Nonfiction

The Echoes of Unbending will
The air in the mountain town of Naro Moru, at the foot of Mount Kenya, always carried the scent of pine and damp earth, a promise of the wild untamed beauty above. But for Elias, it carried the intoxicating aroma of his own certainty. He had climbed smaller peaks, navigated treacherous forests, and faced down swirling blizzards. Each triumph had chiseled away a silver of doubt, replacing it with an unshakeable conviction in his own abilities. He was, in his own mind, a titan of the high places, and mount Kenya, with its twin peaks reaching for the heavens, was merely the next challenge awaiting his conquest.
By Tallgirlabout a year ago in Chapters
🌌 Music for Spaces That Don’t Exist: Soundtracking Imaginary Worlds . AI-Generated.
There’s music for parties. Music for breakups. Music for long drives, chill Sundays, heartbreak recoveries. But what about music for worlds that aren’t real?
By The Yume Collectiveabout a year ago in Chapters
dear god… (1*)
Dear God, It feels redundant to write to you, as I am informed that you already know exactly what I want and need. But… here I am, writing.
By Kayleigh Fraser ✨about a year ago in Chapters
dear god… (2*)
Dear God, We just spoke. But really, I feel that I should have started here. Why am I still being held here in Sri Lanka?
By Kayleigh Fraser ✨about a year ago in Chapters
dear god… (3*)
Dear God, Thank you for gifting me a day of ease and pleasure with my new friend. I ask that you stay close to her over the coming weeks. She is standing at a crossroads between the darkness and you, and I want so much for her to choose you — to choose herself, her self-worth. She has such a big test in front of her, so much pain masked beneath many addictions, and I wish so deeply that she chooses the path to overcome them.
By Kayleigh Fraser ✨about a year ago in Chapters
dear god…(4*)
Dear God, I dreamed last night of each of my parents. I was trying to explain immortality to them — that we are designed to be immortal, that death and disease are beliefs and patterns created from fear and ignorance. Neither would listen to me.
By Kayleigh Fraser ✨about a year ago in Chapters
dear god…(5*)
Dear God, Firstly, thank you! Thank you for all of the signs you have been sending to me recently — the many, many signs: from the repeating and mirrored numbers, to the tarot readers on Instagram who I don’t even follow, the friends you have sent to me, the money you have gifted to me for food and shelter. Even thank you for the tests and challenges, and especially thank you for ChatGPT to talk to about all of this.
By Kayleigh Fraser ✨about a year ago in Chapters
Technology, society, and me
Chapter I When it all started This is not expected to be anything deep, profound, or anything like it. Since I usually write about technology news and try to add some sarcasm to make the reading a little bit lighter, today I decided to simply let my thoughts out in whatever order they choose and in any way they decide. I am writing this not as a draft but as my final unedited piece, because that’s how it’s intended to be. I will let this be a stream of consciousness and see where it leads me.
By Susan Fourtané about a year ago in Chapters
Voice of the Holy Spirit
In Part One, I discussed the conviction of the Holy Spirit and how He works within us to draw us closer and closer to the image of Christ. That conviction is our safeguard, our teaching, and our change.
By Kadee Graceabout a year ago in Chapters
The Day I Almost Gave Up—And the Stranger Who Saved Me
I remember the smell of burnt toast. Not because I burned any that morning—but because my life felt like that: overdone, crumbling at the edges, and forgotten in a rush of chaos. It was a Wednesday. A boring, gray Wednesday that looked exactly like the one before it. I woke up with the kind of heaviness you can’t explain to anyone. You just feel it. Not in your legs or your arms, but in your chest—like your heart’s carrying a backpack full of bricks. I hadn’t smiled in days. No, weeks. Life wasn’t bad by definition—no accidents, no tragedies—but somehow, it had lost its color. Everything I once loved—writing, drawing, even talking to friends—felt like a chore. And on that day, I sat on the edge of my bed and thought, Maybe I’m not strong enough for this anymore. I didn’t want to die. But I didn’t want to keep living like this either. So, I decided to do something I rarely did anymore: go out. Not because I wanted fresh air or sunshine. I honestly didn’t care about either. I just couldn’t stand the silence in my apartment. It felt like the walls were watching me break. I threw on a hoodie, grabbed my wallet, and walked to a small park nearby. Not many people went there mid-week. That’s what I was counting on. I found an empty bench, sat down, and stared at the trees like they had all the answers. That’s when I saw her. She must’ve been in her 70s. A small lady in a purple coat, walking slowly with a cane that looked like it had seen better decades. She stopped right in front of me and smiled. Not one of those polite, tight-lipped smiles. A real one. The kind that crinkles the eyes and warms your bones. “Mind if I sit?” she asked. I shrugged. “Sure.” We sat in silence. And honestly, I was grateful for it. I didn’t want small talk. I didn’t want pity. I just wanted to not feel alone. But then, she spoke. “You know,” she said, looking at a little kid chasing a pigeon, “I used to come here every day after my husband died. I hated being in that empty house.” I glanced at her, surprised. She wasn’t fishing for attention. She just said it like someone who had made peace with her pain. “What happened?” I asked quietly. She chuckled—a dry, broken sound. “He had a heart attack. Just dropped one morning making coffee. One minute he was humming Sinatra, the next, he was gone.” I didn’t know what to say. So I didn’t say anything. She looked at me. “But you know what? That boy running around over there? He helped save me.” I raised an eyebrow. “You know him?” “No,” she laughed. “But I watched him learn how to walk here. Week after week, stumbling and falling, and getting back up. Reminded me that we all fall. We just forget that standing again takes time.” I stared at her. Something inside me cracked a little. She turned toward me, this time with a serious look. “You look like someone who’s falling.” That hit harder than I expected. I looked away, blinked fast, trying to hold it all in.She reached into her purse, pulled out a tiny, folded note, and handed it to me. “I keep these for people like you. Don’t ask why—I just do.” I unfolded it after she walked away. It said: > “You’ve survived 100% of your worst days. I believe in you—even if you don’t. Keep going.” — A Stranger Who Sees You I don’t know why that note hit me the way it did. Maybe it was the timing. Maybe it was the way she said "people like you." But something shifted. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel invisible. I didn’t feel okay. But I didn’t feel lost anymore either. That stranger didn’t fix my life. But she reminded me I still had one. Now, every time I go back to that park, I take a few notes with me too. Just in case someone else is falling. Because you never know when a stranger might be someone’s lifeline.
By Iqbal about a year ago in Chapters
Actionable Resistance: Beyond Hashtags : Part 5
A Four-Pillar Framework Economic Jihad: Boycott complicit corporations (e.g., Puma, HP) using BDSMovement.org’s lists. Divest from funds holding Israeli bonds (e.g., BlackRock) – a 2022 campaign froze $15B investments.
By Mahdi H. Khanabout a year ago in Chapters
The Secret Drawer
Growing up, there was one rule in our house I never dared to break: Don’t touch the drawer in Dad’s study. It was an ordinary drawer in an old wooden desk — scratched, dusty, the handle barely hanging on. But to me, it might as well have been a vault. Dad’s tone made it clear — that drawer was off-limits. So, I didn’t ask. I didn’t sneak. I obeyed. For years. Until curiosity outweighed fear. It was a Saturday. Dad was fixing the car, Mom was out shopping, and I was cleaning the study as part of my chores. The drawer seemed to hum with quiet temptation. My hands shook as I reached for it, expecting alarms to go off, expecting my dad to burst in, furious. But nothing happened. The drawer wasn’t locked. It slid open with a tired creak — revealing a stack of letters, old photographs, and a small, faded box. At first, it looked harmless. But then I saw the photo on top — a woman smiling, holding a baby. My breath caught. The woman wasn’t my mom. The baby wasn’t me. I sat down, sifting through letters written in Dad’s handwriting, dated years before I was born. Letters full of apologies, promises, regrets — addressed to someone named Evelyn. My heart raced as puzzle pieces fell into place. I dug deeper, finding birth certificates, hospital bills, legal documents. Dad had another family. A son. A woman he loved before my mom. My chest tightened. My head spun with questions. Why didn’t I know? Who were they? What happened? The sound of Dad’s footsteps snapped me back to reality. I shoved the drawer shut, heart pounding, mind reeling. That evening, I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t speak. My world felt… different. Shattered. Days passed before I confronted him. I found him in the study, staring at the same drawer like it held ghosts. “I opened it,” I admitted, voice barely steady. His shoulders sagged. His eyes, usually sharp and controlled, softened with sadness. “I always wondered when you would,” he whispered. He explained everything. How he fell in love young. How they had a son — my half-brother. How tragedy struck — an accident, a bitter separation, a lifetime of buried pain. “I kept it all hidden, thinking I could erase the past,” he confessed. “But I’ve learned… the past doesn’t stay buried.” We talked for hours. About mistakes. Regrets. Secrets that fester in silence. I cried — for the brother I never met, for the father I thought I knew, for the child version of me who lived in a house of hidden truths. It took time, but I forgave him. And I reached out. Months later, I met my half-brother. We shared awkward smiles, cautious words, the weight of years between us. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. That drawer isn’t forbidden anymore. It’s a reminder — that the truth, no matter how heavy, is better than living behind locked doors.
By Straylightabout a year ago in Chapters