family
12 Kilometers for Hope
Amir was only a child—thin, barefoot, and dust-covered from the long walk he had taken. In the rubble-strewn streets of Gaza, where dreams have been replaced by drone sounds and sirens, Amir walked 12 kilometers in search of something many take for granted: a piece of food.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
"What the Rain Left Behind.". AI-Generated.
The rain had been falling for two days straight, soaking the small town of Mayridge in silence and silver. Most people stayed indoors, watching water race down windows, warm in the comfort of dry kitchens and murmured conversation. But for Mira, the rain wasn’t a nuisance. It was permission. She stepped off the last bus from the city, suitcase in hand, and started walking toward the house she hadn’t seen in five years. --- The porch light was still broken. The mailbox still leaned sideways, rusted at the hinges. And the wind still made the chimes sing out of tune. Mira stood at the gate, breathing in the damp scent of home and regret. She hadn’t called ahead. She didn’t know what she’d say if her mother answered the door. Or if her brother refused to let her in. --- The last time she had been in this house, her voice had echoed off the walls—sharp, angry, unforgiving. Her father had slammed a door, and her mother had broken down in the kitchen. Her brother, Sam, hadn’t said a word. She’d walked out before the apology could form. And then life happened. Or maybe she let it happen to avoid facing what she'd left behind. --- Now, everything looked smaller. The swing set rusted in the backyard. The rose bush she and her mom once planted was long dead, just a crooked tangle of thorns. Still, Mira climbed the porch steps and knocked. Footsteps. Then silence. Then the door opened. Her mother’s face was older, more lined than she remembered. Her hair had gone entirely gray. “Mira.” It wasn’t a question. --- They stood staring at each other, the rain whispering between them. Mira felt a thousand words claw at her throat, but none escaped. Her mother didn’t cry. She didn’t scold. She simply stepped aside. “Come in. You’ll catch cold.” --- The house smelled like cinnamon and old books—familiar, jarring. Mira set down her suitcase and looked around. The same couch. The same photos. One new frame: a picture of Sam at graduation. He hadn’t told her he’d gone back to school. “I didn’t know he—” “He didn’t want to tell you,” her mother said, stirring a mug of tea. “Didn’t want to be disappointed again.” Mira swallowed the words like glass. “I deserve that.” Her mother looked at her for a long time. “Maybe. Maybe not. But you’re here.” --- They sat in the living room, rain tapping the windows like a clock running out of time. “I didn’t know how to come back,” Mira admitted. “Then it’s good you came when it rained.” “Why?” Her mother smiled faintly. “The rain softens things.” --- The next day, Mira walked to Sam’s place down the street. His house was neater than she remembered—tidy yard, red shutters. She hesitated at the door, then knocked. When he opened it, his face registered surprise. Then, guarded silence. “You look tired,” he said. “I am,” she replied. He nodded and stepped aside. They didn’t hug. Didn’t cry. But they sat in his kitchen drinking coffee like old friends pretending they weren’t old strangers. --- “I kept thinking you’d call,” he said quietly. “I wanted to. I just… thought it would hurt less if I stayed gone.” He looked down into his mug. “It didn’t.” --- Mira didn’t cry until she got back to her childhood bedroom. The posters were gone. The books remained. A photo of the four of them—before everything—sat on the desk. She held it like it might disappear if she blinked. The rain was still falling. --- The next morning, the sun broke through. A crack of light through clouds, gold and patient. Mira stood in the backyard, hands dirty from trying to revive the rose bush. She didn’t know if it would grow again. But maybe that didn’t matter. What mattered was that she had come back. --- That night, they had dinner together for the first time in years. It wasn’t perfect. Sam didn’t say much. Her mom burned the chicken. Mira laughed too loud, trying to fill the quiet. But they sat at the same table. Together. --- Sometimes, families break loudly—doors slammed, words flung like knives. But sometimes, they mend quietly—over tea, in gardens, beneath the slow rhythm of rain. And sometimes, coming home isn’t about forgiveness. It’s about finally being willing to be seen again.
By Muhammad umairabout a year ago in Fiction
TeamWater: A Global Wave of Change
TeamWater: A Global Wave of Change Creators Unite to Bring Clean Water to Millions In a world where digital platforms amplify voices and spark movements, a group of visionary creators, led by the inimitable MrBeast—often celebrated as one of YouTube’s brightest stars—has embarked on an extraordinary mission: TeamWater. This ambitious campaign, launched on August 1, 2025, is not just another fundraiser; it’s a clarion call to transform lives by addressing one of humanity’s most fundamental needs—access to clean water. With a goal of raising $40 million to provide sustainable water solutions for 2 million people, TeamWater unites over 3,000 creators from 84 countries, weaving a global tapestry of compassion and action.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Seat Opposite
The railway sleepers awoke to the rattling of the train arriving onto Platform One. The sounds of the engine whirring to a stop as the automatic doors opened to allow safe passage of its soon-to-be passengers. The last train of the night, leaving behind it the safety of his home.
By Joshua Maggsabout a year ago in Fiction
Unheard Words
He announced it as the door closed. Mr. Daniel Barrington at the head of the large oak table bellowed, but it registered as a whisper once Althea Groves, 41, had left the room. She stopped short and looked at the door. It seemed like an albatross spread its wings just at the entrance, but this became a phantasm. As Althea walked away. What did he say?
By Skyler Saundersabout a year ago in Fiction
Seasons Are Transient . Honorable Mention in The Summer That Wasn’t Challenge.
The cumulus clouds neatly puncture through the heat haze rising from the smoldering asphalt. They cruise at a speed slow enough that pedestrians stop to admire them, hovering above their sweaty scalps as they gallivant through the streets. Floating through a late-July cerulean sky, the clouds are a visual reminder of the vivacity of summer, but also of its ephemerality. Soon, just like the clouds, summer will dissipate.
By Jose Antonio Sotoabout a year ago in Fiction
The Letter I Was Never Meant to Read
By Nadeem Shah It was tucked inside the back of an old shoebox—between brittle birthday cards and a black-and-white photo of a woman I didn’t recognize. I wasn’t supposed to find it. But fate has a cruel way of revealing things when you’re least prepared.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Fiction
Surface Tension. Top Story - August 2025.
“What do you see?” An endless, white sandy beach. The crystalline waters of the ocean are turquoise and emerald. The waves lap against the sand. The sky is dotted with peach and lavender clouds. It’s almost sunset.
By Elizabeth Kaye Daughertyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Tower
Tired doesn’t even begin to describe what is happening right now in my body. There is definitely a lack of hydration, which could be from replacing water with coffee, Red Bull, or vodka, but science is still out on that one. Or it could be the fact that I am a 28-year-old college student living in a studio dorm with a 19-year-old who has never cleaned or cooked for themselves in their entire life. Samantha is kind and means well, but we need to discuss boundaries again if we plan to live together after graduation.
By Tabitha Thomasabout a year ago in Fiction
