Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Confessions.
There is a list.
There’s a list. On a crinkled white page, set on a clip board on the old dresser in the kitchen. My list. One of them. My life is set against lists now. Lists of friends on online groups cheering me on. Lists of food I can have and one’s I can’t. Lists of phone calls, appointments, schedules in diaries, pockets, purses. Sometimes I wake at night and wonder if I’ve forgotten to add the right thing to one of them. Have I forgotten a list, somewhere? Does it need my tending? The kind of tending my old life used to have but now is buried under the changes, under the pages.
By Lys Lily Wild5 years ago in Confessions
You Didn’t Know
I didn’t think what we were doing was wrong. I knew crawling under the motion-detecting hallway light to avoid waking up my sister sleeping in the living room was wrong. I knew getting into your car a few houses down was wrong. And when my sister asked if I took the dog out in the middle of the night because she saw a shadow on the patio, I should’ve said yes. Instead, I panicked and convinced her she saw a ghost.
By Ali Lornklang5 years ago in Confessions
Close Encounters of the Beach Kind
I boarded the ferry and sat with my friend as fellow hotel guests shuffled on behind us. We sat and waited for the quick ride across the bay to begin. A day in the sun took a toll on my Irish complexion and all I could imagine was laying down on my cool mattress with the A.C. buzzing overhead, lulling me to sleep.
By Spenser5 years ago in Confessions
Glass of life
Sometimes we can feel when we make mistakes. In my case - I always know that what I’m about to do is a complete mistake, but I still do it. I have a strong intuition and I had it for as long as I existed but I never used it. It’s just silly to always have the answer but to never answer the right way. That’s why feeling wrong, after having the pure chance to be happy with no mistakes in life, left me with the bothering feeling of guilt. Nothing really helped getting rid of this feeling. OK, maybe wine does, but only temporarily.
By Bilyana Dimitrova5 years ago in Confessions
Glass of life
Sometimes we can feel when we make mistakes. In my case - I always know that what I’m about to do is a complete mistake, but I still do it. I have a strong intuition and I had it for as long as I existed but I never used it. It’s just silly to always have the answer but to never answer the right way. That’s why feeling wrong, after having the pure chance to be happy with no mistakes in life, left me with the bothering feeling of guilt. Nothing really helped getting rid of this feeling. OK, maybe wine does, but only temporarily.
By Bilyana Dimitrova5 years ago in Confessions
Merlot and Morality
I haven't been in a bar alone in a long time. Who am I kidding? I have never been in a bar alone. I am not even sure what to order. I just saw a movie about wine, and it seems that Merlot was mentioned, but I don't think it was mentioned as THE wine to order. I am sure red is appropriate, and since Merlot is the only name I can remember and can pronounce correctly. Merlot it is.
By Lizz Chambers5 years ago in Confessions
Abbey’s Tub
Abbey’s Jacuzzi The first time Abbey masturbated, at least inentionally, she told me she was 12 years old. I have to use the word, “intentionally” because as we sat naked in my hottub after our first session of jacuzzi fore play, sipping wine, Abbey had decided to open up to me. Granted we were not perfect strangers when we decided to go naked into the hot tub and watch the sunset on a warm Florida evening, but we had not yet been intimate.
By John Charles Harman5 years ago in Confessions
One embarrassing moment to remember
As far as purely embarrassing goes, I think back to youth soccer and a truly bone headed moment comes to memory. In case you didn't know the term bone headed is a description of neanderthalic thinking or lack of thought. A bit of caveman simplicity of thought that lacks much thought involved. It comes from pterodactyl who had a large femur-like bone sticking up from their head. I played soccer as a kid and enjoyed the exercise. The fresh air, the sunshine, the field of play. I began playing soccer when I was four or five years old. I was an Aztec. We had bright yellow and white uniforms and I loved being an Aztec. I loved my uniform and it even sort of matched my bright blonde hair. I even bought an Aztec calendar necklace on a school trip to a science museum in grade school. I played soccer in the town league for many years but I began transitioning to football in seventh grade. I played football for our high school but still played soccer for the town at the same time. A lot of times I would go directly from football practice to soccer practice and in eighth grade it was still the same. One sunny afternoon, in soccer, I dribbled the ball toward the corner just outside the goalie box. I had my head down a bit watching the movement of the ball as I drove it past some of the other players. When I looked up I had broken into the clear and I paused their in the open with the ball but now several players were rushing toward me and the space was getting smaller. As they were closing the distance rapidly, I searched for my teammates couldn't see any of them, so, without much thought, I did what made so much sense to me to keep the ball safe right then. I simply bent down and picked it up. As soon as I stood entirely upright again I dropped the ball before the referees whistle even blew. As the ball was falling the whistle blew and I was already turned back up field walking away. Everyone was speechless just watching me in my wide-eyed retreat. I walked up to the sideline and right off the field. I said, "Coach, someone needs to go in for me. I think I was thinking in football terms. Maybe coming here right after football practice isn't going to work anymore. That is just embarrassing. What was I going to run it into the goal past the goalie for a touchdown? I gonna take a break." He just laughed a little bit and said "What were you thinking of football?" And I said, "Yes, I think so." I'll never forget that. You can pretty much use every part of your body in soccer just not your hands. There is inadvertent handball where the ball accidentally strikes your hand but I went out of my way to take the time to bend down and just pick it up in both hands. I was not mentally with it on that play. There is no handball more obvious than that. So in my confusion I stayed on the sidelines for awhile lost in thought. I had played soccer since I was like four or five years old. The most important "no-no, never" that you are taught is just don't use your hands unless you are the goalie. To think of it now, it was all of those things but also I had some new family members as well. In eight grade I had a one year old niece and a new born nephew, so, all in all I don't think my thinking was out of line considering precious cargo, to keep those new little additions safe but on the soccer field you aren't going to get very far if you are breaking a rule as fundamental as just don't use your hands. Soccer is made to use your feet that's why Europeans and the world outside the United States call it football. There's a lesson in that somewhere otherwise it is just a purely unthinking moment of the most obvious hand ball there might have ever been in Soccer.
By James M. Piehl5 years ago in Confessions
Abbey’s Tub
Somehow this was duplicated.
By John Charles Harman5 years ago in Confessions
La petite anglaise
This is a true story. All names have been changed. La petite anglaise. The little Englishwoman. Truth is, I’m not exactly petite. Or feminine. Or elegant. I’m a tall, big-boned, big-footed Englishwoman of hardy peasant stock, prone to bouts of clumsiness, both physical and verbal. But that’s what they called me, la petite anglaise, during the dreamy summer of 1991 when I worked in a hotel, high up in the French Alps. I was 20 years old, good at French and, despite my big-boned clumsiness, reasonably attractive and reasonably slim, considering the number of croissants I wolfed down every morning with a large bowl of strong coffee. Attractive enough at least to catch the eye of Stéphane, the 19-year-old sous-chef. Tall and wiry with a mop of dark hair, he was a clown in the kitchen, always teasing me and the other girls and playing pranks on us. I knew he had a girlfriend back home in Lyon, but that certainly didn’t stop him flirting. It was only a bit of fun, after all. A summer fling before I returned to university in the cold, autumnal North of England. I hadn’t had a boyfriend for a while and I’d been having the time of my life that year in France – travelling, making friends, drinking and partying like there was no tomorrow, far from the reproving looks of my family back home.
By Lola Finch5 years ago in Confessions
