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Discover weekly, the best short stories

Looking for a steady supply of happy short stories? Every week thousands of writers submit stories to our writing contest.

150+ Happy Short Stories to read

Submitted by writers on Reedsy Prompts to our weekly writing contest. A good story doesn’t need a devastating twist. Nor does it have to plumb the darkest depths of the human conditions. These happy short stories might be exactly what you’re looking for in these uncertain times.

Happy Short Stories – Page 8 of 10

Down By the River

Weekly Contest #324

Down By the River A river has long been like a living creature to me, ever since I was a child. It moves constantly, changing over time, deeper and wider in rain, more shallow and thinner in long periods of dry weather. I grew up in the countryside, far from town and distant from school, driven to and from the place by one of my parents whose turn it was. I never had friends come over to my house, and I lived too far from schoolmates to visit them when school was out. But I could visit my river friend every day. I told it my secret joys ...

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Gwen's Memories

Weekly Contest #324

WARNING: THIS STORY CONTAINS CONTENT RELATED TO MEMORY LOSS, SUICIDE and FAMILY DEATH.-------------------------------------------------The wind came first—cool and salted, curling around Gwen’s face like a memory. She stood barefoot on the worn cliffside, toes gripping the edge where land surrendered to the sea. In front of her she watched, through black curls of hair dancing accross her face, as the waves folded over themselves, endless and indifferent.She had watched this ocean every summer since she was a child. Back then, it had seemed l...

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The Last Light of Ravello

Weekly Contest #324

The terrace of Palazzo Avino glowed in the late-afternoon sun, the pink façade reflecting across the silverware and glass like rose-tinted fire. Below, the Tyrrhenian Sea stretched endlessly, the color of old sapphire, fractured by sunlight and the far-off hum of boats carving through it.Courtney rested her arms on the white-stone balustrade where she and her husband had once lingered over seafood risotto and lemon cake years ago. The same table was still there — linen crisp, flowers freshly clipped, the scent of sea salt mingling with citru...

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The beach

Weekly Contest #324

The salt air kissed my face as I leaned back in the worn plastic chair—the kind that had seen better days, possibly at a yard sale or an ill-fated picnic that ended with ants mounting a hostile takeover. This chair, with its faded turquoise hue, had likely supported countless sunburned sunbathers and crabby beachgoers too tired to move but somehow compelled to listen to nature’s greatest hits: waves crashing and seagulls squawking. Each creak of the chair echoed tales of sandcastle victories and frequent escapes from reality, reminding me t...

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Still Waters Run Deep

Weekly Contest #324

Sensitive content: miscarriage Tom isn't a bad husband.He's dependable, consistent, and uncomplicated. He's generous with his time and attention. We do a lot together. I have an album by my bedside table. It's only a kraft paper scrapbook, tied with a yellow satin ribbon, but it's full: smiling photos, glued grains of sand, pressed flowers, plane and train and cinema and museum tickets, post-it notes peeled off the fridge, hotel brochures too small for all the tender memories they carry, and a lot of words. I copy down the text messages I do...

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Overlooking

Weekly Contest #324

As I stood here, looking out over the break of the ocean, I turned and I viewed the river that ran into it. I paused. As I stepped back, I could cast my view upon both. It was a wonderful rage to behold. And I found myself remembering standing here with my grandfather. And then my father. And a few other uncles which we will not discuss here. LOL.At my age now it is my turn to reminisce. As I feel the ocean mist drop over me and smell the salts that are contained within it, I felt a sense of Accomplishment. And in the sense, It was not only ...

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Oscar

Weekly Contest #323

Oscar was the embodiment of precision. Words like meticulous or fastidious barely scratched the surface. For him, being called difficult was the highest praise, a badge of honor earned by demanding perfection. Beneath his relentless pursuit of order, a quiet ache lingered, a hollow space he tried to fill with control. Each morning, he moved through his ritual with the focus of someone defusing a nuclear warhead. Disturb his process, and chaos would surely follow. First, the coffee cherries. Not beans!“Coffee plants grow fruit,” he would alwa...

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His Girl

Weekly Contest #322

He stood unwavering on the side of the road, several paces away from the rest of the family. His pose was relaxed, his gaze fixed on the street in front of him. Observing. Counting. Waiting. Checking his watch for what felt like the hundredth time that morning, he noted the hour: 8:52 am. He looked up to see a stream of athletes race past him in a rainbow of colors, all of them pushing the limits of their stamina. It was an extraordinary sight to behold. The sweat between brows, the open mouth breathing, and the grit of determination on thei...

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the crazy clothing store

Weekly Contest #321

Sam groaned as his wife excitedly pulled him into the clothing store. He dreaded these shopping trips with her – the endless aisles and racks of clothing seemed to stretch on for miles. It always took hours, his feet aching from following her around as she sifted through each item with meticulous care. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting an artificial glow on everything. He longed for the comfort of his couch at home, where he could relax and watch TV instead of being dragged through store after stores, they had to go to every si...

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The Prenatal Memoirs of Sir Banjo Barkley the Third

Weekly Contest #321

The Prenatal Memoirs of Sir Banjo Barkley the Third I am Sir Banjo Barkley the Third, heir to the noble lineage of Barkley’s, destined to be the most glorious puppy ever to grace the linoleum floors of 25B Twain Street. I am currently residing in the womb of Lady Barkarella Barkley, my mother, who is – how shall I put this delicately? – a bit of a drama queen with a penchant for chewing antique furniture and barking at existential threats like vacuum cleaners.Now, I know what you’re thinking: “How can an unborn puppy narrate his own story?” ...

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She Loves Me

Weekly Contest #321

SHE LOVES ME I bought the dog at a pub in the Camden Road. An old man with a cloth cap and a fag in the corner of his mouth sat down beside me with a pint of beer.He said “You look like a good judge, what you think of this animal?”The mutt sat down beside the bench and looked up at the old man with a quizzical look as if she didn’t believe what she was hearing.“I can see you’ve got taste Sir” the old rogue went on, “and a dog like this could save you a lot of money.”“Oh yes? How come?”“Well, you see, she is trained to hunt truffles and she’s...

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Cuffs, Croquembouche, and Chaos

Weekly Contest #321

Alex: Do you remember that night we ended up in jail for something we didn’t even do?Jordan: Don't remind me. I don’t think my back has ever forgiven me for those steel benches.Alex: And the smell. Like stale coffee and mildew had a baby.Jordan: You sure it wasn’t the undigested Brillat-Savarin?Alex: You know I can never pass up a French triple cream, but still, it wasn’t all bad.Jordan: You’re joking.Alex: No, really. It was… weirdly fun.Jordan: Fun? We were accused of grand larceny and interrogated for two hours.Alex: Accused wrongly, of c...

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The Dreams Left Behind

Weekly Contest #320

I woke to a canopy of trees and twinkling leaves and the memories I held most dear. I wished they could’ve been real. I shivered in the cool morning air, wearing only my Giselle costume, light and airy with the long flowing skirt, point shoes laced perfectly up my legs. The night before, I had twirled on stage, the Prima Ballerina in a production of Giselle. How I loved to be her and float like a ghost across the stage, weightlessly lifted by my partner, spinning balanced on the tips of my toes. I woke to that all crumbled away, as if ripp...

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Lost in the Memories

Weekly Contest #320

The path narrowed until it disappeared.Ella hadn’t meant to wander so far, but the forest had a way of pulling her deeper with its moss-covered stones and whispering leaves. She turned to retrace her steps, only to realize the trail behind her had vanished, swallowed by brambles and shadows.Panic pressed at her chest, but then she noticed it—an oak tree wider than a cottage, its roots curling like the arms of an old guardian. In its trunk, hidden beneath a curtain of ivy, was a door no taller than her shoulders. Its wood was dark, veined wit...

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Silvermoss

Weekly Contest #320

“Mum, Mum, get up! It’s championsday,” the young mouse screeched,as she ruffledher mother’s tiny pillow, demandingher out of bed.“Morning then, Missy,” The greyer and much less bouncy mouse yawned as her duvet was pulledaway from her. “Look, Mum. It’s snowed!It’s snowed! It’s snowed!” Missy beamed, glaringout the tiny window, examiningthe newly paintedSilvermoss forest.Missy and her motherlived in a small woven hut, no bigger than a picnicbasket. However, it had more space...

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RBE | Illustrated Short Stories | 2024-06

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