
Welcome to the Official Chris Conidis Website.
Explore Chris Conidis’s latest short stories and screenplays.
"Chris Conidis – Writer, Filmmaker, Improv Performer Official Website"
Chris Conidis is a versatile writer, filmmaker, and improv performer with a career spanning over two decades. His work includes satire, social commentary, and dark humor, often exploring themes like societal critique, futurism, and absurdity.






Check Out Medium Content here:
This July, I’m back coaching improv classes in Toronto. If you’ve already taken classes with me or RJ feel free to reach out and reconnect. New? Shoot me a DM—I’ll send you the sign-up info- thanks!
CHRIS CONIDIS
Storyteller, Creator, and Performer in St. Cloud, Florida

Storytelling isn't fluff—it's fuel.
In CEOWORLD Magazine, Chris Conidis explores how great leaders use storytelling to inspire action, shape brand identity, and build lasting trust.
Your data needs a voice. That voice is your story.
Read now on CEOWORLD.biz:
https://ceoworld.biz/2024/11/28/chris-conidis-how-does-storytelling-shape-success/#google_vignette
Chris Conidis: How Does Storytelling Shape Success?
#Leadership #ChrisConidis #Storytelling #BusinessStrategy #CEOWORLD #NarrativePower

The Mirror at the End of the Lane by Chris Conidis is a haunting tale that delves deep into the truths we often avoid. In the eerie town of Willowend, a mysterious mirror reflects not just faces but the unspoken secrets and moral cracks that define its inhabitants. Edgar Plumb, a young boy seeking a momentary escape, discovers just how far the mirror’s gaze reaches — and the unsettling truth about his own future.
This story explores the consequences of pretense and the uncomfortable reality that we all try to avoid. A perfect reminder of the importance of confronting our truths before they confront us.
Read the full story here: The Mirror at the End of the Lane
https://medium.com/@chris-conidis/chris-conidis-the-mirror-at-the-end-of-the-lane-c68a5ad96dd8


Genre: Horror / Dark Fantasy
A cycle of dark tales connected by objects, omens, and the strange forces that carry them across generations. Each story stands alone yet echoes another—woven by unseen hands and bound by fear, fate, and forgotten pacts. Gothic-modern in aesthetic, rich in mood and myth.




Hitchcock: Master of suspense, but also the guy who made you question whether or not your mother actually loves you
Dark Comedy DNA: Why Satirists Owe a Drink to Hitchcock, Serling, and Chaplin.
I’ve been rewatching Hitchcock, not for suspense—but for stillness. For his intros as satire - there’s something about a man in a tight frame, doing absolutely nothing, that feels louder than screams. I’m chasing that tension in silence for my own projects lately. Still frames, breath between lines, paranoia with no soundtrack.
Read the articles
here and on Medium

Chris Conidis Unveils “Progress City”: A Satirical Take on Futurism and Modern Life
“Progress City,” a sharp satire that takes a deep, comical dive into society’s love affair with “progress.” This new project, a sprawling parody of futurism and modern life, unpacks humanity’s journey from the cave to today’s social dilemmas. With his trademark humor, Conidis pokes fun at how every era has imagined the future—often with more confidence than accuracy—and how these visions have both shaped and clashed with reality.
In “Progress City,” Conidis explores humanity’s attempts at advancing, for better or worse, across a variety of eras, from our early ancestors’ first discovery of fire to the contemporary pursuit of “likes” and “followers.” He calls it “a humorous archaeological dig through the fossil record of our ambitions,” and each chapter pulls no punches. Rather than romanticizing humanity’s progress, Conidis tackles the myths and follies of each era with a critical, entertaining eye.
“The funny thing about the future,” Conidis says, “is that every generation thinks they’re the first to figure it out. We’re not all that different from cavemen—we just swapped campfire storytelling for scrolling and status updates.” His approach is part critique, part stand-up comedy routine, and all satire, painting a portrait of human nature as it has evolved—technologically, if not always intellectually.
In the spirit of Conidis’s previous works, “Progress City” doesn’t merely poke fun at the past and present; it asks readers to reflect on the direction we’re heading. “We’re in an age where tech rules our lives, but we still don’t know what to do with our hands when we take a photo,” he jokes. “Progress has made us smarter on paper, but when it comes to common sense, well… let’s just say it might still be in beta testing.” These observations reveal the hilarious contradictions between our advanced tools and the often unchanged human instincts that wield them.
One central theme of “Progress City” is how humanity’s constant push for the “next big thing” sometimes results in absurdity. “Every few centuries, someone invents something that they swear will change the world—stone tools, steam engines, social media algorithms—and yet here we are, still figuring out how to get along.” Conidis believes that the project will resonate with audiences who can relate to the idea of progress that somehow always leaves us wanting more.
He takes aim at today’s obsession with technology as well, particularly the ways we measure success and fulfillment in digital terms. “In caveman days, your status symbol was the biggest piece of mammoth meat. Today, it’s your follower count. Either way, it’s about who’s got the biggest… following,” he quips. “Progress City” explores how these primitive instincts have evolved—or haven’t—despite our sophisticated new toys.
Conidis’s audience will find that “Progress City” is as much a mirror as it is a comedy. By setting today’s achievements alongside the feats of ancient societies, he paints a comedic picture of the ways we repeat old patterns even as we think we’re blazing new trails. “If we’re so futuristic, why do we still find ourselves in traffic jams?” he jokes. “If the cavemen could see us now, they’d probably just laugh.”
Chris Conidis continues to delight audiences by dissecting society’s quirks with a refreshing sense of humor, proving that comedy can be a powerful tool for reflection. “Progress City” promises to be an enlightening, entertaining journey through the timeline of human aspirations, inviting readers to laugh at how much we’ve changed—and how much we haven’t.
The Incredible Case of Harry Hollow: The Man Without Guts by Chris Conidis

Harry Hollow woke up in his little bungalow on Willow Street, his wife’s warm body curled around his side like a question mark, and he thought, Something’s wrong. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It was like the feeling you get when an old, beloved book is missing from the shelf, but you can’t recall which one.
Outside, the sky was a soft, dappled watercolor of early morning light, the kind of day that smelled of fresh-cut grass and warm pavement. For a moment, Harry almost forgot his strange intuition. He slipped into his slippers, felt the cool floorboards underfoot, and wandered into the bathroom.
That’s when he saw it: he was empty.
Not metaphorically empty, the way a man might feel after a long day of soul-crushing work. No, this was a literal, physical emptiness. Harry pulled up his pajama shirt and stared into the hollow space where his chest should have been. There was nothing. No ribs, no lungs, no heart. Just a dark, cavernous gap that yawned back at him like the entrance to a forgotten cave.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered, poking a finger into the void. It slid in without resistance, as if his body were nothing but a rubbery shell. He felt…nothing. No pain, no pressure, not even a tickle. He was a human glove with no hand inside.
Downstairs, the smell of fresh coffee filled the kitchen. Betty, his wife, was standing at the counter, her yellow bathrobe bright against the morning light.
“You look pale, Harry,” she said, sliding a cup of coffee his way. “Did you get enough sleep?”
“I feel… strange,” he said. “Light. Like I’m missing something.”
Betty laughed, that warm, familiar laugh of hers that reminded him of a summer picnic long ago. “We’re all missing something, Harry,” she said. “That’s just part of life.”
Harry lifted his shirt, revealing the emptiness to her.
Betty blinked at the sight and then, strangely, she didn’t look surprised. If anything, she seemed almost relieved, like she’d been waiting for this moment for years. “Oh, Harry,” she sighed. “You finally noticed.”
At the doctor’s office, the X-ray machine hummed and clicked, its sounds filling the room like the mutterings of an old man. Dr. Barren, whose mustache looked like it had been glued on in a hurry, held up the film to the light.
“Well, this is a first,” he said, squinting at the X-ray. “There’s nothing there, Harry. No organs at all.”
Harry nodded. “That’s what I figured.”
Dr. Barren scratched his head. “But you’re standing here, talking to me. How is that even possible?”
“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “I just feel… hollow.”
Dr. Barren filed the X-ray under “Unsolved Mysteries,” patted Harry on the back, and said with a chuckle, “You’re not the first, you know. Most folks don’t realize they’re hollow until much later in life. Consider yourself lucky, I suppose.”
Harry wandered to the park, feeling a lightness with each step, as though the wind might pick him up and carry him off. He sat down next to Old Tom, the town’s resident philosopher, who was tossing breadcrumbs to the pigeons.
“What’s got you looking so glum?” Tom asked, squinting up at the sky.
“I found out I’m empty,” Harry said. “No heart, no lungs, nothing. Just a hollow shell.”
Tom chuckled, a dry, knowing laugh. “Join the club, Harry,” he said, tossing a crumb to a particularly fat pigeon. “We’re all hollow in one way or another. Some folks just wear their emptiness better than others.”
“But I don’t feel sick,” Harry said. “Shouldn’t I be dead?”
“Who says you need organs to live?” Tom replied, winking. “Maybe you’re lighter without all that baggage. Ever think of it that way?”
Harry thought about that as he watched the pigeons flutter away, their wings beating the air like the turning of unseen pages.
In the weeks that followed, Harry grew to enjoy his condition. He didn’t need to eat, didn’t feel out of breath on the stairs. He could float through his days without the weight of a churning stomach or a pounding heart. He became a man free of burdens, like a kite cut from its string.
One day, he found himself at the pier, looking out at the waves rolling in. He felt the pull of the sea, like it was calling to the emptiness inside him. He stepped forward, the water lapping at his shoes, then his knees, then his waist. He walked deeper until the sea was cradling him like a child.
Harry floated there, feeling lighter than air, lighter than the water itself. He could feel the breeze whistling through the hollow space in his chest, playing a sweet, haunting tune that only he could hear. And as he drifted further out, a smile spread across his lips.
For the first time in his life, Harry felt full—not of organs, not of the messy stuff of life, but of the vast, soothing nothingness that holds up the stars and cradles the tides.
The years passed, and Harry Hollow became something of a local legend. People would speak of him in hushed tones, as if he were a myth or a ghost, something that couldn’t possibly exist in the rational daylight world. One autumn evening, Betty returned to the pier, clutching Harry’s favorite hat in her hands. The sun was setting, painting the sky in strokes of orange and purple.
She looked out at the sea, her face serene but tinged with a wistful sadness. The sound of Harry’s haunting whistle floated on the breeze. For a moment, she could almost feel his arms around her.
Out of the mist, a shadowy figure began to form, rippling on the surface like a mirage. It was Harry, standing there as if he’d never left. He looked at her with eyes that were both familiar and otherworldly, the emptiness inside him now glowing with a soft, silvery light.
“Betty,” he said, his voice the whisper of the tide. “I’m not gone.”
Betty nodded, wiping a tear from her cheek.
“I’ve never felt more complete.” He said.
With that, the mist began to swirl around him, pulling him back into the sea. The water rippled as he faded, and the last thing she saw was the light in his chest, a tiny star sinking into the depths.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the wind picked up again, playing that sweet, hollow tune. It wasn’t a sad sound, not anymore. It was a song of contentment, of a man who had finally found his place in the great, unknowable rhythm of the world.
And every so often, when the fog rolls in thick and the pier is deserted, you might hear it—the distant, lilting whistle of Harry Hollow, the man who discovered that the emptiest places are sometimes the fullest of all. It’s the sound of the space between breaths, the silence before a wave breaks, the music of everything we cannot see but know is there.
A song of peace. A song of home.