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The Last Orange Balloon

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  In a hushed town between hills and memory lived an old balloon vendor called Ravi. Every morning he would sit beside the iron gate of the park with his wooden chest of colorful balloons attached to delicate strings. Children loved him, but it was not just the balloons that won their hearts, it was the tales he murmured with each hue. A small girl called Tara rushed to him one windy afternoon with wide-opened eyes and flushed cheeks. "Can I have the orange one, please?" she requested. Ravi smiled. "Why orange?" "Because it resembles the sun. today, the sun is being kind to us." He gave it to her carefully. "Grasp it firmly. It could try to take flight." She skipped away with a chuckle, the balloon trailing behind her like a tiny sunset on a string. That night, Ravi failed to turn up at his customary location. Nor the following day. Or the following one. Word traveled quietly throughout the town. Ravi, the balloon man, had died in...

The Whispering Canvas

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  Elin resided in a crooked, creaking cottage on the outskirts of the village of Elderglow, where the gales whistled lullabies and flowers changed color to reflect the mood. She was not talked about for her, but for her paintings. Her paintings glimmered softly, as if they were half-whispering something beyond range to the human ear. Children would occasionally push their ears against her completed paintings and report that they heard laughter, music, and even secrets from the stars. But Elin heard absolutely nothing. Never from her paintings, never from the world. She painted daily, not for acclaim, but simply because it was the one way she was seen. Her fingers seemed to dance by habit, painting where she'd never traveled, faces she'd never met, and skies that were not her own. As the night poured over her studio, infusing it with pale silver from the moon, Elin was seized by an inexplicable tug in her chest — as if memory was struggling to be born. She picked up her ...

Mocha Magic

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  At the centre of a sleepy little town stood The Enchanted Mug—a strange little cafe where latte art sometimes winked at you in a knowing glance. The regulars knew the secret: this café was ever so slightly magical and completely and utterly unrepeatable. Juno, a perpetually curious barista who sported a streak of teal hair, enforced a single rule: Never order the "Mocha of Misunderstandings" unless Mercury is in retrograde. Enter Leo—flustered charming and devastated. He collapsed onto a window seat, grasping a paperback copy of Love, literally . Juno came over with a smile and a menu rimmed faintly with glitter. "I'll take… whatever will correct this," Leo sighed melodramatically. Juno looked up at the sky. Mercury wasn't in retrograde. However, her cat the unofficial café manager meowed and knocked the recipe card for the” Mocha of Misunderstandings “off the shelf. “Well,” she whispered, “close enough.” Soon enough, the drink appeared—heart-s...

"The Lavender Realm"

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  Elowen always sensed she did not fit in in the actual world. Whilst the rest were hurrying through traffic, frantically scrolling through their phones, and ticking off lists, Elowen strolled through antique bookshops, whispered at flowers, and fantasized about cities without clocks. One night spent lying awake with a blanket wrapped around her and a novel in her hands, she whispered to the night skies, "Take me somewhere I belong." The stars obeyed The next day, she awoke not in her small flat but in a velvet cloud bed. The atmosphere was scented with sugared roses and honey wind. As she emerged outdoors, she gasped. Lavender painted the sky above. Silver and pink leaves glimmered on the trees. Waistcoats adorned rabbits. Butterflies sang lullabies. The sun yawned and blinked like a sleepy cat. She landed in the Lavender Realm. People painted rainbows for a living here, danced on weekends with dragons, and made cupcakes that sang you a compliment as you ate th...

“Two Teas and a Pause”

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  Every Sunday at 4:00 p.m. sharp, Mrs. Krishna would open her balcony door, place two cups of tea on the wooden table, and sit in the chair closest to the sun. The second chair was always empty. Her neighbors had stopped asking who the second cup was few years ago. Some assumed it was her late husband. Others thought it was a habit too comforting to break. But Mrs. Krishna knew better. It was for Thara — the girl who used to live upstairs. Ten years ago, when Thara was just twelve and her parents were always busy, she’d sneak down to Mrs. Krishna’s house. At first it was for her biscuits. Then it was for the silence. Eventually, it was for the stories. She would sit cross-legged on the floor, sipping sweet chai, listening to tales of her youth — how she once played Juliet in a college play, how she loved gardening, and how the smell of first rain made her cry. “Why don’t you ever sit in the second chair? “She once asked. “Because it’s yours,” she had smiled. Then o...

Welcome to Pocket Storytime: Your Daily Dose of Short Stories

  Hey there! I’m Swathi, and I’m thrilled to welcome you to Pocket Storytime — a cozy little corner of the internet where stories fit right into your pocket. Whether you have five minutes on your commute, a short break, or just want a quick escape, this blog is here to bring you modern, engaging short stories that spark your imagination. Why Pocket Storytime? Because life’s busy, but great stories don’t have to wait. Here, you’ll find fresh tales across genres — from heartwarming moments to thrilling twists, and everything in between. My goal is to give you bite-sized stories that you can enjoy anytime, anywhere. Expect new stories every week , and feel free to join the conversation by leaving comments or sharing your thoughts. Don’t forget to subscribe so you never miss a story! Thank you for stopping by — let’s dive into the world of stories together. Happy reading! Swathi