she seemed to need. As Sarah approached the bench, she hesitated, standing there for what felt like an eternity. I wondered what emotions were coursing through her mind—anger, sadness, confusion, or perhaps a lingering spark of the past. Would she

I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. Michael—after twenty years—had the nerve to come back, asking for forgiveness, as if all the damage he did to Sarah and Ryan could just vanish. The muscles in my neck clenched as I thought about what he had done to Ryan–to all of us. But it wasn’t even the apology that hit me the hardest. It was the way he said it. Like this was some grand, last-minute attempt to fix everything before it was too late. So now, after all this time, he thought he c

Neither of us said much on the drive over—we just held hands, quietly bracing ourselves for whatever we might hear. The hospital loomed ahead like an unspoken threat, its white walls suddenly colder and more foreboding than before. In the doctor’s office, the lights felt too bright, and the ticking of a wall clock seemed deafening. Dr. Willis took a seat across from us, opened a file, and exhaled slowly. “Michael, the MRI shows a malignant tumor in your brain.” The words hit me li

Seriously, @LJCC and @Headstall and @BendtedWreath - thank you for your feedback! @BendtedWreath - you are right, I also find when I try to "mix" different POVs in the same chapter, even I get confused and I'm writing the damn thing! It is much easier moving those thoughts into their own chapter, if it makes sense and there is enough to put it into its own chapter. I think I understand - I'm mostly self taught (no real writing classes) and I suppose I still have a lot to learn and more to read. So if I understand correctly, since I'm writing the story from dad's POV he would have no access to his sons' thoughts. Like IRL, I wouldn't know what my kid is thinking when I say something, I can only surmise what he might be thinking based on his actions (or inaction), body language (stiffness/rigid) or facial expressions (eye roll, smirk, side eye). So rather than Alex thinking something, I would need to write it as what dad thinks is going on based on what he sees/hears/perceives. So something like this would make more sense, and not confuse the reader as this would be dad assuming what is going on in son's mind based on what he observes: I watch Alex as he scrolls through his phone, not really looking at me. I keep trying to make conversation, asking him about school, swimming, anything to break the silence, but all I get are short answers. It's like talking to a brick wall. It’s been this way for a while now—distant, cold. He wasn’t always like this. There was a time when he’d tell me everything, when we’d talk for hours about everything and nothing. Now? Now, I’m lucky if I can get more than a one-word reply. It stings, but I don’t know how to fix it. Maybe it’s just too much for him. Maybe he doesn’t know how to be around me anymore. I can see it in his eyes, the way he avoids mine. I try again, this time about swimming, something I thought might get him talking. But it’s the same. “Yeah, it’s good,” he says, looking out the window. There’s no real enthusiasm, no spark. I don’t know what to do anymore. I can’t help but wonder if I’m doing something wrong. I try to tell myself it’s just the way things are now, that he’s adjusting, that it’ll get better with time. But there’s a part of me that knows, deep down, that things aren’t the same. They can’t be. Not after everything that happened. The gap between us feels like it’s widening every time I try to close it. Every time I push, he pulls away. I see it, I feel it. And I don’t know how to fix something that feels this broken. Gonna spend more time before I push this story out, but from what little I've read (and it is 4:00am now LOL) it feels like third person limited is a little "colder" (perhaps that's not the right word) than first person. Lots to think about!