family

The Heartbreak - then the Repeat
It wasn't my first heartbreak, but it was the first one that shattered my heart like it was made of glass. I had wanted it to work - so badly that I stayed silent and tried my best to push through everything and be someone that I couldn't look at in the mirror. I remember being so thankful that I never bruised. I remember being so grateful that when people asked questions, that I could use that I was shy or that it was our faith and I was being a good submissive wife.
By Adora Hooperabout a year ago in Fiction
The Echo in My Veins
Aris Thorne’s favorite sales tactic was fear. “Feel that anxiety in your chest, Mr. Reynolds?” she whispered, her neural implant syncing with the client’s emotions. “That’s your competitors’ ambition… But our security AI can make it stop.”
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Blue Eyes
"You don’t even know them," Jaymie said, voice tight, juice untouched. Scowling, Harry reached for the butter . "I don’t need to. I don't like that sort of thing, I never have. You know that. Some things should stay… traditional." Jaymie scoffed. "You’re being ridiculous." Harry was long past the age when he blushed easily, either from embarrassment or anger. Still, the tops of his ears gave him away. He was stung, but he wasn't backing down. "How are you going to give me grandchildren, that's what I'd like to know," he grumbled. "I don't owe you grandchildren," Jaymie bristled. "Okay, that's fair," Harry forced himself to speak softly, caging his temper behind tired teeth, but it just made him sound all the angrier. "It's all very well, this lifestyle-" "It's not a lifestyle, Dad, we can't help who we love!" "Yes! Yes you can! That's the point! Grass grows where it's watered, as well you should know, or have I taught you nothing?" He glared, and then sighed, pulling a hand down over his craggy face. It made him look like a Basset Hound. "You’re just too young to see it clearly." “I’m not. We've talked every day for a year. Lyric knows me better than anyone ever has.” "Pfft. Talking. Knowing. That's not love." "Then what is? I love Lyric. I know I do. They-" "They." Harry snorted. "That's ridiculous." Jaymie's ears were just as rosy. "You're just a...a... a dinosaur! You don't understand. Or... or maybe," Recklessness took over now, "Maybe you do get it. Maybe you know my generation will bury yours, and you resent us for it. The world is changing, Dad! It belongs to us! Get with it, or get left behind!" Harry put his knife down, slow and deliberate. "I will not be steam-rollered into agreeing with this... this new-age nonsense. It's wrong. It's amoral. Love should be between..." Eyes rolling, Jaymie stood, chair scraping on the kitchen tiles. "Yeah, yeah, a man and a woman, we get it, dad." "Between two people," Harry countered, his voice rising despite himself.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
The Legacy of Home: A Heartfelt Journey Through Memory and Place. AI-Generated.
When the roads lead back to our roots, what we left behind begins to shape who we are. I hadn’t planned on returning. Not to the place that once held all my childhood laughter, midnight fears, and silent dreams. The home I left behind felt like a chapter already closed—until life brought me back, unannounced.
By Nowshad Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
They'll Love Me This Time
I'll never forget how dark my old Chevy was in the parking lot of that 24-hour convenience store on that warm summer night in 2003. With a cheap Bic pen cap settled lightly between my teeth as I overlooked the map I just bought, I plotted out my surprise trip to the next state over to see my family while my knee bumped the fountain drink full of caffeine, ready to see me through to the end of my great plan. Mama might have been mad the last time we talked, but I knew my surprise arrival would melt all that tension away.
By Dani Bananiabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Waltz at Leviathan. Runner-Up in Leave the Light On Challenge.
Rhiannon and Hal sat across from each other at the old beech leviathan of a table, in their small, candlelit kitchen. Fragrant rosemary and olive oil wafted around the house, as they enjoyed the romance of lamps and candles.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
Remember Who You Are
Remember Who You Are > There comes a moment when you stop looking outside for validation—and start reaching inside for strength. --- In the heart of a vast mountain range, cloaked by morning mist and silence, stood an eagle’s nest on the edge of a towering cliff. In that nest, long ago, was born a majestic eagle named Arion. From the beginning, he was different—bold, sharp-eyed, wings broader than most, and with a spirit that trembled not in fear but in potential. But fate had another idea. When Arion was still young, a storm of unimaginable fury struck the mountain. The winds howled like ancient beasts, tearing trees from the ground. His nest was shattered, and Arion was thrown from the cliffside. He flapped with desperation, but he was too young to fly. He fell. Not to his death, but to a place far below—a quiet valley carved between the hills, where people lived in a small village and tended to their sheep and chickens. A farmer found him, broken and still, and took him in. But the man didn’t know what Arion was. To him, the bird looked odd—too big for a hawk, too proud for a crow. Still, he nursed the eagle back to health and placed him with his chickens. And so, the eagle grew up among them. --- Years passed. Arion learned to scratch the dirt like the chickens. He learned to fear the fox and hide in coops when danger came. He ate grain and lived in a cage at night. He looked up at the sky sometimes, his chest stirring, something deep inside whispering—fly. But he never did. Because the chickens never flew. And he thought he was one of them. He forgot. Forgot the feeling of cold air brushing against feathers. Forgot the thrill of wind beneath wings. Forgot what he truly was. Until one day, the sky brought a reminder. --- A shadow passed over the field. The chickens scattered. Farmers looked up in awe. Above, circling in wide, majestic loops, was a wild eagle—bigger than any bird the villagers had seen. Its wings sliced the air like blades of light. It called out—a piercing cry that echoed through mountains and memories. Arion froze. Something deep inside him woke up. The call—it wasn’t just sound. It was recognition. Something stirred in his blood, in his bones, in the places untouched by years of forgetting. The eagle called again. Arion looked up at it. Then down at his talons. Then at the chickens beside him, who were already running for shelter. And then… he climbed to the top of the wooden fence, wings trembling. He opened them wide. They were larger than he remembered. The wind rustled his feathers. He hesitated—what if he fell again? What if he wasn’t strong enough? Then he heard the eagle cry a third time. And with a single breath, he jumped. --- At first, it was chaos. His wings flapped too hard. He wobbled, dipped, twisted— Then something clicked. The air caught under his wings. His body shifted. His heart caught rhythm. He rose. Higher. Faster. With each flap, the world grew smaller below, and his memory grew sharper within. He soared toward the other eagle. And when they met in mid-air, they didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. They simply flew—together, across the mountain tops, where the wind belonged to no one and the sky held no ceilings. --- Back in the village, the farmers whispered about what they saw. Some said it was magic. Others called it a miracle. But one old woman simply smiled and said: > “He just remembered who he was.” --- From that day on, the chickens often looked to the sky. And the children pointed, shouting, “There! The King of the Sky returns!” But Arion didn’t come back to scratch the ground. He came back only to remind others— That you are more than your cage. More than what people mistake you for. More than your fear. You are what you were born to be. Even if the world tries to make you forget it. --- 🌟 Moral of the Story: > You don’t become less just because others fail to see your greatness. The world may put you in a cage, call you something smaller, train you to stay low— But you are meant to rise. The sky never forgot you. So… remember who you are.
By Moto Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Ember
The wind howled like a dying beast across the blackened plains. Ash floated in the air like snow, thick and choking, settling on what remained of the world. The trees were long dead, their bones jutting from the earth in twisted silhouettes, and the sky burned a perpetual red — not from fire, but from the poisoned veil that never lifted after the Final War.
By Razimaliabout a year ago in Fiction
Title: The Ashes We Loved
The city had been burning for days. Smoke curled into the blood-red sky, blotting out the sun and choking the air. Ash fell like snow, covering the ruins in a soft gray blanket. Buildings were crumbling, streets were split open, and the once vibrant hum of life had given way to silence, punctuated only by distant screams and the crackle of fire.
By abidnaseemabout a year ago in Fiction
The Second First Time
The Second First Time By Shehzad Ahmad The first time Maya left, she didn’t say goodbye. She was seventeen. Angry. The kind of angry that boils silently in the chest for years before erupting in a single suitcase. She walked out on a father who yelled too much, a mother who smiled too little, and a town that smelled like diesel, dampness, and someone else’s dreams. She promised herself she’d never come back. But seventeen is young. And youth makes dangerous promises. --- Fourteen years later, Maya stood at the edge of Willow Street, staring at the rusting gate of a house that still existed in her dreams—sometimes as a memory, sometimes as a warning. She hadn’t meant to return. It was only supposed to be a detour. A train delay. A coincidence. But grief doesn’t believe in coincidences. Her mother had passed away three days ago. Quietly, in her sleep. Alone. Maya found out through a neighbour who had tracked her down on Facebook with a simple message: “I thought you should know. She always said you'd come back.” And so here she was—back in the town she swore off like a bad habit. Back in the house that knew all her secrets. Back on the porch where her father once stood screaming as she disappeared down the road. --- The front door creaked open like it remembered her. The air smelled the same—lavender, old wood, and time. The walls hadn’t been repainted. Her mother’s porcelain cats still lined the mantelpiece. A faint ring remained on the coffee table where Maya once spilled grape soda and cried for hours after failing a math test. It felt like walking into a paused memory. She wandered the house slowly. Her fingers grazing wallpaper, chipped photo frames, the ghost of her younger self. The kitchen was exactly the same. The clock still frozen at 6:41—broken for over a decade. Maya had once joked it was symbolic, the house being stuck in time. Her mother hadn’t laughed. On the fridge was a faded photo—Maya at fourteen, arms crossed, hair wild, a defiant look in her eyes. Next to it, a sticky note in her mother’s handwriting: “I forgive you.” Maya sank into a chair. She hadn’t cried at the news. Not on the train. Not when collecting the keys from the solicitor. Not even when walking into the house. But now, in this kitchen filled with memory and dust, she sobbed. Because this was the first time she was seeing her mother clearly. And it felt like the second first time she was meeting her. --- The funeral was small. Maya didn’t know most of the faces—neighbors, church women, the florist who always gave her mother tulips on Thursdays. There was no grand eulogy. No speeches. Just quiet, gentle goodbyes. Afterward, she sat on the porch, the same step she used to sneak out from as a teenager. “Didn't think I’d see you again,” came a voice. She turned. He hadn’t changed much. Older, sure. His beard was thicker. His eyes a little softer. But it was still him. Aiden. They’d been everything once—first kisses, missed curfews, midnight bike rides. He was the only good thing about that summer before she left. And she’d left him behind too. “Hi,” she said. “You cut your hair.” “You still wear that ugly leather jacket.” He smiled, and just like that, time folded in on itself. --- They walked to the lake. The same lake where they’d once carved their initials into a tree, hidden beneath a thick canopy of willows. Maya found the tree again. The carving was still there—weathered but proud. “I came back a few years ago,” he said, skipping stones. “Couldn’t stand London anymore.” She nodded. “I get that.” He paused. “Why now?” Maya exhaled. “I didn’t come back to stay. Just for the funeral. But being here… it feels different now. Less like punishment. More like… a memory I haven’t finished reading.” Aiden looked at her. “Sometimes things need to break before we can see what they’re made of.” She smiled. “You always were too poetic.” “And you were always too stubborn.” Silence settled between them—not heavy, just familiar. --- That night, Maya stayed in her childhood room. It was smaller than she remembered. Or maybe she was just finally big enough to see it properly. She lay on the same creaky bed, stared at the same glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, and wondered why she had stayed away so long. Not from the town. Not even from the memories. But from herself. Because maybe the real return wasn’t to a place. Maybe it was to a version of you that never got a proper goodbye. --- The next morning, Maya stood in the kitchen making coffee. She reached for the mug her mother always used—the one that said “Don’t Talk to Me Until This Is Empty.” It had a small chip on the rim. She remembered that chip. She remembered her mother complaining about it for weeks and never replacing it. She smiled. For the first time, it wasn’t painful. Later, Aiden picked her up, and they drove out to the old bridge. They walked slowly. He told her stories about what had changed—who got married, who left, who stayed. She listened. Really listened. At the edge of the bridge, they stopped. “This is where we first kissed,” Aiden said. “No,” Maya corrected. “It’s where I almost chickened out, and you leaned in first.” “And you said, ‘About time.’” They laughed. And then, without thinking, she kissed him. Not like the first time. Not desperate. Not clumsy. Not rushed. But with the depth of someone who had been lost, wandered far, and finally circled home. --- Maya stayed another week. She cleaned out the attic. Donated clothes. Read old letters. She even found a dusty, unopened envelope addressed to her in her mother’s handwriting. Inside was a birthday card—her 25th. With a note: > “I don’t know where you are. But I hope you’re safe. I hope you’re still dancing when no one’s watching. I hope you forgive me, the way I always forgave you. Come home when you’re ready. I’ll be here.” It broke her. And healed her at the same time. --- Before leaving, she visited the lake one last time. The tree. Their initials. Aiden met her there. He brought coffee and two muffins. She looked at him, truly looked. “I thought this place would always haunt me,” she said. “And now?” “It feels like the second first time I’ve lived.”
By Shehzad Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The True Path to Divine Vision
Once there was a devoted worshipper who wished to see God. In search of this sacred vision, he dedicated himself to a 40-day spiritual retreat. He fasted during the day and spent his nights in prayer and worship. Living in complete isolation, he disconnected himself from the world and its people. His time was filled with tears, whispers of prayers, and heartfelt conversations with his Lord. On the 36th night of his retreat, something unusual happened. At exactly 4 AM, he heard a mysterious voice calling him: “Go to the copper market, to the shop of a certain coppersmith, and you will see God there.” With great excitement and curiosity, the worshipper left early. He made his way to the market and began searching for the coppersmith’s shop in the narrow alleys. As he walked, he noticed an old woman holding a copper pot in her hands. She seemed tired but determined, going from one shop to another, showing her pot to each coppersmith, hoping to sell it. Each shopkeeper would weigh the pot and offer the same price: “You’ll get 4 riyals for this.”
By YASAR ALIabout a year ago in Fiction
In Loving Memory – Uncle John & Uncle Bob (House fire)
In Loving Memory – Uncle John & Uncle Bob (House fire) My two uncles John Brown and Robert Brown were my mam’s brothers. There were thirteen of them in the family, a big family full of noise and laughter and struggle. Their mam died when my mam was just eight years old. After that, it was my grandad who raised them all, every single one. Thirteen children. He did his best with what he had. He was a good man. Strong and kind, and the kind of father who didn’t give up. He carried on for them.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk about a year ago in Fiction