family

Don't Argue with Donkeys
Don't argue with donkeys.. Not every battle is worth fighting - especially when the other side is not interested in the truth, if only to win the argument. Here's a story that reminds us why silence is sometimes the wisest answer
By Rohitha Lankaabout a year ago in Fiction
petals in the dark. Content Warning.
For over thirty years, the little town of Willowbrook had known nothing but warmth and cheer from the town's beloved florist Mr. William Carter. Every morning, without fail, he stood on the same corner, his cart overflowing with the brightest blooms you could imagine. The air was always filled with the scent of fresh roses, daisies, and lilacs as he smiled and waved to each passerby.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Until the Last Rose Dies: A Relationship Story
Until the Last Rose Dies: A Relationship Story Michael and Emma had been married for eight years. They had once been inseparable, finishing each other’s sentences and planning weekend getaways just for the fun of it. But lately things felt routine. Distant. Even the simplest moments, like dinners or conversations, had become more about logistics than love.
By Sarwar Zebabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers of the Lullaby(Part-3)
You can read out Episode 2 link in below.. Episode 3: The Book of Dreams On the following day, with hearts hammering in their chests and the rucksacks ready, the sisters headed back to the hut.
By StoryTimeabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Adventures of Kiwi and Penguin: A Journey of Friendship"
In the far southern reaches of the world, where icy winds blew across glistening snow and the sun rarely graced the land, there lived a penguin named Pip. Pip was a young emperor penguin, full of energy and curiosity. His days were spent waddling across the icy plains, sliding down snowbanks, and watching his fellow penguins as they huddled together for warmth. Though he had many friends, Pip often found himself wondering what lay beyond the snowy horizon. He dreamed of exploring the world outside the frozen land he called home.
By wilderabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Great Goat Escape of Maple Street"
It all started on an otherwise normal Saturday morning on Maple Street. Birds chirped, sprinklers hissed, and Mr. Jenkins, in his trademark Hawaiian shirt and unmatched socks, was out trimming his overgrown rosebush like he was Edward Scissorhands after five espressos. But then came the goat. No one knew where it came from. One moment, everything was quiet, and the next—BAAAAAA—a goat with one lazy eye and a mischievous grin came trotting down the street like it owned the neighborhood. Mrs. Carmichael screamed so loud her cat fainted. The goat stopped, blinked slowly, and then proceeded to eat the "For Sale" sign on the Thompson's lawn. Mr. Thompson came out, saw the goat, and muttered, "Not again," before walking back inside to retrieve a broom like he was about to duel the creature. Now, a sane goat might be scared off by a broom. Not this one. It took it as a challenge. The moment Mr. Thompson approached, the goat lowered its head and charged—not at him, but at the inflatable pool flamingo in their yard, launching it three feet into the air like it was the goat's lifelong enemy. By now, a crowd had gathered. Kids cheered. Adults gawked. Old man Murray pulled out his ancient camcorder and shouted, “This is going on YouTube!” even though no one had the heart to tell him it wasn’t 2008. Then came little Timmy. Timmy, age seven, believed he could talk to animals ever since he watched Dr. Dolittle twice in a row. He stepped forward, arms outstretched, and said, “I got this.” The crowd parted like he was Moses. He walked up to the goat, knelt, and whispered, “We come in peace.” The goat responded by licking his forehead and stealing his sandwich. Chaos followed. The goat took off like a rocket, sandwich still dangling from its mouth, and the entire neighborhood followed. Mr. Jenkins ran with garden shears. Mrs. Carmichael wielded a mop. The Thompson twins rode scooters like bounty hunters. The goat was fast. It weaved through backyards, knocked over a lemonade stand (the lemonades were fine, but the cookies didn’t make it), and somehow ended up inside the Wilsons’ garage, where it discovered rollerblades. Yes, rollerblades. No one is sure how it got them on, but by the time the neighborhood caught up, the goat was skating in circles, baa-ing in what could only be interpreted as mockery. One of the twins tried to record it, but he dropped his phone in a birdbath. Just when all hope seemed lost, Grandma Edna appeared. Edna was 92, wore a tracksuit with glittery flamingos, and had zero tolerance for nonsense. She came out with a banana and a firm stare. The goat stopped. Stared. And slowly rollerbladed over. She handed it the banana. It blinked. Sniffed it. Then sat. The crowd gasped. Edna simply said, “I raised seven children and two husbands. You think I can’t handle a goat?” And that was that. Animal control showed up an hour later, confused and slightly terrified. They took the goat away, who looked genuinely disappointed, like it had just started having fun. They said it had escaped from a petting zoo three towns over, apparently bored of eating hay and being hugged by toddlers. By the next day, the story made local news. The headline read: "Rollerblading Goat Causes Mayhem, Befriends Grandma." And on Monday, Mr. Jenkins started putting up signs: “Goat CrossingCrossing—You’ve Been Warned.”
By Love of momabout a year ago in Fiction
The Melody of the Lost
In the shadow of the Great Mist, where the cliffs of Eldren met the endless sea, there was a village called Lyrsong. It was said that the air itself hummed with forgotten tunes, melodies that clung to the wind like memories too stubborn to fade. The villagers, simple folk who wove nets and carved driftwood, spoke of the Lost Ones—ancestors who vanished centuries ago, leaving behind only their songs. These songs were not mere music; they were fragments of a world that no longer existed, a world of starlit towers and rivers that glowed under moonlight.
By Aalyan Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Broken Promises
The old oak table in the dining room creaked under the weight of memories as the Carter siblings gathered for the first time since their father’s funeral. At 42, Elise, the eldest, traced a scratch on the wood—her initials, carved at eight, when Dad promised to build her a treehouse. He never did. Across from her, Marcus, 38, clutched a whiskey glass, his jaw tight. Beside him, Sophie, 35, stared at a faded photo of their father, Henry Carter, his smile as hollow as his words.
By Manatwal Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Hobbitland
Welcome to Hobbitland! This is the land of Bilbo and Frodo Baggins what they call The Shire. Would you like to live in such a magical and beautiful place such as this? There are various skills that one must have; like the love of food and drink and helping others; the best way.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
A Dream of a child
Chapter 1: NOT AGAIN “Wake up you little brat, up from the bed”, I can hear his voice in my deep sleep. I moaned a little and adjusted my blanket. “Wake up you useless fellow, look at your elder brother, he had already woken up and started studying. Get out of the bed and take a book to read, little swine”. He started to shout in a loud voice. My dad, he always gets irritated with me and always looks for a chance to offend me. And my elder brother sitting over there, always acts as a good boy and he tries to frame me all the time. This has become a routine play in my daily life. I hope I leave this home soon when I grow into an adult, and never come back to see them.
By Chetan Kabout a year ago in Fiction
: My Mother-in-Law’s Last Words Unlocked a Secret That Changed My Marriage Forever
I always had a complicated relationship with my mother-in-law, Saeeda Begum. From the day I married her son, Amir, ten years ago, she wore an invisible shield—polite, yet cold. Not once did she raise her voice, but she also never let me forget that I wasn’t “quite right” for her son. I was a working woman, opinionated, and perhaps too independent for her traditional taste. Despite it all, Amir and I had built a decent life together. There were cracks—occasional misunderstandings, long silences after arguments—but no marriage is perfect. We loved each other, even if that love had dulled under routine and quiet resentments. Then came Saeeda Begum’s illness—rapid and unrelenting. Stage four cancer. The doctors gave her weeks. Amir, heartbroken, wanted her final days to be at home. We turned our guest room into a quiet sanctuary with soft pillows and low lights. Strangely, she asked for me more than anyone else during that time. One evening, just three days before she passed, she called me in as Amir went to get her medications. “Sit,” she said softly, patting the edge of the bed. Her voice was weak but steady. “There’s something I must tell you.” I sat, my heart slightly trembling, unsure what to expect. She reached out and took my hand—a gesture she’d never made in a decade. Her eyes, once sharp with quiet judgment, looked glassy and vulnerable. “I never wanted you to marry Amir,” she began, “but not because I didn’t like you. I saw something in you that scared me.” I raised an eyebrow, confused. “Scared you?” “Yes. Strength. The kind of strength I never had. I feared you would lead him away from the traditions that gave me comfort. But I was wrong. You gave him balance.” Her lips trembled slightly, and she looked away. “But that’s not the confession,” she added, as if peeling off the first layer of a heavier truth. “The real reason I tried to keep a distance was because… you reminded me of someone.” She paused. “His real mother.” My heart skipped. “His what?” “I’m not Amir’s biological mother,” she said, closing her eyes. “He was my sister’s son. She died giving birth, and her husband was not fit to raise a child. I took him in, raised him as mine, and never told a soul. Not even him.” I sat there stunned, unable to speak. Saeeda Begum opened her eyes again, moist now. “I planned to take this secret with me. But you deserve to know. He deserves to know. Because I think… the silence has been hurting him more than either of you realized.” The next morning, she slipped into unconsciousness. She passed away peacefully two days later. I wrestled with her words for weeks. Should I tell Amir? Would it destroy him—or free him? But I began noticing things differently. His restlessness. His unresolved questions about his childhood. Things that never quite added up. So I told him. At first, he was shocked. Angry. Betrayed. But as time passed, I saw something shift. He began reaching out to extended family, digging into his past. And for the first time in years, he spoke openly with me—about his fears, his longing to feel grounded, and how he’d always felt like he was living someone else’s script. Our marriage changed. Not overnight, but steadily. The walls we had built from misunderstandings began to crumble. We spoke more. We touched more. We laughed again. It was as if her final words had unburdened not just her soul, but our lives too. It turned out, my mother-in-law’s last words weren’t just a confession. They were a gift—one that allowed truth to enter the room where silence had lived too long. And that truth changed everything.
By AMK_AQIBabout a year ago in Fiction
The Light in the Attic
It arrived on a Tuesday, folded once and slipped into an envelope with no return address. The paper was yellowed and smelled faintly of lavender and dust. My name was written in perfect cursive on the front: Eleanor Wren. No title. No address. Just my name, as if the sender knew I'd find it regardless of where it landed.
By Sen Sababout a year ago in Fiction