family
What Could Have Been. Wishful thinking
Putting it up in a bun was her idea. “Your hair won’t get in the way while you walk down the aisle”. I smiled, nodded and then when about to enter the chapel, I took it down, fluffed up my mop, stuck in a few flowers and began the stroll. Sitting in the front row when she saw me, her jaw dropped, gave me a hard stare but put on an awkward smile. A look that only a daughter would recognize. Wishful thinking. She never had the chance. I never got married.
By Cheryl Kellerabout a year ago in Fiction
Seeing Is Believing
Joanie pulled her threadbare wool coat tighter around her as she walked, rubbing her numb, red nose with a sniff. Her feet were killing her after being on them all day, but sadly she couldn't go home yet. She still had one more shift to go. One more long, exhausting shift, to cap off the longest, most exhausting day of her life so far.
By Natalie Grayabout a year ago in Fiction
Box of Discarded Moments. Content Warning.
Just a note, this is part of a queer character's backstory. There is brief mention of Domestic Violence and Depression. Yesterday I found a box under my bed, and when I opened it up, I found old photos that I forgot I had. It seems fitting that I found them at the start of summer, most of them were from previous childhood memories when I was on summer breaks from school.
By C.M.Dallasabout a year ago in Fiction
Hoof Prints In The Snow!
Christmas always brings memories of my early childhood. The memories are filled with the expectations that if I am a “good little girl,” I will get that red bicycle on training wheels as well as the doll that I always wanted. I use to believed that when I awaken and dashed out of my bed they would be sitting under our cedar tree that was decorated with homemade ornaments. However, Christmas after Christmas left me disappointed again.
By Frankie Berry Wiseabout a year ago in Fiction
"When Trust Healed Our Broken Hearts: A Love That Taught Me Faith"
The Story I met Alina on a rainy afternoon at a tiny book café tucked away on a quiet street. It was one of those places that smelled like damp pages and old stories. She was standing by a window, a book of Rumi poems in her hand, her dark hair falling over her shoulder. The way her eyes lit up when she read aloud softly to herself made me want to memorize that exact moment forever.
By Aman Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Room Upstairs
The real estate agent called it “cozy,” which I’d learned meant small, old, and likely full of ghosts — though she never used the word. She said it was ideal for a single writer, which was generous considering it had no working outlets in the kitchen, and the upstairs bathroom faucet ran backwards.
By Yasir Nawazabout a year ago in Fiction
The Things I Never Said to My Father
The Things I Never Said to My Father There are conversations we rehearse in our heads a hundred times but never let pass our lips. Words that sit in the back of the throat like stones, too heavy to lift, too sharp to swallow. This is for all the things I never said to my father — and probably never will.
By Kine Willimesabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers of the Dead
In the old quarters of Philadelphia, autumn had wrapped the city in a blanket of sorrow. The yellow leaves, fallen from trees, lay scattered on the roads like symbols of a mysterious dream. Within this melancholic atmosphere lived a nine-year-old boy, Cole Sear — his life entangled in secrets no one could see.
By Ameer Gullabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Evening of Memory
Raindrops tapped gently against the window, like the echoes of a memory trying to break through time. Inside a quiet nursing home, an elderly man named Noah sat beside an old woman, his voice trembling as he read aloud a love story. That woman — once the center of his world — was now lost in the fog of Alzheimer’s.
By Ameer Gullabout a year ago in Fiction
Mind Game: When a Police Officer Took Down a Billionaire Mastermind
The city glimmered under the calm of the night, but beneath the shine, the truth was quietly dying. Adrian Ray was no ordinary officer. As part of the anti-corruption unit, he had built a reputation for thinking far ahead of his enemies. To him, crime wasn’t just bloodshed on the streets—it was the smiling faces behind corporate doors, the ones who manipulated minds, controlled narratives, and sold destruction as development.
By Ameer Gullabout a year ago in Fiction
