family

The Day That Didn’t Hurt
For over a year, I had the date marked in my work calendar: July 27th, 2025. I assumed it would be solemn. Quiet. Sacred. On July 25th, I called Mom while curling my hair as part of my going out ritual. We talked about the usual things: my friends, how being 29 is fun and ridiculous in New York, how I feel more like myself than I have in a while.
By cameron crewsabout a year ago in Fiction
When the Lion Fell
When the Lion Fell — A Tale of Two Foxes and the Rise of a New Reign The forest does not forget. Its soil drinks stories, its trees bear scars, and its wind carries whispers too old for time to erase. Deep in this wilderness—where shadows are longer than memory—ruled a lion named Azhdar. His mane was thick with dried blood, his claws dulled from too many kills. He did not roar to speak, he roared to silence. He was not a king. He was a tyrant.
By Saeed Ullah about a year ago in Fiction
Baptism by Water and Fire. Content Warning.
The last notes of the sunset disappear behind the mountains as we sit in a calm silence. The calm before the storm. She called me last night to tell me he had been beating her and I knew what I had to do. I’ve watched enough true crime to perfectly play out what needs to be done and get away with it. But it has to be done under the veil of night.
By Elizabeth Johnsonabout a year ago in Fiction
*The Last Light*
In the quiet town of Crestwood, where mornings began with a soft veil of fog draping over the hills and the cobblestone streets held the echoes of generations, lived a woman named Elara. She wasn’t loud or bold, but people remembered her—her stillness, the way she listened like every word mattered, and the faint sadness in her eyes that somehow felt comforting, like the hush before snowfall.
By meerjananabout a year ago in Fiction
The Eagle and the Hen
The Eagle and the Hen Long ago, when the sky was closer and the clouds danced freely with the treetops, the animals lived as one family. There was no hunting, no fear. Just community. Among them were the eagle, Akroma, and the hen, Afia.
By Muhammad Younasabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lavender Hour. Top Story - August 2025.
The hillside was bathed in lavender light, the kind that only appeared at the edge of summer evenings. The grass swayed gently, touched by a breeze that smelled faintly of salt and honeysuckle. In the distance, the ocean shimmered like glass, and the sky was so clear it felt painted.
By Liz Burtonabout a year ago in Fiction
Together Through the Storms
There’s a small yellow house at the end of a quiet street where laughter still echoes long after the front door closes. It’s not a grand house... not by the world’s standards... but inside lives a love story that has weathered more storms than the skies themselves.
By MIGrowthabout a year ago in Fiction
*The Last Letter*
The sea didn’t roar in this part of the coast. It sighed. Long, slow breaths that rolled in with the fog and settled over the town like a held thought. Gulls called, not with joy, but with the weary persistence of things that have seen too many winters.
By meerjananabout a year ago in Fiction
A Letter to the Father Who Left
Dear Dad, I don’t know how to begin this letter. It feels strange even calling you “Dad.” The word feels foreign in my mouth, like a name I was never meant to say. But here I am, writing to you after all these years—years that have shaped me, scarred me, and, strangely enough, strengthened me.
By Haris Raheemabout a year ago in Fiction
He Knocked on My Door Claiming to Be My Brother
The knock came at 9:42 p.m. I remember the time because I’d been half-asleep on the couch, the kind of sleep where you’re aware of the television but not the plot. Rain was falling in the slow, steady way that makes you think of nothing in particular.
By Jawad Aliabout a year ago in Fiction
A Voice Without a Face
Paul had always battled sleep. Each night, he tossed and turned, his mind a flickering projector of unfinished tasks, missed deadlines, and "what ifs" that marched in endless loops. His bed, rather than a sanctuary, had become a battleground between rest and racing thoughts. On this night, however, something felt different.
By Anthony Chanabout a year ago in Fiction
Beneath the Surface
“What do you see?” White sand, stretching to the horizon. Gentle turquoise waves kiss the shoreline. The sky is brushed with peach and lavender clouds. The sun hovers low, warming everything with golden light.
By Saeed Ullah about a year ago in Fiction