family

Fate's Magical Mishap
Reverse to Part Two Reverse to Part One THREE When I was a child, I loved Gatherings. Unlike the rituals and holiday celebrations, Gatherings meant the entire clan. No one was worried about following the correct steps that had been handed down for more generations than anyone could count. No one stood on ceremony (except with the elders because the last thing anyone wanted to do was piss off an elder) and the relaxed atmosphere allowed different groups to interact. Everything was relaxed, including the dress code, so I wasn’t out of place in my peasant blouse and jeans.
By Reb Kreylingabout a year ago in Fiction
Fate's Magical Mishap
Reverse to Part One TWO The test had settled to the back of my mind while I was at work, but I had to pass it before I would be allowed to claim my familiar. I had intended to practice before I had to prove myself in front of the elders, but I arrived home from work to find my mother in a tizzy as she raced around with her hair half done. I barely had time to change into my white dress before my mother was hurrying me out to the car. As we drove to the grove, I hurriedly brushed and braided my hair. At least I didn’t have to do the intricate braids my mother had her hair bound into; mine was a simple single braid.
By Reb Kreylingabout a year ago in Fiction
Griefhouse. Content Warning.
Griefhouse Marla didn’t know why the house called her. On a rainy evening, it appeared at the edge of the road, dark and half-hidden by mist and overgrown hedges. She had passed it countless times, always curious, always turning away. That day, something in her chest tightened — a pull she could not resist. The front door swung open before she reached it. No lock, no key, only a heavy sigh of air that seemed almost alive. Inside, the hall stretched unnaturally, lined with peeling wallpaper and faded portraits that watched her. Her own reflection appeared in a tarnished mirror, pale and uncertain, a ghost of herself she barely recognized. --- I. The First Room The first room smelled of damp paper and smoke. Dust motes floated in the weak light from a cracked chandelier. A chair faced the fireplace, unlit. On the mantle, a photograph of a child she once knew — her younger sister, gone ten years ago — stared back. As Marla reached for the photo, the room shifted. The chair turned slowly toward her, its shadow stretching unnaturally across the floor. A whisper rose from the walls: “You left me.” Her throat closed. She fell to her knees. The room responded, walls contracting, ceilings lowering, pressing against the hollow in her chest. She remembered the argument with her sister the morning she left town, the words that had struck like knives, the silence that followed. The house forced her to see. ---
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Brothers of the Same Flame
The desert wind carried whispers of dust and fire as dusk settled over the village of Aresh. In its fading light, two brothers stood where the sands met the stone cliffs, their shadows stretching long across the earth.
By Rohullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Saving Skott with a K.. Top Story - August 2025.
"You have the right to remain silent...anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, if you cannot afford one...one will be appointed for you".
By Novel Allenabout a year ago in Fiction
All that remained in his life was silence.
In the corner of his room, a small candle burned, its scent a mix of sandalwood, frankincense, and half-wilted rose petals, fighting a losing battle against the stench of the world outside—a world filled with noise, blood, and betrayal. The pale moonlight fell across his sword, resting on two wooden stands. It was his master’s blade, the one that had once destroyed the Emperor’s enemies.
By Hazrat Bilalabout a year ago in Fiction
The Bench Under the Old Oak
There are places in every town that quietly hold the weight of history. They are not listed in guidebooks, nor are they protected by velvet ropes or tourist cameras. Yet, they are sacred in their own way. For my hometown, that place was the bench under the old oak tree.
By ✦•············• Freelancer •············✦about a year ago in Fiction
The Library That Erases Regrets
The Library That Erases Regrets By [Hazrat Bilal khan] It was raining the night Clara found the library. She hadn’t planned to be out so late—her shift at the diner ended early because the power flickered out in the storm, leaving the place cold and silent. Clara decided to walk home rather than call a cab, partly to save money, partly because the rhythmic drumming of rain on the empty sidewalks made her feel less alone.
By Hazrat Bilalabout a year ago in Fiction
The Perfume That Changed the World: Dior Sauvage and the Psychology of Scent
The Perfume That Changed the World: Dior Sauvage and the Psychology of Scent How fragrance became an invisible weapon of luxury and desire.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Rules of the Street
The train screeched into the underground station; its brakes shrilled against steel. Joey stepped inside, careful as always. The ride was short—barely two miles—but in the city, distance mattered less than timing. Two miles could feel like a lifetime if you broke the rules.
By Anthony Chanabout a year ago in Fiction
Letter Ashes
There was a subtle scent of dust and cedar in the wardrobe. It had been years since Margaret had opened it. Her late husband's suits were still in it, immaculately ironed, as if he might come in and require one for Sunday service. A forgotten train ticket was still in the pocket of his favourite grey overcoat, which hung by the side. She told herself that she saved these things for memory, but the reality was more straightforward: she couldn't bring herself to break the silence they held. Sunlight filtered through her bedroom's lace curtains that autumn afternoon, strewing golden patterns on the wooden floor. She was cleaning grudgingly, attempting to ignore the sadness of yet another year without Edward. She felt a strange sensation at the back of the wardrobe when her hand touched a loose lining. Below, something crinkled.
By M.Bilalabout a year ago in Fiction
Fate’s Magical Mishap
Thank you so much to my support team, Liz and Betsy. Betsy read this more times than I think she’s read anything I’ve written and offered helpful hints along the way. Liz has always been suppotive of me and continues.
By Reb Kreylingabout a year ago in Fiction