family
"The Promise of Friendship"
"The Promise of Friendship" Raindrops tapped gently against the window, their soft rhythm filling the room with a quiet melancholy. The air carried a faint chill, mingling with the scent of old paper. Amir sat at the corner of his bed, turning the yellowed pages of an old diary. Each page carried a story, a memory, a moment frozen in time. But there was one page that always struck a deep chord in his heart — the one that belonged to Zainab.
By New stAr writer about a year ago in Fiction
Kindness in the Middle of Nowhere
Story: The sun beat down mercilessly on the cracked asphalt as Mara’s old sedan wheezed and finally gave up the fight. She coasted to a stop on a narrow, deserted stretch of road surrounded by endless fields of dry grass and low shrubs. No gas stations, no towns, no passing cars for miles.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Longest Night
8:47 PM The sun was dying slow behind the tree line, a dark cherry bruise spreading across the fading ember sky. Phoebe killed the engine of her VW van, listening to the ticks and pops of it cooling down as if it would cool her nerves along with it. The urn on the passenger seat gleamed like bone in the growing purple light.
By Ellie Hoovsabout a year ago in Fiction
The Postcard That Arrived Twenty Years Late
The postcard slid out of the mail stack like a ghost. It didn’t belong—nestled between a gas bill and a garish coupon flyer, its edges were curled, the paper soft from being touched too often. The handwriting on the front stopped Mara cold. Loops and flourishes, the kind she’d memorized as a child when she’d copy her sister’s cursive in the margins of her school notebooks.
By MUHAMMAD BILALabout a year ago in Fiction
An Absence of Stars
The two girls are arguing over a toy from the dollar store, a cheap plastic lizard that is now missing three toes and the tip of its tail. It is a shade of purple not normally found in nature, with glowing green eyes faded from smudged fingerprints. Gigi splits the air with her scream, and the mother look over at her cell phone lying discarded on the desk atop a pile of papers and books.
By Alison McBainabout a year ago in Fiction
The Man Who Sold Sunlight
For sixty-three years, the sun had been nothing more than a memory. The sky was a permanent bruise choked by ash, smog, and the scars of wars that had burned the atmosphere beyond repair. Crops shriveled before they could sprout. Rivers turned to glass. Cities disappeared beneath layers of ice and silence.
By Muzamil khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Letter – A Love That Never Ended
Rain pattered softly against the windowpane. Inside, the room was wrapped in a stillness broken only by the delicate tapping of raindrops. Saba sat at an old wooden desk, a yellowed letter trembling in her hands, its ink faded by time. Her damp hair clung to her shoulders, but her gaze was lost in every word on the paper.
By New stAr writer about a year ago in Fiction
