Short Story Writing (10 Samples) for ICSE / ISC

In ICSE / ISC short story writing studentts are generally given a prompt like the beginning line, ending line or a theme, or a title using which they have to craft a creative fictional narrative with plot structure​. The plot mountain and characterisation with good use of dialogues are the key elements here. If you haven't already, please go through the rules and structure of a short story composition before proceeding with this list of sample stories.

Story 1: Prompt - "The door was ajar, but nobody was home..."

The Last Visit

The door was ajar, but nobody was home, which made no sense. Mrs. Kapoor had been paranoid about security—three locks, a chain bolt, strict lectures about never leaving doors open. Yet here it was, swinging slightly in the breeze.

Meera pushed it wider. "Mrs. Kapoor?" Her voice echoed in the empty apartment. The furniture sat exactly where it had been for thirty years—the worn sofa with lace covers, the plastic-wrapped dining table, family photos covering the walls. But dust lay thick on everything.

Mrs. Kapoor had been Meera's neighbor since childhood. The old woman had fed her cookies after school, taught her card games, told endless stories about pre-Independence India. She'd been eighty-seven, sharp-minded but physically weak. Meera, now working in Mumbai, visited monthly.

But last month, Mrs. Kapoor hadn't answered. The month before, she'd seemed confused, calling Meera "Radha"—her deceased daughter's name. Guilt ate at Meera. She should have visited more, noticed sooner.

On the kitchen counter, Meera found a note in shaky handwriting: "For Meera. Because you asked." Next to it lay a leather-bound journal.

Meera opened it. The first page read: "My dear girl, if you're reading this, I've gone where I've been needed for some time. Don't be sad. Death at eighty-seven isn't tragedy; it's just the end. But I wanted to leave you something. You asked once about my life during Partition. I never answered. It was too painful. But pain, unshared, grows worse. Here is my story."

What followed were pages of raw testimony—Mrs. Kapoor's family fleeing Lahore, violence witnessed, loved ones lost, the refugee camp where she'd met Mr. Kapoor. It was history translated to human cost, unbearable and essential.

The final entry, dated two weeks prior: "I'm very tired, Meera. I'll rest now. Lock the door on your way out. But leave it ajar for a while. I spent too much life locked in—by borders, by trauma, by fear. Let some air in. You've been my light these years. Thank you."

Meera sat on the dusty sofa, crying, clutching the journal. As she locked the door behind her—firmly, finally—she understood. Mrs. Kapoor had left it ajar intentionally, a last message: Don't seal yourself off. Let life in, however briefly, however painfully. Because the alternative—three locks and isolation—isn't safety. It's dying slowly while still breathing.

Story 2: Start with "The phone rang at midnight..."

Unknown Caller

Story 3: End with "...and that was the last time I trusted him."

The Business Partner

Raj and I went back fifteen years—college roommates who'd survived shared poverty and dreamed shared futures. When we launched our startup, a digital marketing agency, it felt like destiny. We were brothers, not just partners. We even had a promise: "Honesty above profit. Always."

The first three years were brutal. We worked from a cramped office, survived on instant noodles, poured every rupee back into the business. But slowly, clients increased. By year four, we'd hired twelve employees. By year five, we were profitable.

That's when things shifted.

Raj started arriving late, leaving early. He'd take client calls in private. When I questioned him, he'd avoid: "Just managing things, don't worry."

Then our accountant, Priya, approached me. "Arjun, I need to show you something." She pulled up expense records. Over six months, Raj had withdrawn ₹12 lakhs for "client entertainment." But our client expenses were already recorded separately.

I confronted him. "What's this money for?"

Raj's face hardened. "I'm a partner. I'm entitled to draw from profits."

"After we've both agreed, yes. This is one-sided withdrawal. This is stealing."

"Don't be dramatic. I built this company as much as you."

"By stealing from our joint account? What happened to 'honesty above profit'?"

He exploded. "You think you're so perfect!"

The partnership dissolved bitterly. Lawyers got involved. We split the company—I kept the name and most employees; he took some clients and started a competitor agency. Friends took sides. It was ugly.

A year later, a mutual friend told me Raj's new agency was failing. He'd used the ₹12 lakhs to gamble on cryptocurrency, lost everything, was now deeply in debt.

He called me once, desperate. "Arjun, I need help. A loan. For old times' sake."

I remembered the brother who'd lent me money for my father's medical bills. I remembered late nights working together. But I also remembered the lies, the betrayals, the shattered promise.

"I'm sorry, Raj. I can't."

"After everything I did for you?"

"After everything you did to me," I corrected. "I wish you well. But I can't trust you. And without trust, there's nothing."

He hung up, angry. I never heard from him again.

Sometimes I wonder if I was too harsh. If fifteen years of friendship deserved more than one year of betrayal. But then I remember the hidden withdrawals. The lies. The dismissive "Don't be dramatic" when confronted.

Trust isn't permanent—it's a daily choice. Raj chose himself over us, secrecy over transparency, profit over honesty. Shared history doesn't guarantee future trust. People change, and sometimes the person you'd trust with your life becomes the person you need to protect yourself from.

And that was the last time I trusted him.

Story 4: Illustrating "Haste Makes Waste"

The Shortcut

Story 5: A Case of Mistaken Identity

The Wrong Suresh

The police arrived at Suresh Kumar's door at 6 AM, which was alarming because Suresh Kumar, age forty-five, accountant at a pharmaceutical company, had never so much as received a parking ticket.

"Suresh Kumar?" the officer asked.

"Yes?" Suresh's voice trembled.

"You're under arrest for theft of hospital equipment worth ₹8 lakhs."

"What? There must be some mistake!"

"Tell it to the judge. Get dressed."

At the station, Suresh was fingerprinted, photographed, and thrown into a cell with three other men. His protests fell on deaf ears. His wife, Meera, arrived two hours later, frantic.

"This is insane," she told the inspector. "My husband is an accountant. He's never stolen anything!"

"The hospital filed a complaint. Security footage shows Suresh Kumar, age 45, loading medical equipment into a van last Tuesday at 11 PM."

"Suresh was home last Tuesday! I can testify!"

"Spouses lie." The inspector was unmoved.

By afternoon, Suresh's lawyer arrived—a sharp woman named Aditi Rao. She reviewed the case file, then asked one question: "What's the accused's address in your records?"

The inspector checked. "Flat 402, Residency Road."

"And my client's address?"

"Flat 402... wait." He rechecked. "Flat 402, Residency Road, Bangalore."

Aditi smiled. "My client lives in Flat 402, Residency Road, Mysore. Different city. Different Suresh Kumar."

Silence.

Aditi continued. "India has approximately 2.3 million men named Suresh Kumar. You arrested the wrong one. I suggest you check Bangalore before this becomes a lawsuit for wrongful arrest."

Within hours, police in Bangalore arrested the actual culprit—Suresh Kumar, age 45, unemployed, with a history of theft. He'd been selling stolen equipment to private clinics.

Suresh (the innocent one) was released with an apology that felt weak given the trauma. The news covered the story: "Police Arrest Wrong Suresh Kumar in Hospital Theft Case."

For weeks, Suresh was a minor celebrity in Mysore. People stopped him: "Aren't you that Suresh Kumar?" He'd clarify: "The innocent one, yes."

The experience changed him. He'd always believed in systems, in rules, in justice. But he'd learned systems make mistakes. Rules applied blindly hurt innocents. Justice delayed is justice denied.

He also learned the value of a good lawyer. Aditi's one question—about the address—had freed him. Without her, he might have spent weeks in custody while bureaucracy slowly corrected itself.

Years later, when his daughter faced a legal issue, Suresh's advice was immediate: "Get a good lawyer. Don't trust the system to figure it out on its own."

And whenever forms asked for his name, Suresh Kumar wrote his full name plus his father's name, his address, and his Aadhaar number. Because in a country of a billion people, sharing a name isn't unique. Being mistaken for a criminal? That's a uniqueness he never wanted to experience again.

Story 6: Involving a Lost Key and a Secret Box

The Inheritance

Story 7: Start with "The silence in the room was deafening..."

The Verdict

The silence in the room was deafening. Twelve jurors sat motionless, their faces unreadable. The judge adjusted her glasses, looking down at the paper in her hands. My father sat beside me, his hand gripping mine so tightly I'd lost feeling in my fingers.

This was the moment that would determine everything.

Three months ago, my mother had been killed in a hit-and-run. The driver, a wealthy businessman's son named Vikram, had been drunk. He'd fled the scene, leaving her bleeding on the road. A shopkeeper's CCTV captured everything—the car, the license plate, Vikram's face as he glanced back before speeding away.

But Vikram's father had money. Lots of it. And money buys lawyers who could argue black was white. They'd claimed mechanical failure, questioned the CCTV timestamp, suggested my mother had "jumped in front" of the car. Each hearing was a fresh wound, hearing my mother blamed for her own death.

The prosecution had been relentless. A young lawyer named Shreya had taken the case for free, moved by the injustice. She'd destroyed every defense argument, brought traffic experts, mechanic testimony, even a witness who'd heard Vikram bragging at a party about "getting away with it."

Now, after three months of hearings, arguments, and sleepless nights, the verdict was moments away.

"In the matter of State versus Vikram Malhotra," the judge began, her voice cutting through the silence, "this court finds the defendant guilty of culpable homicide, drunk driving, and fleeing the scene. The court sentences the defendant to eight years rigorous imprisonment and a fine of ₹50 lakhs to be paid to the victim's family."

The room exploded. Vikram's father shouted. His lawyers protested. But the judge's gavel silenced them.

My father collapsed into sobs—relief, grief, vindication all mixed together. Shreya turned to us, tears streaming down her face. "Justice," she whispered. "Finally."

Outside the courtroom, reporters swarmed. But I felt numb. Yes, Vikram would go to prison. Yes, we'd won. But my mother was still gone. No verdict could return her. No sentence could fill the emptiness at the dinner table.

Justice had been served. But justice, I learned that day, isn't healing. It's acknowledgment. It's society saying, "This was wrong. It mattered. She mattered."

As we drove home, my father said, "Your mother would be proud. We didn't let him buy his way out."

I decided then: I would study law. I would become someone like Shreya—someone who fought for people who couldn't afford justice. My mother's death was the wound. That verdict, and my decision, became the scar—permanent, but somehow strengthening.

Story 8: A Pet That Saved a Family

Bruno's Warning

Story 9: End with "...it was a dream come true."

The Audition

Kavya had dreamed of dancing professionally since she was six. Now, at seventeen, standing outside the National Dance Academy audition hall, that dream felt both within reach and impossible.

Two hundred girls had applied. Twenty would be selected. Kavya had prepared for two years—eight hours of daily practice, sacrificed social life, ignored whispers that classical dance was "outdated."

Her number was called: "Candidate 147."

Five judges sat behind a long table, faces neutral. The room smelled of sweat and desperation—146 hopefuls had already danced here.

"Name and style?"

"Kavya Iyer. Bharatanatyam."

"Five minutes. Begin."

The music started. Kavya transformed. Every position, every hand gesture, every expression had been practiced a thousand times. She danced the story of Draupadi—pride, humiliation, fury, vindication. The room disappeared. Just the story flowing through her body.

When she finished, gasping, the judges whispered among themselves. The head judge looked up.

"Miss Iyer, your technique is solid. But you looked nervous. Professional dancers can't afford nervousness."

Kavya's heart sank.

"However," the judge continued, "you also looked passionate. Technique can be perfected. Passion can't be taught. We'll be in touch."

Two weeks of agony followed. Checking her phone constantly, refreshing email, barely sleeping. Other candidates posted: "Got rejected," "Still waiting," "Got in!"

Then, on a rainy Thursday, the email arrived.

Subject: National Dance Academy - Selection Results

Her hands shook violently.

"Dear Kavya Iyer, Congratulations. We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected..."

She screamed. Her mother found Kavya sobbing, clutching the phone. "I got in, Ma!"

The next three years were brutal—injuries, exhaustion, doubt. But Kavya had earned her place.

Graduation night, she stood backstage at Mumbai's National Centre for Performing Arts, about to perform her first solo for a thousand people. She wore crimson silk, temple jewelry, and confidence built from bleeding toes and aching muscles.

The curtain rose. Lights hit her face. The music began. Kavya danced.

Applause thundered. She bowed to the audience, saw her parents crying in the front row. Fellow dancers hugged her backstage. The artistic director said, "You have a future in this."

She'd dreamed of this moment for eleven years. She'd visualized it, worked for it, nearly given up. And now, standing on this stage, sweat-soaked and exhilarated, flowers in her arms and her parents' pride radiating, she understood: The dream had been preparation. This moment—real, tangible, earned—wasn't like the dream. It was better.

It was a dream come true.

Story 10: Mistaken Identity with a Twist

The Doppelgänger