family
They're All Silent
The possibilities had been endless. With a boyfriend who had been the CEO of a major airline company, Phillip had been poised to spend his summer gallivanting all over the world. From Boston where he’d lived, he could have flown to Iceland to visit Thingvellir National Park. After, he’d have hopped on the next flight to England to see all the historical places in London. True, he would have been alone for most of the journey as Roland was a very important man whose free time was limited. Still, he would have been able to join Phillip for part of the trip, and he would have had no problem funding the whole thing too.
By B. M. Valdezabout a year ago in Fiction
Catch & Release. Honorable Mention in The Summer That Wasn’t Challenge.
David stares out the window at the spatters of rain hitting the pavement. The pane is cracked open and the sound of it rushes in like a chorus of whispered relief after the heat wave they’ve been having. He’s spent the majority of his vacation holed up in his room with the AC on blast, bent over his laptop. As far as his mother is concerned, he’s been playing video games. It’s not a lie, not entirely. It’s just that this summer, the last that David has before he goes off to college, he has a little more than beating Diablo III on his mind.
By Raistlin Allenabout a year ago in Fiction
QUEENS OF TEARS
In a big city in South Korea, there lived a woman named Hong Hae-in. She was very rich. Her family owned a huge company called Queens Group. It sold clothes, food, and many things. Hae-in was beautiful, smart, and strong. Everyone called her the "queen" of the company. But deep inside, she was not always happy.
By Shakespeare Jrabout a year ago in Fiction
The Washingtons. Honorable Mention in Everything Looks Better From Far Away Challenge. Content Warning.
Polly couldn't believe her luck when she'd gotten the news: her job application had been accepted. She - Polly Louise Dinkel - Little Miss Nobody, was going to be the media manager for the Washington Family.
By Natalie Grayabout a year ago in Fiction
Back to School
Who remembers reporting to school on that first day of school? Walking into those freshly waxed hallways and classrooms, catching up with some friends that you haven't seen all summer. Then, the bell rings and you head to your homeroom and find your seat and seek out your schedule to see what kind of year you are going to have with happiness or trepidation. All the days as it has done for years starts out with the Pledge of Allegiance followed by a moment of silent meditation followed by morning announcements. Welcome back, everyone and let's have a great year!
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Dog Days of August
August to me is the Dog Days of Summer as well as the month to get ready for Back-to-School. The days are still hot, and one just lays around for the last days of just plain relaxing are just about done for the busy days are not that far off now. The excitement for me and going back-to-school and seeing all my school friends, but also the excitement of family reunions and a few other end-of-summer picnics. The dog days of August are days to remember and to take a breath for Christmas is not that far away for us.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Saiyaara
The night sky in Montana was breathtaking — the kind of darkness that felt ancient, pierced by stars that seemed too sharp, too perfect to be real. Samira stood alone on her porch, wrapped in an oversized sweater, her bare feet cold against the wooden boards. She tilted her head upward, letting the stars fill the spaces her heart had grown too tired to fill on its own.
By USAMA KHANabout a year ago in Fiction
The Silent Forest. AI-Generated.
They said the forest had no voice. The birds would not sing there. The wind that howled through the mountains would stop short at its edge, retreating like a wave denied the shore. No matter how many times the seasons changed, the Silent Forest remained untouched by time or sound. And yet, every year, someone disappeared into it. Not permanently. Just long enough to return different. --- Elara was not the kind of girl who went into places like that. She was grounded, analytical—head full of questions and notebooks, not fairy tales. But when her older brother Calen vanished six months after their parents died, everything changed. He left no note. No fight. No warning. Just walked out into the twilight and never came home. The only clue: a pressed silver fern on his pillow, a plant that only grew in the depths of the Silent Forest. The townspeople whispered that he went willingly. “Some people don’t come back from grief,” they said. But Elara refused to believe her brother would abandon her. So, on the evening of her eighteenth birthday, she crossed the threshold where even the wind held its breath. --- The change was instant. Inside the forest, there were no sounds—not even the crunch of her boots on the ground. Her movements were silent, like the air had swallowed them. It was unnerving, but not frightening. It was… peaceful. As she walked, Elara realized something strange: she could hear her own thoughts clearly. Not the cluttered tangle they usually were, but soft and orderly, like someone had sorted them for her. She passed trees that shimmered faintly in the dark, their bark etched with markings that looked like writing—but shifted when she tried to read them. A stream flowed nearby, yet made no sound. And above, the canopy danced as if swaying to music she could no longer hear. --- She didn’t know how long she walked—hours, maybe days—but time worked differently here. Eventually, she reached a clearing bathed in pale blue light. At its center stood a massive tree, taller than anything she’d seen, its bark glowing like moonlight and leaves the color of midnight ink. Beneath it: a stone table, covered in moss and memory. And standing beside it, Calen. He was older now. Not just in years, but in presence. His eyes held stillness, and his voice, when he finally spoke, felt like a whisper inside her own mind. “You made it.” Elara ran to him. Hugged him. Tried to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. The forest didn’t allow such noise. “I thought you were gone.” “I was,” he said simply. “But not lost.” --- He explained, slowly and silently, what the Silent Forest truly was. It was a keeper of forgotten things—of memories too painful to carry, of grief too heavy to speak aloud. It did not erase; it held. Safely, quietly. Those who entered it seeking answers were shown what they had forgotten. Those who came with pain were offered peace—not by removing it, but by wrapping it in silence so it could breathe. “I didn’t abandon you,” Calen said. “I came here to survive. And to remember them… without breaking.” He placed a hand over her heart. “You came here to do the same.” --- Elara felt the weight she’d buried—the nights without sleep, the guilt of surviving, the echo of a door that never opened again. All of it came rushing forward. But instead of drowning in it, she felt still. Because the forest didn’t ask her to be strong. It simply listened. She closed her eyes and whispered what she could never say out loud: > “I miss you, Mom. I miss you, Dad. I miss who we were before.” And the forest heard her. The tree shimmered. The silence deepened, warm and protective. A breeze passed—soft and quiet—and Elara felt her heart finally exhale. --- When she woke, she was back at the edge of town, the sun rising behind her. In her hand: a pressed silver fern. In her pocket: a note in Calen’s handwriting. > “We are not alone in our silence. When the noise becomes too much, come back. I’ll be listening.” --- *Some forests whisper with wind. This one whispers with memory.* And sometimes, what heals us isn’t what we hear—but what we’re finally allowed to forget.
By Muhammad umairabout a year ago in Fiction
He Called Me Every Year on My Birthday—Even After I Blocked Him
He Called Me Every Year on My Birthday—Even After I Blocked Him Written by Raza Iqbal I blocked his number on March 12, 2018. That was the day I swore I’d move on. No more texts, no more “just checking in,” no more late-night voicemails that arrived after two glasses of whatever he’d been drinking and too many memories he hadn’t buried. I’d told myself I was done. But truthfully, I never believed that would stop him. The first time he called after the block, I didn’t notice. It wasn’t until the following morning that I saw the “Missed Call – Unknown Number” notification. March 12, 2019. My 31st birthday. I stared at it for a long time, then deleted it. But the next year, it happened again. And the next. And the next. Every year, without fail, there’d be a missed call from an unknown number on my birthday. Just one. No voicemail. No follow-up text. Just a ghost tapping at the door once a year to say, I still remember you. His name was Noah. We met in the fall of 2012—two aimless souls in their twenties with dreams too big and plans too messy. He was the kind of person who quoted song lyrics like gospel, made eye contact like it was an art form, and kissed like he was afraid it might be the last time. And maybe that was the problem. Every moment with him felt like it was clinging to the edge of goodbye. We lasted three years. Or maybe we didn’t. Because even when we were together, there was always this invisible expiration date hanging over us. He wanted freedom. I wanted roots. He craved the thrill of not knowing where he’d sleep tomorrow. I needed the certainty of a place called home. He left on a Tuesday. Didn’t even pack properly—just shoved a few shirts into a bag, kissed my forehead, and said, “I’ll come back when I’m better.” He didn’t come back. When I finally blocked him years later, it wasn’t because I hated him. It was because I knew I’d never heal if he kept lingering like static on an untuned radio. I needed silence. But even silence isn’t always quiet. Every year, on March 12th, I’d catch myself glancing at my phone. And there it would be—one missed call. Always from a different number. Always with the same weight. I tried changing my number once. Just to see. March 12, 2022. Missed call. Unknown number. How he kept finding me, I never figured out. Maybe he used friends. Maybe he hired someone. Maybe he just remembered the rhythm of my life better than I thought. Then came March 12, 2025. The call didn’t come. I checked at midnight. Then again at 3 a.m. I left my phone on loud all day. But there was nothing. And somehow, that silence was louder than all the calls before it. I told myself it was a good thing. That it meant I could finally breathe. That maybe he’d moved on. Or maybe… maybe he couldn’t call. That thought stuck in my throat like a splinter. So I did something I hadn’t done in years. I called him. I tried the last number he’d called from the year before. It had been from a small town in Vermont, if I remembered right. The number rang twice, then disconnected. No voicemail box. Just—gone. Something felt off. So I searched his name online. Not expecting much. Just trying to prove to myself that he was still somewhere out there. That he just forgot. But instead, I found his obituary. Noah Elias, age 39, passed away on February 20th, 2025. A traveler, a poet, and a restless soul. Survived by his sister, a worn guitar, and too many unfinished songs. I stared at the screen for a long time. He died three weeks before my birthday. He didn’t forget. He never forgot. And now, he never would again. A week later, I received a package in the mail. No return address. Just my name, handwritten in the messy, slanted print I hadn’t seen in almost a decade. Inside was a cassette tape and a letter. > “Hey. If you're hearing this, I probably missed your birthday. I’m sorry about that. But I didn’t want this year to be different. So I asked someone to send you this. Don’t worry, it’s not a guilt trip. Just... me. One last time.” I found an old cassette player in the attic. Blew the dust off. Slid the tape in. His voice filled the room. Older, softer. But still him. He spoke for ten minutes. Told me about the mountains he’d climbed, the songs he never finished, the lovers that never quite fit. He talked about regret, about time, about how he never stopped thinking about me. > “I know I wasn’t good at staying. But I was always good at remembering. You were the only thing I never let go of, even when I should have.” > “So happy birthday, one last time. I hope your world is full, your heart is quiet, and your days are soft. I’ll stop calling now. Not because I forgot. But because I finally understand letting go.” > “Love you always. N.” I listen to that tape once a year now. On March 12th. Not because I’m holding on. But because I’m honoring the sound of someone who finally learned how to say goodbye.
By Moonlit Lettersabout a year ago in Fiction
She Left Her Diary in My Drawer—Three Days After Her Funeral
She Left Her Diary in My Drawer—Three Days After Her Funeral Written by Mirza I didn’t cry at her funeral. I thought I would. God knows I wanted to. But as the final shovelful of dirt landed on Emily’s casket, all I could feel was silence—a gaping absence that settled somewhere behind my ribs like a forgotten breath. Three days later, I found the diary. It wasn’t something she kept on a shelf or in a box. It wasn’t tucked away neatly. It was just there—sitting in the top drawer of my nightstand like it had always belonged there. And maybe, in some strange way, it had. It was a small leather-bound book, deep blue, edges worn. A single rose was pressed between the last few pages. I recognized it immediately—it was from that picnic in early spring. The one where she laughed so hard she choked on lemonade and made me promise I’d never bring up her ugly snort-laugh again. She made me promise a lot of things. She made me promise I’d live boldly. That I wouldn’t turn into one of those sad, gray people who let the world happen to them. That if anything ever happened to her, I’d remember to still dance in the kitchen and drink cheap wine on Tuesday nights. She never made me promise not to fall apart. The first page was dated five years ago, the day we met. > June 14th He has tired eyes, but kind ones. I don’t know why I noticed him first, but I did. He sat alone, reading a book he probably didn’t want anyone to ask about. I asked anyway. He said it was boring. I think he’s lying. I hope I see him again. We had met at a bookstore. That wasn’t a lie. But I didn’t know that moment had etched itself so deeply into her memory. I kept reading. > October 2nd He finally kissed me. I thought I’d feel fireworks, like in the movies. But instead, I felt calm. That kind of peace that creeps in when you stop running. I’ve always been running. I paused. I remembered that kiss. It was raining. We stood beneath the awning of that little café on 8th and Main, and she tasted like cinnamon and hesitation. I didn’t know she was running from anything. I never asked. I kept turning pages, and with each one, she became more alive. Her voice filled the room. Her words curled around me like the scent of her favorite sweater I hadn’t been able to throw out. There were pages about her fears—about cancer, about time, about leaving me alone. > March 9th The doctor said it might be nothing, but my gut says otherwise. I haven’t told him. Not yet. I don’t want to steal the light from his eyes. > April 3rd It’s not nothing. I knew it. Stage three. I cried in the parking lot for ten minutes, then ate a muffin like it was just a normal day. I’m good at pretending. I’ve been doing it since I was twelve. > May 27th I told him. He didn’t cry. But he held me like the world was ending, and for a moment, I let it. God. I remembered that night. How quiet we were. How loud the silence was. How she stared at the ceiling for hours while I lay beside her, memorizing the rhythm of her breath like it might leave me at any moment. She never let me read her pain. But here it was. Bleeding ink on paper. Honest. Unfiltered. The kind of vulnerability she never showed in daylight. And then I turned to the last entry. > The day before my birthday He’s sleeping beside me. I wonder if he knows I sometimes stay awake just to hear his breathing. That I count the seconds between each inhale. That I love him enough to let go. If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone. And I’m sorry. Not for leaving—but for not telling you how much you saved me. You made life worth the fight, even when I didn’t want to fight anymore. The diary is in your drawer now because I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye properly. You would’ve kept looking for closure in all the wrong places—in books, in songs, in old text messages. So I’m giving it to you here. In my words. In these pages. In this love that doesn’t end just because I did. Live boldly. Keep dancing. And know, wherever I am, I’m probably laughing at your terrible taste in music. Forever your Emily. I don’t remember how long I sat there after finishing. Maybe an hour. Maybe the whole night. At some point, my hand moved to close the diary, but I couldn’t bring myself to let it go. She had written me a goodbye when I didn’t get one. She had left behind not just memories, but answers. Love in ink. And for the first time since the funeral, I cried. Not because she was gone. But because I finally understood how deeply I had been loved.
By Moonlit Lettersabout a year ago in Fiction
