family
John, the Beloved
My grandmother chose my father’s name from the Bible—for he would be beloved by the Lord, just as the apostle was. And I would like to think that he was. That perhaps his being taken from this earth was a kind of divine intervention, that his test in life had been seen and counted finished. That maybe the Lord looked upon his shaking hands, the choreas that so often humiliated him, and decided that the comforts of glory were more fitting for such a man than the weight he bore here.
By J. Nicholas Merchenabout a year ago in Fiction
A Husk
Joel raised his head to the sound of The Price is Right blaring on the television. The show was his father’s favourite, and everyday he would wheel his chair in front of the screen to cheer for each contestant. In fact, it seemed he was happier than the winning contestants themselves, laughing out loud to the point of joyful tears. Joel removed his blanket, which he was sleeping under for the last hour and sat up on the couch, rubbing his eyes and unsuccessfully stifling a yawn.
By Jesse Leungabout a year ago in Fiction
When He Opened His Eyes. Content Warning.
>>>***Inspired by something I saw in the eyes of a stranger once.*** We were laughing. That’s what I remember first. Not the screech of tires or the shatter of glass—just the sound of Jackson’s laugh echoing through the cab of his beat-up blue Tacoma, windows down, late summer air breezing in.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lantern’s Keeper
The rain tapped softly against the window, like a friend asking to be let in. Rhea sat in the corner of her small Dhaka apartment, cradling a cup of tea that had long gone cold. Her eyes held a distant gaze, as if she were searching for something just out of reach. Outside, the city’s chaos—honking rickshaws, vendors’ calls, and the hum of life—blended into a familiar hum. But to Rhea, it all felt muted, like a song played too far away.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Letter She Never Sent
The Letter She Never Sent Nora had always believed in writing things down. From grocery lists to unsent love letters, her life was inked in journals and forgotten scraps of paper. Words were safer that way—silent, controlled, trapped between margins where they couldn’t betray her. She had written hundreds of letters over the years, but there was one letter she could never bring herself to send.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
My Grandmother’s Mirror Only Reflects the Dead
The Mirror’s First Secret I almost sold the mirror the day after Grandma Lillian’s funeral. It was an ugly thing—a heavy oak frame carved with twisting vines, the glass smoky with age. But Mom insisted: "She wanted you to have it. Said it was special."
By MUHAMMAD Abbasabout a year ago in Fiction
