family
She was the strongest person I knew until I met her
There was a time when just her name made my chest feel heavy. Not from sorrow. Not even from remorse. It was the weight of admiration, the kind that comes from watching someone burn and still carry light for everyone else.
By Timeless Truthsabout a year ago in Fiction
In the Arms of the Night
The next morning, sunlight streamed through Mira’s window, casting warm patterns on the floor. Yet, despite the brightness of day, her mind kept drifting back to the night before — that profound quiet, the comforting darkness, the stars watching silently like ancient guardians.
By Esther Sunabout a year ago in Fiction
No Recourse. Content Warning.
I was deep inside her when my wife walked on us. We'd gone to a barbeque at Mike and Angela's, and of course Paige was there. A friend of a friend of a friend. I had to pretend we were no more than acquaintances, and it was killing me. The sun was out. Beers were flowing. I'd already taken my turn at the grill. All the kids were splashing about in a paddling pool at the far end of the garden. Megan was hovering nearby, doing her bit to make sure none of them drowned. We have four. Katie is the oldest, then Arlo, and then the twins. Anya and Zoey were young enough that she didn't want to step too far away. Grateful for the excuse to hide my wandering eyes behind my sunnies, I let them rest on Paige's curves. God, she was gorgeous. The breeze tugged at her sundress, and I wandered whether she was wearing knickers. She definitely wasn't wearing a bra. When the sun dipped lower in the sky, Megan suggested she take the kids home and get them bathed and ready for bed.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
The Porch Light Still Glows ( today I miss my mom)
Today, I miss my mom. There’s nothing significant about the date. It’s not Mother’s Day, not her birthday, not even the anniversary of her passing. It’s just a regular Thursday in May, the kind of day she used to call “good porch-sitting weather.” The kind of day she’d pour two glasses of sweet tea and say, “Come sit with me for a spell.” She’s been gone for almost four years now, but grief doesn’t care about the calendar. It shows up when it wants—softly, suddenly, and without warning. Today, it showed up in the middle of my lunch break, when I spotted her favorite sunflowers blooming by the fence. I grew up in a small town in Kentucky, where the summers are sticky and the people wave when they pass you on the road. Mom was the heart of our home—always baking, always humming Patsy Cline, always reminding me to say “please” and “thank you” and “don’t forget to write your grandma a thank-you note.” She taught me how to balance a checkbook, how to drive on gravel roads, and how to fry chicken the right way.
By Dr Gabriel about a year ago in Fiction
The Peculiar Pet Pageant of Puddlebrook
The air in Puddlebrook wasn't just thick with anticipation; it was thick with the scent of damp dog, questionable birdseed, and enough nervous sweat to fill a small pond. It was the day of the annual Peculiar Pet Pageant, the town's most prestigious (and utterly ridiculous) event. The grand prize? The coveted Golden Leash trophy, a tarnished brass leash shaped vaguely like a sausage. And bragging rights, which in Puddlebrook, were far more valuable than gold. This year, the competition was particularly… spicy.
By Mian Nazir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers Beneath the Mango Trees
The First Light of Mango Grove In the gentle warmth of dawn, the first light of the sun crept across the horizon, spilling gold over the lush, dew-drenched fields. The scent of mango blossoms floated on the morning breeze, soft and sweet, stirring the peaceful landscape awake. It was the time when even the birds hesitated to chirp, reverent of the stillness that hovered over the land like a sacred prayer.
By Mukhtiar Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Embrace
The station was quiet for a moment, the kind of silence that fills the spaces between two heartbeats. The train had not yet arrived, but my time with her was already slipping away, like sand from an open hand. She stood beside me, arms crossed, her eyes flicking between my face and the empty tracks. I tried to memorize everything about her—the way her hair curled around her cheeks, the faint trace of her favorite perfume in the air, and the sadness she tried so hard to hide behind a half-smile.
By Dr Gabriel about a year ago in Fiction
A morning of misunderstanding
It was morning. A kind of orange sun came through the Thai glass of the balcony and made the room sparkle. Shan's room was already filled with orange bedsheets, curtains and carpets. As soon as he woke up, his mood was spoiled. He forgot to draw the curtains of the window last night—such a beautiful sleep was ruined
By Ishrat Jahan about a year ago in Fiction
