family

The Sentient City's Plea
The first time I saw the city bleed, I was walking home in the rain. A crack in the pavement, usually filled with black grime, was seeping a liquid, golden light. It pulsed faintly, in time with the flicker of the streetlamp above me. I wrote it off as a weird refraction, a trick of the water and neon.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Held the Book of Time
In a world that often rushes forward without pausing, where moments slip through our hands like sand in an hourglass, there stood a girl on the edge of a cliff, holding a glowing book. Her wings, delicate and luminous, stretched behind her, brushing against the winds of change. Around her floated symbols of life itself — a clock, a rose, a tree by the river, and a geometric light that hinted at the future of technology. Each one was more than just an image. They were chapters of a greater story, a story the world needed to hear. The Clock: Time as a Silent Teacher The clock above her glowed warmly, its hands frozen at a moment she could not ignore. Time is the one currency we can never earn back, the one treasure we all share yet treat with carelessness. As she gazed at the clock, she remembered her childhood days when hours felt endless, where laughter rang across fields without worry of deadlines or losses. But as years passed, she began to feel the weight of every second. She saw people living in the shadows of regret, holding on to the past or rushing toward futures that never arrived. She realized that the true gift of time is presence — being fully alive in this exact moment, the one right in front of us. The clock whispered to her: “Do not fear my ticking. Fear only the moments you waste not loving, not creating, not becoming.” The Rose: Love in Fragile Form Floating beside the clock was a rose, crimson and vivid, its petals soft yet edged with thorns. To the girl, the rose was a reminder of love’s duality. Love could heal wounds deeper than oceans, but it could also pierce like fire through the skin of trust. She had known love — the pure laughter of friendship, the ache of first heartbreak, and the silent loyalty of her parents who believed in her when the world doubted. Yet she had also seen love abused, manipulated, and taken for granted. The rose glowed not to remind her of loss but of resilience. For even when its petals fell, the roots remained alive, capable of blooming again. She thought of how many people give up on love when it fails once, how many forget that love is not only romance but also kindness, empathy, and compassion. The rose whispered to her: “Do not measure love by what is lost. Measure it by the courage it gives you to bloom again.” The Tree and the River: Growth and Flow Below her, on the green rolling hills, grew two trees. They were grounded and strong, their branches stretching upward as if reaching for the stars. Beneath them, a river meandered gracefully, neither in a rush nor in hesitation, but steady in its flow. The girl saw herself in both the tree and the river. Like the tree, she had grown through seasons of storms, losing leaves in winters of grief yet always regaining strength in springs of hope. Like the river, she had learned that life’s journey was never straight, but winding, carving its own way through mountains and valleys. The trees reminded her of patience — growth that is slow but powerful. The river reminded her of surrender — the wisdom to let go and move forward even when paths are uncertain. The earth whispered to her: “Do not resist change. Let yourself grow, let yourself flow, and you will always find your way.” The Geometric Light: The Future in Our Hands Above her, a geometric cube of light shimmered, glowing like the pulse of a digital heart. It represented the future — technology, progress, and the uncharted paths humanity would walk. She thought of the world’s obsession with advancement, how society chased innovation without always questioning its cost. The cube was a symbol of potential, but also of responsibility. For every invention that brought healing, there was one that brought destruction. For every connection the digital world offered, there was also disconnection from reality. The girl knew the book in her hands was a choice. Inside it were stories unwritten, futures undecided. She could fill its pages with hope, with wisdom, with harmony between humanity and progress. Or she could let the cube blind her into believing that faster meant better, that convenience meant meaning. The cube whispered to her: “Do not fear the future. Fear only a future where humanity forgets its soul.” The Glowing Book: A Story Yet to Be Written All these symbols circled around her, but it was the glowing book in her hands that mattered most. Its light illuminated her face, filling her with both awe and responsibility. She realized that the book was not just hers — it was everyone’s. Each person alive holds their own book of life, waiting to be written with choices, dreams, and actions. The symbols around her were universal chapters: time, love, growth, and the future. But how those chapters are written is different for each soul. She felt the weight of possibility. Would her story be one of courage or fear? Would she choose kindness or bitterness? Would she value moments or let them slip away? The book did not answer. Instead, it waited. Standing on the Edge The girl stood on the cliff, the river stretching endlessly into the horizon. The sun was setting, painting the sky in fiery gold and deep blue, as if the heavens themselves wanted her to decide. She could close the book and let life write itself, passively drifting through time. Or she could write with intention, using every page to create a story worth remembering. And then, she understood. The book was not magic. The wings on her back were not gifts. The clock, rose, tree, river, and cube were not destinies. They were reminders. The real magic was in the act of choosing, of living, of loving, of creating. A Story for Us All Her story is not only hers — it is ours. Each of us stands on our own cliff at some point in life, holding the same glowing book. Each of us faces the same whispers: Time urging us to be present. Love calling us to keep blooming. Growth reminding us to be patient. The Future asking us to use wisdom. And in our hands lies the same choice — what story will we write? As she opened the first page, the light grew brighter. The wind shifted. The cliff beneath her felt less like an edge and more like a beginning. The girl smiled, knowing that her story, like all stories worth telling, would be imperfect but alive. And with that thought, she began to write.
By Fazal wahid about a year ago in Fiction
Sharpening the Axe: A Village Tale of Hard Work and Wisdom
The Woodcutter’s Lesson BY:Ubaid In a small village of dusty roads and humble homes lived Fazlu, a hardworking but struggling man. Every morning, before the sun had fully risen, he would step out of his modest hut in search of daily labor. His life was uncertain, as his earnings depended on whether he could find work that day. Some days he returned with enough money to buy food for his family; on others, he came home empty-handed, with only exhaustion and disappointment as his companions. There was no stable source of income in his life. Whatever small amount he earned after a long day of toil was quickly consumed by the basic needs of his family. At the end of each evening, his pockets would once again be empty, and the cycle of hope and despair would start over the next morning. Time kept moving forward, and with it his children grew older. Their needs grew as well. Clothes, books, and school fees added to the burden of feeding hungry stomachs. Fazlu’s wife, Noor Fatima, was a simple yet wise woman. She understood that the occasional wages her husband brought home were no longer enough to sustain the household. One evening, after seeing her children go to bed hungry yet again, she looked at her husband and said softly, “Fazlu, we cannot live like this anymore. The children are growing. They need food, clothes, and education. We need a steady source of income. You must think of a permanent solution.” Fazlu listened carefully. He was a man of immense willpower, though life had tested him in countless ways. That night he lay awake, thinking. He realized his wife was right. His strong arms and hardworking spirit were his only wealth, but perhaps he could use them differently. The very next morning, he walked into the local market with the small savings he had managed to put aside. After careful thought, he bought a sturdy axe. With determination in his eyes, he returned home and headed straight for the forest that lay on the edge of the village. For hours he swung the new axe with all his might, cutting thick branches and gathering bundles of wood. By evening, he carried the heavy load to the market and sold it. To his surprise, he earned more that day than he ever had through daily labor. That night, for the first time in many weeks, the family sat together around a simple meal and ate to their fill. There was laughter in the home again. Fazlu realized he had found a new livelihood. Day after day, he went to the forest. Each morning he rose with fresh energy, determined to chop more wood than the day before. His efforts paid off. With steady income, the family’s condition improved. They could afford proper meals, small comforts, and even save a little for the children’s education. But as months passed, Fazlu noticed something troubling. His arms ached more than before, and though he worked from dawn to dusk, he could no longer cut the same amount of wood. His earnings began to fall. The family once again felt the pressure of poverty creeping in. His wife noticed the change. One evening she asked, “Fazlu, why are we earning less now? Do you not work as hard as before?” He sighed deeply and replied, “I still spend the entire day in the forest, working harder than ever. But the axe does not cut as it once did. It takes far more effort, and yet I bring home fewer bundles of wood.” Noor Fatima thought carefully, then asked a simple question: “Since the day you bought the axe, how many times have you sharpened its blade?” Fazlu was silent for a moment. Then he admitted, “I never thought of sharpening it. If I spend time taking it to the blacksmith, then when will I cut the wood?” His wife smiled gently. “Fazlu, if you spend just a little time sharpening the axe, you will be able to cut more wood in less time. The effort you save will make you stronger, and the earnings will be greater. Sometimes, pausing to prepare makes the work easier.” Her words struck him like a revelation. He realized that in his eagerness to work hard, he had forgotten the wisdom of working smart. The very next day, he took the axe to the blacksmith and had the blade sharpened until it gleamed. When he returned to the forest and swung it at a tree, the wood split with astonishing ease. In just a few hours, he collected more firewood than he had in many long days of struggle. From that day forward, Fazlu made it a habit to sharpen his axe regularly. His productivity soared, his income stabilized, and the dark clouds of poverty began to lift once again. His children went to school with books in their hands, and his home echoed with joy instead of worry. The story of Fazlu spread through the village. People admired his determination, but they also learned from his lesson: hard work alone is not enough; wisdom and preparation are equally important.
By Ubaid about a year ago in Fiction
The Boy With Half a Name
She noticed it first in his voice. He came in from the backyard, cheeks still flushed, cuffs heavy with grass. Her name rose on his lips and faltered, the sound snagging in his throat like a word left too long in silence. He lingered there, eyes narrowed, head tilted, as though the missing part might drift back on its own.
By Fatal Serendipityabout a year ago in Fiction
The Chronos Weaver
My grandmother was a weaver, but her tapestries didn’t hang in galleries. They hung in the air for a moment, shimmering with light and memory, before fading into the fabric of reality itself. She was a Chronos Weaver, the last in a long line of women who could mend time.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mighty Lion and the Brave Little Mice
The Story In the heart of a vast forest where the trees touched the skies and the rivers sang as they flowed, lived a lion named Rudra. Rudra was no ordinary lion—he was the king of the forest. His mane shone like gold under the sun, his roar shook the valleys, and his strength was unmatched. Every creature in the forest respected him, not only because of his power but also because of his sense of justice.
By Hamza Muhammadabout a year ago in Fiction
The City of Almost
The City of Almost When Mira first moved to the city, she thought the locals were joking. “You’ll see them,” her landlord had said while handing her the brass key with its strange, crooked teeth. “Don’t stare too long. That’s the trick.”
By Timothy A Rowlandabout a year ago in Fiction
The Weight of Invisible Things
Maya had been carrying the box for three weeks when her sister finally asked about it. “What’s in there?” Elena said, nodding toward the shoebox tucked under Maya’s arm as they walked through the hospital corridor. It was the same box Maya brought to every chemotherapy session, every doctor’s appointment, every sleepless night spent researching clinical trials at 3 AM.
By E.K. Danielsabout a year ago in Fiction
The Message That Never Left
Elena typed the words three times before erasing them. The first draft was too blunt. We’re done. Don’t call me again. The second too sentimental. I’ll always care for you, but this isn’t working. The third hovered somewhere in the middle, but still her thumb trembled above the glowing blue arrow on the screen.
By Timothy A Rowlandabout a year ago in Fiction
Ghosted. Top Story - September 2025.
Tired from a long workday and late dinner with her teenage twins, Laura checked her Facebook account before bed. She was terrified that she almost forgot to wish her high school friend a happy birthday. Laura herself turned 45 several months earlier and was pleased to get all the FB Birthday wishes from so many people! She always tried to do the same for her friends. Thank God for Facebook reminders!
By Lana V Lynxabout a year ago in Fiction
The Room on the Plans. Runner-Up in The Forgotten Room Challenge.
The first time I saw the room, it was a photocopy at the city office, third floor, Planning and Development. Fluorescent lights buzzed like gnats. The clerk, a man in a loose tie and a loose understanding of urgency, slid the papers across the counter as if he were sending a raft down a lazy river.
By Aspen Nobleabout a year ago in Fiction
The weight of luggage
Sophie was sitting on a bench by the seaside. Although the sea was not one she recognised, the fresh breeze on her face felt good. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly, just like she used to do in yoga class. The waves rolled in, not violent, not calm either, somewhere in between, carrying a rhythm that made her restless. Beside her, a man sat in silence with his hands folded neatly over his lap. It took her a moment to see him fully. Her father.
By Susan Fourtané about a year ago in Fiction