Eggshells

In the heart of a messy kitchen, a daughter and mother find laughter, love, and a second chance.

I’m standing in the fluorescent-lit kitchen of my mother’s apartment, staring at a frying pan that’s seen better decades. The clock on the wall, a souvenir from a Florida gas station, says 7:12, but it’s been stuck there for months. The only sound is the slow drip of the tap—plink, plink, plink—into a mug that says “World’s Okayest Mom.” She hates that mug, but she keeps it anyway.

Mom’s at the table, peeling a hard-boiled egg with the concentration of a surgeon. She’s wearing her blue bathrobe, the one with the missing belt, and humming something tuneless. I wonder if she even notices she’s doing it.

“Did you sleep?” I ask, not because I care about the answer, but because silence feels dangerous.

She shrugs, bits of shell scattering. “I dreamt the neighbor’s dog was in the fridge. Kept barking at the lettuce.”

I almost laugh, but I’m not sure if it’s a joke. I open the fridge and stare at the wilted romaine, the half-empty jar of olives, the Tupperware graveyard. No dog.

My phone buzzes—a text from my sister:

“Any news?”

I don’t answer. I’m not the messenger today.

Mom looks up, eyes sharp. “You’re not eating.”

“I’m not hungry.”

She snorts. “You never are, these days.”

She’s right, but I don’t say so. Instead, I ask, “Did you call Dr. Patel?”

She peels another egg. “Why? So he can tell me I’m old? I already know.”

I want to say, “Because you forgot the stove on again,” but I don’t. Instead, I watch her line up the eggs in a neat row, like tiny, white soldiers. She’s always been precise—except when she isn’t.

The phone buzzes again.

“Should I come by?”

I type, “Not yet.” Then I delete it.

Mom’s humming gets louder. She glances at the clock, as if it might suddenly tell the right time. “Did you ever fix that thing?”

I shake my head. “It’s vintage. Adds character.”

She almost smiles, then sighs. “Everything’s vintage if you wait long enough.”

I sit across from her, picking at a crack in the table’s laminate. “I can stay tonight, if you want.”

She shrugs, not meeting my eyes. “You’ve got your own life.”

I want to say, “Not really,” but instead I ask, “Want to play cards?”

She nods, finally, and I pull the battered deck from the junk drawer. The first card I flip is the queen of hearts, creased and coffee-stained. She grins—really grins—and for a second, I see her as she was, not as she is.

The tap keeps dripping. The clock keeps lying. The eggshells pile up.

We play in silence, and for once, it feels enough.

The next morning, I wake to the smell of burnt toast and the sound of Mom swearing softly at the toaster. Sunlight creeps through the kitchen blinds, striping the linoleum floor like a barcode. I pull on yesterday’s sweater and shuffle in, half-expecting to see her in her blue robe, but she’s dressed—jeans and a faded T-shirt from a 1992 fun run she never attended.

“Morning,” she says, waving a blackened slice of bread like a flag of surrender. “This thing’s a menace.”

I grin. “You say that every time.”

She shrugs, then gestures at the table. “Sit. I made coffee. It’s… probably drinkable.”

The coffee is strong enough to peel paint, but I sip it anyway. She sits across from me, arms folded, eyes flicking to the window where a squirrel is attempting acrobatics on the bird feeder.

“Your sister called,” she says, not quite meeting my gaze. “She wants to come by.”

I brace myself. “Yeah?”

“She said she’s bringing someone.”

I wait, but she doesn’t elaborate. Instead, she pushes a small envelope across the table. My name is written in her careful, looping script.

“What’s this?”

She shrugs, suddenly shy. “Open it.”

Inside is a photograph—me and Mom, both of us younger, standing in front of the world’s ugliest snowman. My cheeks are red, her scarf is crooked, and we’re both laughing, mouths wide open. On the back, in her handwriting: “We were happy. We still can be.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Where did you—?”

“Found it in the junk drawer. With the cards.” She looks at me, really looks. “I want to try. You know, remembering the good stuff. Not just the mess.”

Before I can answer, the doorbell rings. Mom jumps up, smoothing her hair. “That’ll be them.”

I follow her to the door, heart thumping. My sister stands there, holding a cardboard box. Next to her is a man in scrubs—Dr. Patel, looking sheepish.

“Hi, Mom,” my sister says, stepping inside. “We brought you something.”

Dr. Patel lifts the box. Inside is a tiny, scruffy dog with ears too big for its head. It yips, tail wagging furiously.

Mom’s mouth drops open. “What—?”

My sister grins. “He needed a home. And you need someone to keep you on your toes.”

The dog wriggles free and races into the kitchen, nearly knocking over the coffee mugs. Mom laughs, a real, belly-deep laugh I haven’t heard in years.

Dr. Patel smiles. “He’s house-trained. Mostly.”

Mom kneels, letting the dog lick her face. “What’s his name?”

My sister glances at me, then back at Mom. “We thought you should pick.”

Mom looks at the dog, then at us. “How about Lucky?”

The dog barks, as if in agreement.

We all burst out laughing. For a moment, the kitchen is full—of sunlight, of voices, of hope. The eggshells are gone, replaced by paw prints and the promise of something new.

And for the first time in a long time, I believe we really might be okay.

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Thank you!

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This short story was generated using perplexity.ai. (99% AI)

Prompt: What lessons did we learn from writing yesterday’s story? What would be an even better way to generate a very human-looking short story? Give actionable advice.

Absolutely—let’s break down the lessons from the rewritten story and take them further with actionable advice for crafting even more “human-looking” short stories.

Lessons Learned from the Rewritten Story

1. Specific, Sensory Detail Adds Authenticity

The story uses concrete details (the bench’s initials, the gum wrapper, the scent of peppermint, the apple) to ground the reader in a real, lived-in world.

2. Characters Have Quirks and Contradictions

Mrs. Langley’s dislike of peppermints, her apple-eating, and her reluctance to hand over the letters add depth and unpredictability.

Mara’s mix of laughter and sadness, her avoidance of texts, and her uncertain feelings about forgiveness all feel genuine.

3. Dialogue Feels Natural and Revealing

Characters talk about things that don’t just serve the plot (the bench’s history, peppermint candies, beets recipe), mirroring real conversation.

4. Themes Are Shown, Not Told

Forgiveness, legacy, and connection emerge through action and implication, not direct explanation.

5. Unforeseen Twists and Humor

The “beets recipe” and the child’s drawing provide surprise and levity, making the emotional journey less predictable and more memorable.

How to Make Short Stories Even More “Human”

1. Draw from Real Life—Yours or Others’

Action: Keep a journal of overheard conversations, odd sights, or personal memories. Incorporate these into your stories for unique flavor.

Tip: Use a real, unresolved feeling or question as the story’s emotional core.

2. Embrace Imperfection and Messiness

Action: Let your characters make mistakes, contradict themselves, or leave things unsaid. Avoid neat resolutions.

Tip: End with ambiguity or a lingering question, as life rarely ties up perfectly.

3. Write Dialogue That Wanders

Action: Allow characters to talk about tangential topics, interrupt each other, or misunderstand. Don’t edit out all the “unnecessary” lines.

Tip: Read your dialogue aloud—if it sounds too tidy, loosen it up.

4. Include “Unnecessary” Details

Action: Add a detail that doesn’t serve the plot but reveals character or atmosphere (e.g., a character’s odd habit, a peculiar smell, a local superstition).

Tip: Let these details sometimes become important later, but not always.

5. Use Subtle, Layered Emotions

Action: Show characters feeling two things at once (relief and guilt, joy and anxiety). Let emotions shift unexpectedly.

Tip: Use body language and small actions to reveal feeling (fidgeting, staring at hands, biting a lip).

6. Mine the Power of Subtext

Action: Let what’s unsaid be as important as what’s said. Let characters avoid topics, change the subject, or use humor to deflect.

Tip: Ask yourself what each character wants to say but can’t.

7. Break Patterns and Surprise Yourself

Action: When you sense your story is following a familiar arc, deliberately introduce a left turn—a new character, a random event, a sudden memory.

Tip: Write a scene where the character does the opposite of what you’d expect.

Summary Table

Humanizing Tactic How to Apply It

Real-life inspiration Journal, observe, adapt real moments

Messy, ambiguous endings Leave questions unanswered, avoid neat closure

Tangential, imperfect dialogue Write “wasted” lines, allow interruptions

Unnecessary but revealing detail Add quirks, habits, local color

Layered emotions Show emotional contradiction, subtlety

Subtext and avoidance Let silence and avoidance speak volumes

Pattern-breaking Surprise yourself and your characters

In short:

The more you allow for specificity, contradiction, and surprise—while resisting the urge to tidy everything up—the more your stories will pulse with authentic, unmistakable humanity.

Prompt: Use all of these tips now, as we need another, wholly different, short story [part 1]. Come up with something grounded in reality, not necessarily fiction.

Prompt: Using the same tips, write a believable sequel [part 2] of 500 words that includes an unexpected twist, as well as a happy ending.