9 Amazing Stories About Friendship from Literature and Short Movies

Why do we tell friendship stories? “Friendship” is a mild word for such an extraordinary and holy connection, for what can be the most sustaining, life-giving, death-defying relationships some of us will ever experience. My closest friends are the reason for my deep faith in God because through them I have discovered what superhuman intimacy and devotion are. Of course, there are some fake friends in our life, but I think I have been blessed by people whose unconditional love and brilliance and loyalty have almost single-handedly made it possible for me to survive.

Friendship is that unique relationship that knows no difference, cultural or otherwise. Time and again, authors the world over have devoted themselves to the study of this beautiful relationship and share friends quotes to express their ideas. Having the gift of authorship, they penned wonderful tales about friendship, imaginary or otherwise. Here is a compilation of some fabulous short stories on friendship that inspire you to become not only a better friend and make you understand the meaning of true friendship. Enjoy these marvelous stories on friendship yourself and share them with your buddies.

5 Friendship Stories with Short Movies

Jung – by Munseong Yun

When you watch Jung you suddenly have the feeling that you are in a different world, where the time has stopped in a previous era, parallel to our own and populated by mythical creatures and heroes. And it’s about two supernatural characters that the young South Korean director, Munseong Yun, born in 1994 (yup), the student at the Seoul Institute of the Arts, has decided to tell.
Jung shows two rivals ready to fight on a battlefield, which is so calm to be in contrast with the tension between the young enemies since they are engaged in a verbal confrontation. The final round seems to be not so far. The two really appear as the have been fighting before, and the are bringing the marks of those clashes all over their bodies, covered with arrows. But this seems to don’t bother them at all, increasing the curiosity of the observer, who immediately starts to wonder what kind of past lies behind the protagonists.

Fugu & Tako

The friendship between two Japanese white-collar men changes as one of them turns into a puffer fish inside a sushi bar.

The story of how one man’s demand for his sushi to be as fresh as possible leads to a transformative experience, director, and writer West admits that he’s “always been attracted to stories that see characters go through great transformation”. Inspired to create the narrative whilst staring into a live fish tank and eating sushi at a restaurant, the director revealed to Short of the Week that he approached the film as “an opportunity to explore the idea of something really bad happening to someone but seeing some benefit come from that”. “That was the kernel for the narrative”, says West, “it evolved from there to become a buddy story exploring themes of friendship and how the change in our lives can affect our relationships”.

Broken Wing

A real life based award-winning animation about friendship, a Rubik’s cube, and the art of healing.

Broken wing movie has won 11 awards for their heart touching friendship of characters in the movie

Synopsis: Through the darkest moments of life, a boy goes down the warmth and cheerfulness of his childhood memories. He realizes that all it matters is not WHAT you see in life, but HOW you see it.Broken Wing is the first animated short from filmmaker Amos Sussigan and is inspired by real events. In 2011, a terrible accident left his best friend, Andre, paralyzed. The young man, previously very active and cheerful, now faced a very different life, one that few of us could be prepared for. Over a long summer, Amos visited Andre in

Broken Wing is the first animated short from filmmaker Amos Sussigan and is inspired by real events. In 2011, a terrible accident left his best friend, Andre, paralyzed. The young man, previously very active and cheerful, now faced a very different life, one that few of us could be prepared for. Over a long summer, Amos visited Andre in the hospital and witnessed the pain and sadness of his friend as he became resigned to his situation. But there was a glimmer of hope and it came in the form of Rubik’s Cube. Amos watched fascinated as his friend found new passion devouring one fiendishly difficult puzzle after the next. The bigger, the newer, the more complicated – the better.

From this experience, the idea for Broken Wing began to take shape. Amos pitched the concept to some friends and animators, and the idea quickly grew into a global project. Nikitha Mannam (producer) started the production in India, while Amos gathered visual research in Switzerland, and four other students began animating in California.

Broken Wing eventually resulted in a richly haunting ensemble of imagery and story. It is composed of over 10,000 drawings, 30 digital paintings, and heightened by a beautiful score by extraordinary British film composer Mark Slater.
What started as a way to show the brightest side of life to Andre, turned into an internal journey for filmmakers. A labor of love, inspired by just that, the deep love of one friend to another, with the capability to lift one’s spirits, and, perhaps, freeing not only Andre but for us, from whatever is holding us down.

Amigo

A delightful short film about friendship in 50s style, seen through the innocent eyes of a child.

Amigo is the animated short film created by Texan illustrator and director Celestino Marina as his final thesis for the Bachelor of Fine Arts at the California College of the Arts in Oakland. It tells the story of a friendship between a boy and his living-imagined puppet with whom he immediately establishes a very intense bond. The two young protagonists spend the entire day together playing around and drawing until the very evening when they lie down hugging each other in the same bed just before sleeping. A surprise awaits them in the aftermath, a prelude to a bitter end that closes this melancholic but authentic tale centered on the universal themes of encounter and separation, seen through the innocent eyes of a child.

Junkyard

A man is stabbed in the subway. In the last seconds, before he dies, a teenage friendship flashes before his eyes.

Revolving around a pair of once inseparable teenage friends and how their paths through life deviate after a series of spontaneous decisions push them apart, Junkyard may focus on some very specific issues, but the overarching themes of friendship and morality are ones we all should be able to relate to. Interviewing the filmmaker back in 2012 for Directors Notes, Hisko revealed that the inspiration for Junkyard’s narrative came directly from his own youthful experiences. Speaking to Short of the Week via email, we took the opportunity to quiz the director about the origins of his story, exactly how much it’s based on incidents in his own life and how he feels an audience will relate to his plot:

“Although the basis of the story is rooted in reality and some scenes have happened in real life, most of the film is made up. In a short film, there are no possibilities for subplots and small, detailed developments. Every aspect has to serve the dramatic impact, so I had to come up with a short story that has a beginning, middle, and end. In order to do that I had to think of some strong scenes that could sort of comprise a whole set of real-life events. Not in a symbolic way, but as a matter of clear communication with the audience. Parts of the finale of the film are based on the long period of my life when I smoked Marijuana on a daily basis, which led to a near psychosis.

“I think that most people have experience with friendships that go wrong. Often these things happen by accident, not so much by intent, but I think that most people recognize the feeling of abandonment. Friendships can be really strong during adolescence, at an age when the other sex is still part of the opposite camp and the strong bond with parents diminishes. I tried to capture that feeling. So apart from the harsh and grim reality of the drugs environment, there is this layer of abandonment.”

4 Stories About Friendship from Literature

A friend in need is a friend indeed. This collection provides stories of best friends and their friendships. Friendship is a relationship that we choose and therefore friends are the special ones.

The Cabuliwallah [ The Fruitseller from Kabul ] – Rabindranath Tagore

My five years’ old daughter Mini cannot live without chattering. I really believe that in all her life she has not wasted a minute in silence. Her mother is often vexed at this and would stop her prattle, but I would not. To see Mini quiet is unnatural, and I cannot bear it for long. And so my own talk with her is always lively. One morning, for instance, when I was in the midst of the seventeenth chapter of my new novel, my little Mini stole into the room, and putting her hand into mine, said: “Father! Ramdayal the door-keeper calls a crow a krow! He doesn’t know anything, does he?” Before I could explain to her the differences of language in this world, she was embarked on the full tide of another subject. “What do you think, Father? Bhola says there is an elephant in the clouds, blowing water out of his trunk, and that is why it rains!” And then, darting off anew, while I sat still making ready some reply to this last saying, “Father! what relation is Mother to you?”

“My dear little sister in the law!” I murmured involuntarily to myself, but with a grave face contrived to answer: “Go and play with Bhola, Mini! I am busy!”

The window of my room overlooks the road. The child had seated herself at my feet near my table and was playing softly, drumming on her knees. I was hard at work on my seventeenth chapter, where Protrap Singh, the hero, had just caught Kanchanlata, the heroine, in his arms, and was about to escape with her by the third story window of the castle, when all of a sudden Mini left her to play, and ran to the window, crying, “A Cabuliwallah! a Cabuliwallah!” Sure enough in the street below was a Cabuliwallah, passing slowly along. He wore the loose soiled clothing of his people, with a tall turban; there was a bag on his back, and he carried boxes of grapes in his hand.

I cannot tell what were my daughter’s feelings at the sight of this man, but she began to call him loudly. “Ah!” I thought, “he will come in, and my seventeenth chapter will never be finished!” At which exact moment the Cabuliwallah turned and looked up at the child. When she saw this, overcome by terror, she fled to her mother’s protection and disappeared. She had a blind belief that inside the bag, which the big man carried, there were perhaps two or three other children like herself. The pedlar meanwhile entered my doorway and greeted me with a smiling face.

So precarious was the position of my hero and my heroine, that my first impulse was to stop and buy something since the man had been called. I made some small purchases, and a conversation began about Abdurrahman, the Russians, she English, and the Frontier Policy.

As he was about to leave, he asked: “And where is the little girl, sir?”

And I, thinking that Mini must get rid of her false fear, had her brought out.

She stood by my chair and looked at the Cabuliwallah and his bag. He offered her nuts and raisins, but she would not be tempted, and only clung the closer to me, with all her doubts increased.

This was their first meeting.

One morning, however, not many days later, as I was leaving the house, I
was startled to find Mini, seated on a bench near the door, laughing and talking, with the great Cabuliwallah at her feet. In all her life, it appeared; my small daughter had never found so patient a listener, save her father. And already the corner of her little sari was stuffed with almonds and raisins, the gift of her visitor, “Why did you give her those?” I said, and taking out an eight-anna bit, I handed it to him. The man accepted the money without demur and slipped it into his pocket.

Alas, on my return an hour later, I found the unfortunate coin had made twice its own worth of trouble! For the Cabuliwallah had given it to Mini, and her mother catching sight of the bright round object, had pounced on the child with: “Where did you get that eight-anna bit? ”

“The Cabuliwallah gave it me,” said Mini cheerfully.

“The Cabuliwallah gave it you!” cried her mother much shocked. “Oh, Mini! how could you take it from him?”

I, entering at the moment, saved her from impending disaster, and proceeded to make my own inquiries.

It was not the first or second time, I found, that the two had met. The Cabuliwallah had overcome the child’s first terror by a judicious bribery of nuts and almonds, and the two were now great friends.

They had many quaint jokes, which afforded them much amusement. Seated in front of him, looking down on his gigantic frame in all her tiny dignity, Mini would ripple her face with laughter, and begin: “O Cabuliwallah, Cabuliwallah, what have you got in your bag?”

And he would reply, in the nasal accents of the mountaineer: “An elephant!” Not much cause for merriment, perhaps; but how they both enjoyed the witticism! And for me, this child’s talk with a grown-up man had always in it something strangely fascinating.

Then the Cabuliwallah, not to be behindhand, would take his turn: “Well, little one, and when are you going to the father-in-law’s house?”

Now most small Bengali maidens have heard long ago about the father-in-law’s house; but we, being a little new-fangled, had kept these things from our child, and Mini at this question must have been a trifle bewildered. But she would not show it, and with ready tact replied: “Are you going there?”

Amongst men of the Cabuliwallah’s class, however, it is well known that the words father-in-law’s house has a double meaning. It is a euphemism for jail, the place where we are well cared for, at no expense to ourselves. In this sense would the sturdy pedlar take my daughter’s question. “Ah,” he would say, shaking his fist at an invisible policeman, “I will thrash my father-in-law!” Hearing this, and picturing the poor discomfited relative, Mini would go off into peals of laughter, in which her formidable friend would join.

These were autumn mornings, the very time of year when kings of old went forth to conquest; and I, never stirring from my little corner in Calcutta, would let my mind wander over the whole world. At the very name of another country, my heart would go out to it, and at the sight of a foreigner in the streets, I would fall to weaving a network of dreams, –the mountains, the glens, and the forests of his distant home, with his cottage in its setting, and the free and independent life of far-away wilds. Perhaps the scenes of travel conjure themselves up before me, and pass and repass in my imagination all the more vividly, because I lead such a vegetable existence, that a call to travel would fall upon me like a thunderbolt. In the presence of this Cabuliwallah, I was immediately transported to the foot of arid mountain peaks, with narrow little defiles twisting in and out amongst their towering heights. I could see the string of camels bearing the merchandise, and the company of turbaned merchants, carrying some of their queer old firearms, and some of their spears, journeying downward towards the plains. I could see–but at some such point Mini’s mother would intervene, imploring me to “beware of that man.”

Mini’s mother is, unfortunately, a very timid lady. Whenever she hears a noise in the street or sees people coming towards the house, she always jumps to the conclusion that they are either thieves, or drunkards, or snakes, or tigers, or malaria or cockroaches, or caterpillars, or an English sailor. Even after all these years of experience, she is not able to overcome her terror. So she was full of doubts about the Cabuliwallah, and used to beg me to keep a watchful eye on him.

I tried to laugh her fear gently away, but then she would turn round on me seriously, and ask me solemn questions.

Were children never kidnapped?

Was it, then, not true that there was slavery in Cabul?

Was it so very absurd that this big man should be able to carry off a tiny child?

I urged that, though not impossible, it was highly improbable. But this was not enough, and her dread persisted. As it was indefinite, however, it did not seem right to forbid the man the house, and the intimacy went on unchecked.

Once a year in the middle of January Rahmun, the Cabuliwallah, was in the habit of returning to his country, and as the time approached he would be very busy, going from house to house collecting his debts. This year, however, he could always find time to come and see Mini. It would have seemed to an outsider that there was some conspiracy between the two, for when he could not come in the morning, he would appear in the evening.

Even to me, it was a little startling now and then, in the corner of a dark room, suddenly to surprise this tall, loose-garmented, much-be bagged man; but when Mini would run in smiling, with her, “O! Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah!” and the two friends, so far apart in age, would subside into their old laughter and their old jokes, I felt reassured.

One morning, a few days before he had made up his mind to go, I was correcting my proof sheets in my study. It was the chilly weather. Through the window, the rays of the sun touched my feet, and the slight warmth was very welcome. It was almost eight o’clock, and the early pedestrians were returning home, with their heads covered. All at once, I heard an uproar in the street, and, looking out, saw Rahmun being led away bound between two policemen, and behind them a crowd of curious boys. There were blood-stains on the clothes of the Cabuliwallah, and one of the policemen carried a knife. Hurrying out, I stopped them and enquired what it all meant. Partly from one, partly from another, I gathered that a certain neighbor had owed the pedlar something for a Rampuri shawl, but had falsely denied having bought it, and that in the course of the quarrel, Rahmun had struck him. Now in the heat of his excitement, the prisoner began calling his enemy all sorts of names, when suddenly in a verandah of my house appeared my little Mini, with her usual exclamation: “O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah!” Rahmun’s face lighted up as he turned to her. He had no bag under his arm today, so she could not discuss the elephant with him. She at once, therefore, proceeded to the next question: “Are you going to the father-in-law’s house?” Rahmun laughed and said: “Just where I am going, little one!” Then seeing that the reply did not amuse the child, he held up his fettered hands. ” Ali,” he said, ” I would have thrashed that old father-in-law, but my hands are bound!”

On a charge of murderous assault, Rahmun was sentenced to some years’ imprisonment.

Time passed away, and he was not remembered. The accustomed work in the accustomed place was ours, and the thought of the once-free mountaineer spending his years in prison seldom or never occurred to us. Even my light-hearted Mini, I am ashamed to say, forgot her old friend. New companions filled her life. As she grew older, she spent more of her time with girls. So much time indeed did she spend with them that she came no more, as she used to do, to her father’s room. I was scarcely on speaking terms with her.

Years had passed away. It was once more autumn and we had made arrangements for our Mini’s marriage. It was to take place during the Puja Holidays. With Durga returning to Kailas, the light of our home also was to depart to her husband’s house and leave her father’s in the shadow.

The morning was bright. After the rains, there was a sense of ablution in the air, and the sun-rays looked like pure gold. So bright were they that they gave a beautiful radiance even to the sordid brick walls of our Calcutta lanes. Since early dawn to-day the wedding-pipes had been sounding, and at each beat, my own heart throbbed. The wail of the tune, Bhairavi, seemed to intensify my pain at the approaching separation. My Mini was to be married to-night.

>From early morning noise and bustle had pervaded the house. In the courtyard the canopy had to be slung on its bamboo poles; the chandeliers with their tinkling sound must be hung in each room and verandah. There was no end of hurry and excitement. I was sitting in my study, looking through the accounts, when some one entered, saluting respectfully, and stood before me. It was Rahmun the Cabuliwallah. At first, I did not recognize him. He had no bag, nor the long hair, nor the same vigour that he used to have. But he smiled, and I knew him again.

“When did you come, Rahmun?” I asked him.

“Last evening,” he said, “I was released from jail.”

The words struck harsh upon my ears. I had never before talked with one who had wounded his fellow, and my heart shrank within itself, when I realized this, for I felt that the day would have been better-omened had he not turned up.

“There are ceremonies going on,” I said, “and I am busy. Could you perhaps come another day?”

At once he turned to go; but as he reached the door he hesitated, and said: “May I not see the little one, sir, for a moment?” It was his belief that Mini was still the same. He had pictured her running to him as she used, calling “O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah!” He had imagined too that they would laugh and talk together, just as of old. In fact, in memory of former days he had brought, carefully wrapped up in the paper, a few almonds and raisins and grapes, obtained somehow from a countryman, for his own little fund was dispersed.

I said again: “There is a ceremony in the house, and you will not be able to see any one to-day.”

The man’s face fell. He looked wistfully at me for a moment, said “Good morning,” and went out. I felt a little sorry and would have called him back, but I found he was returning of his own accord. He came close up to me holding out his offerings and said: “I brought these few things, sir, for the little one. Will you give them to her?”

I took them and was going to pay him, but he caught my hand and said: “You are very kind, sir! Keep me in your recollection. Do not offer me money!–You have a little girl, I too have one like her in my own home. I think of her, and bring fruits to your child, not to make a profit for myself.”

Saying this, he put his hand inside his big loose robe and brought out a small and dirty piece of paper. With great care, he unfolded this and smoothed it out with both hands on my table. It bore the impression of a little band. Not a photograph. Not a drawing. The impression of an ink-smeared hand laid flat on the paper. This touch of his own little daughter had been always on his heart, as he had come year after year to Calcutta, to sell his wares in the streets.

Tears came to my eyes. I forgot that he was a poor Cabuli fruit-seller, while I was–but no, what was I more than he? He also was a father. That impression of the hand of his little Parbati in her distant mountain home reminded me of my own little Mini.

I sent for Mini immediately from the inner apartment. Many difficulties were raised, but I would not listen. Clad in the red silk of her wedding-day, with the sandal paste on her forehead, and adorned as a young bride, Mini came and stood bashfully before me.

The Cabuliwallah looked a little staggered at the apparition. He could not revive their old friendship. At last, he smiled and said: “Little one, are you going to your father-in-law’s house?”

But Mini now understood the meaning of the word “father-in-law,” and she
could not reply to him as of old. She flushed up at the question and stood before him with her bride-like face turned down.

I remembered the day when the Cabuliwallah and my Mini had first met, and I felt sad. When she had gone, Rahmun heaved a deep sigh and sat down on the floor. The idea had suddenly come to him that his daughter too must have grown in this long time and that he would have to make friends with her anew. Assuredly he would not find her, as he used to know her. And besides, what might not have happened to her in these eight years?

The marriage-pipes sounded, and the mild autumn sun streamed round us. But Rahmun sat in the little Calcutta lane and saw before him the barren mountains of Afghanistan.

I took out a bank-note, and gave it to him, saying: “Go back to your own daughter, Rahmun, in your own country, and may the happiness of your meeting bring good fortune to my child!”

Having made this present, I had to curtail some of the festivities. I could not have the electric lights I had intended, nor the military band, and the ladies of the house were despondent at it. But to me, the wedding feast was all the brighter for the thought that in a distant land a long-lost father met again with his only child.

A True Friend – Socrates

In ancient Greece, Socrates was reputed to hold knowledge in high esteem. One day one fellow met the great philosopher and said, “Do you know what I just heard about your friend?”. “Hold on a minute,” Socrates replied. “Before telling me anything I’d like you to pass a little test. It’s called the Triple Filter Test.”. “Triple filter?”. “That’s right,” Socrates continued. “Before you talk to me about my friend, it might be a good idea to take a moment and filter what you’re going to say. That’s why I call it the triple filter test. The first filter is Truth. Have you made absolutely sure that what you are about to tell me is true?” “No,” the man said, “actually I just heard about it and…”. “All right,” said Socrates. “So you don’t know if it’s true or not. Now let’s try the second filter, the filter of Goodness. Is what you are about to tell me about my friend something good?”. “No, on the contrary…”. “So,” Socrates continued, “you want to tell me something bad about him, but you’re not certain it’s true. You may still pass the test, though because there’s one filter left: the filter of Usefulness. Is what you want to tell me about my friend going to be useful to me?” “No, not really.” “Well,” concluded Socrates, “if what you want to tell me is neither true nor good nor even useful, why tell it to me at all?”

Aesop’s Fable – The Hare With Many Friends

A Hare was very popular with the other animals in the jungle who all claimed to be her friends. One day she heard the hounds approaching her and hoped to escape them by the aid of her Friends. So, she went to the horse and asked him to carry her away from the hounds on his back. But he declined, stating that he had important work to do for his master. “He felt sure,” he said, “that all her other friends would come to her assistance.” She then applied to the bull and hoped that he would repel the hounds with his horns. The bull replied: “I am very sorry, but I have an appointment with a lady, but I feel sure that our friend the goat will do what you want.” The goat, however, feared that his back might do her some harm if he took her to it. The ram, he felt sure, was the proper friend to ask for help. So she went to the ram and told him the case. The ram replied: “Another time, my dear friend. I do not like to interfere on the present occasion, as hounds have been known to eat sheep as well as hares.” The Hare then applied, as the last hope, to the calf, who regretted that he was unable to help her, as he did not like to take the responsibility upon himself, as so many older persons than himself had declined the task. By this time the hounds were quite near, and the Hare took to her heels and luckily escaped.

Friendship Forever

Two inseparable friends, Sam and Jason, met with an accident on their way to Boston City. The following morning, Jason woke up blind and Sam was still unconscious. Dr. Berkeley was standing at his bedside looking at his health chart and medications with a thoughtful expression on his face. When he saw Sam awake, he beamed at him and asked.” How are you feeling today Sam?” Sam tried to put up a brave face and smiled back saying, “absolutely wonderful Doctor. I am very grateful for all that you have done for me. “Dr. Berkeley was moved at Sam’s deed. All that he could say was, “You are a very brave man Sam and God will make it up to you in one way or another”. While he was moving on to the next patient, Sam called back at him almost pleading, “promise me you won’t tell Jason anything”.

“You know I won’t do that. Trust me.” and walked away.

“Thank you ” whispered Sam. He smiled and looked up in prayer ” I hope I live up to your ideas…please give me the strength to be able to go through this.Amen”

Months later when Jason had recuperated considerably, he stopped hanging around with Sam. He felt discouraged and embarrassed to spend time with a disabled person like Sam.

Sam was lonely and disheartened since he didn’t have anybody else other than Jason to count on. Things went from bad to worse. And one day Sam died in despair. When Jason was called on his burial, he found a letter waiting for him. Dr. Berkeley gave it to him with an expressionless face and said” This is for you Jason. Sam had asked me to give it to you when he was gone”.

In the letter he had said: ” Dear Jason, I have kept my promise in the end to lend you my eyes if anything had happened to them. Now there is nothing more that I can ask from God, than the fact, that will see the world through my eyes. You will always be my best friend……..Sam”.

When he had finished reading Dr. Berkeley said ” I had promised Sam to keep his sacrifice he made a secret from you. But now I wish I didn’t stick it Because I don’t think It was worthy it” .

All that was left for Jason while he stood there was tears of regret and memories of Sam for the rest of his life .