The healing effects of stories

Tom D · 2026-01-13T21:09:40-0600

Reading stories can be more than just entertainment — it can be a form of healing. Some stories carry within them the ability to soothe, inspire, and restore. They remind us we are not alone, and they offer new perspectives that can ease emotional burdens.

Writing, too, is therapeutic. Putting words on paper allows us to process experiences, release emotions, and discover meaning in what we’ve lived. It is both expression and reflection, and through it, healing can emerge.

Tom D · 2026-01-13T21:14:12-0600

The Soil on which Daisies Grow
This story took place in Austria.
Some say God tests us not only with hardship, but also with abundance.
John had everything: good income, status, and a life of extravagance. A celebrated pharmacist turned businessman, he lived in a world where nothing came cheap. He scoffed at meals below $20, considering them an insult to his refined palate.

____________________________________________________________

One night, to celebrate securing a new contract, John and his business partner Hans resolved to find a truly fitting restaurant — one that could satisfy John’s uncompromising standards. But his sophisticated palates and exacting demands soon turned the quest into a prolonged ordeal, dragging them across Vienna. At one point, Hans muttered, “You’re not choosing a wife, John. It’s only dinner.” John ignored him, busy inspecting every menu he came across.

After three relentless hours of scrutinizing menus and dismissing venues, they finally settled on a lavish establishment that seemed worthy of their standards. Once the menu was studied, John launched into his order:

"The steak must be tender, yet not too raw—firm, but not chewy. It should taste like a young calf, but not too young, and not too old. Season it just enough to be tasty, but not so much that I notice the salt. Cook it evenly, but leave a hint of fire, without smoke, without char. The potatoes must be golden but not too golden, earthy but not too earthy, ...."

The waiter scribbled furiously, his eyebrow twitching. Several ornate dishes were ordered, but the triumph was short-lived. One bite into the first plate and John’s face soured; he launched into complaints before the manager, demanding to leave. The manager, unmoved, insisted on payment.

John paid for all the dishes ordered—grudgingly—and stormed out.

____________________________________________________________

Undeterred, the hunt resumed. Another hour of wandering through glittering streets brought them to yet another first-class restaurant near Saint Stephen's Cathedral, one that promised refinement beyond reproach. With aged whiskey poured and expensive cigars lit, John and Hans prepared to celebrate triumphantly.

Yet scarcely 19 minutes had passed when a waiter approached with blunt finality: the restaurant was closing. Their indulgence ended not in satisfaction, but in dismissal, as they were ushered out into the night.

"Why kick us out?" John stared at the waiter in disbelief.
"We are closing---it's 1 o'clock already!" The waiter replied.

They staggered out into the city streets, their judgment clouded by the alcohol and disappointment. They didn’t notice the black van parked nearby until it was too late.

The van screeched forward, headlights blinding. Before John could react, rough hands yanked him back. A hood was shoved over his head, muffling Hans’s protests as they struggled. Their kidnappers moved swiftly, bundling John into the van while leaving Hans behind. John’s world blurred into darkness.

John’s new reality began in a dim room in the beautiful rural town of Bad Goisern on Lake Hallstatt.

His kidnappers' goal was to demand a ransom of 2 million. The two kidnappers were Robert and Rune—known to their friends as Rob and Runn. They sat slouched in the dim room, their cigarettes dangling lazily from their fingers....

Tom D · 2026-01-13T22:54:40-0600

They sat slouched in the dim room, their cigarettes dangling lazily from their fingers. Between them lay a half‑eaten bag of fast food, grease blooming across the table like an oil spill.
“After we get the money,” Rob said, tapping ash onto the floor, “we’ll be set for life. Eating and drinking without work… that’s the dream.”
Rune nodded eagerly. “Yeah… no more learning either.”
They burst into laughter — loud, wheezing, open‑mouthed laughter that showed every inch of their nicotine‑stained teeth.

____________________________________________________________

When they finally calmed down, they swaggered into John’s room.
“Alright, doc,” Rob said, leaning on the doorframe. “Time to call your family. Tell ’em to cough up two million. Not too much.”
Rune added, “Yeah, they’ll pay. You’re worth something… right?”
John met their eyes calmly. “My family’s wealth has collapsed. We don’t even have two thousand. They won’t pay you much.”
The kidnappers froze.
Rob blinked. “What’re you talking about? You’re rich!”
John sighed. “No. We’re poor like beggars now.”
The two men stared at each other, their dream collapsing in slow motion.
A few hours later, they rummaged through John’s belongings and took most of his banknotes, leaving him only $20. Their disappointment curdled into irritation. From then on, they fed him by tossing a greasy paper bag through the cracked door: cold fries, soggy burgers, the occasional wilted pickle. John could barely eat a few bites.

As John ate less and less, the weight slipped off him quickly. With nothing to do and no strength left to argue, he found himself praying more often — quietly, as the hours crawled by.

____________________________________________________________

Meanwhile, boredom gnawed at the kidnappers. Cigarettes became their only pastime. They smoked constantly, filling the room with a thick, acrid haze. John coughed dramatically. “This air is killing me,” he said. “And you. You’re poisoning yourselves.” Rune waved him off. “Nah. We’ve smoked our whole lives. We’re fine.” But over the next days, the smoke thickened into a fog of stale nicotine. Even the kidnappers began coughing — real, chest‑deep coughs that annoyed them more than they frightened them.
John watched. Waited. Calculated.

One evening, he spoke again — weaker, raspier. “If I die, you get nothing. No ransom. No payout. I need a remedy. A specific one.”
Their eyes flickered with panic.
“What remedy?” Rob asked.
John listed the ingredients: vinegar, ground nutmeg, crushed chilli, and adelwez. He explained that they must be cooked together with all windows shut to keep the medicine potent. Knowing nothing about the risks, the kidnappers obeyed.

As the mixture simmered on the wood‑burning stove, the room grew stifling. The air thickened, heavy with fumes. Carbon monoxide crept upward, silent and invisible. John stayed low to the ground, breathing the slightly cleaner air near the door. Rob and Run, oblivious, inhaled the rising fumes. Their movements slowed. Their speech slurred. Their eyelids drooped. One by one, they collapsed.
John’s head swam, but he forced himself to stay conscious. When the room finally fell silent, he crawled to Rob’s belt, unclipped the keys, and unlocked the door.

The night air hit him like a blessing — cold, sharp, alive. He stumbled out into the darkness, each breath clearing his mind.
By morning, he reached the countryside. The Austrian rural landscape unfurled before him: rolling green hills, dewy meadows, silver rivers, and a soft mist drifting lazily between the trees. He could even hear faint violin music, as if the world was celebrating his escape. Just as hunger gnawed at him, he found a small restaurant.

Inside, sunlight streamed through lace curtains. Locals chatted warmly at Formica‑topped tables. A rosy‑cheeked woman moved between them, smiling like she’d been waiting for him all morning.
“Good morning, dear,” she said. “You look tired. What can I get you?”
John ordered stew, cheese, and bread. When he asked the price, she replied smilingly: “$19.99”
The stew arrived steaming and fragrant. The first spoonful was delicious. He savored every bite, astonished that something under $20 could taste like heaven. He wished he could order another bowl, but he was running out of money.

____________________________________________________________

Back in Vienna, John found himself working with a clarity and energy he hadn’t felt in years. He never forgot the night he learned humility the hard way. For the first time in years, he could feel joy and gratitude in his heart.

NBB · 2026-01-14T13:16:18-0600

Is not fictional stories, but i like a lot when people who has similar issues as me, express their feelings about it, is so nice when you are like 'this is the same that happens to me' it validates your experience and can help you find words for what happens to you etc.

Tom D · 2026-01-14T15:34:57-0600

The Antique Expert
This story took place in France.
On a cold winter night, in the quiet glow of the family library, Pierre Meyer sat beside his grandfather. Outside, frost clung to the windows, and the wind whispered through the shutters, but inside, the fire crackled softly. They were talking about their family history since their ancestors' conversion to Christianity. Then the conversation drifted to their lost heirloom clock.
“The clock,” the grandfather said. “Our clock—they took it from us years ago. It was an imperial commission, made in Alsace, 1881. Don’t let it disappear, Pierre. Promise me...”
“Yes, yes, I promise you, grandpa. Don’t worry.”

That night, Pierre could hardly sleep. The next day, he hired Dr Jean, an antique expert and historian known for his unwavering self‑confidence. Dr Jean placed an ad in a local Alsatian daily. A week later, a man named Monsieur Girard called from a cottage in the valley, claiming to have the piece.

When Pierre and Dr Jean arrived, Pierre was captivated by the clock, which could also play music.
“The clock is magnificent,” Pierre whispered. “The case looks old but still charming… it’s exactly what grandpa described.”
“Hold on... Look at the text, Pierre,” Dr Jean said. “It’s in French.”
“So what? It's not surprising.”
“Didn’t you know Alsace* was annexed by Germany in 1871? An imperial commission in 1881 would have been engraved in German, not French..."
Dr Jean continued: "And the grammar—there is a gender mismatch. No imperial engraver would make such a mistake. It’s a half-forgery... But the music doesn’t prove it’s a forgery---I think it’s a piece of 19th-century music.”
Pierre shook his head. “No, no, it’s an early 20th-century folk music from Lorraine.”
Dr Jean’s eyes lit up. “Another proof that it’s a forgery!”
As Girard ushered them out, Dr Jean noticed a faint scratch inside the case where the wood had been filed. Two letters: LW.

The next morning, they visited the National Clock Association registry.
“Ah, yes,” the clerk said. “Only one LW. Luc Wattrelot. Prestigious restorer. A true scholar.”
Dr Jean brightened. “Finally, a lead.”
They arrived at Luc Wattrelot’s home, but his wife told them he had gone overseas.

* Alsace belongs to France today, but was annexed by Germany in 1871.

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The healing effects of stories

Tom D

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