family
A Special Mug Of Tea
Agnes always made two cups of tea in the morning. She’d set out the matching mugs, one far more faded than the other, put a spoonful of sugar in each one, and add whichever flavour of tea she wanted. The kettle would boil while she potted around in the kitchen, dragging her tartan slippers on the tiles as she moved about the small room. The whistling would stop; she would add the boiled water and stir in a dash of milk when she was ready. The teabag would find its way to the bin, and she would take her own, faded mug with her as she started her morning routine.
By Maddy Haywood7 months ago in Fiction
Relic
Every Saturday morning I write her a letter in place of a cup of coffee. The kettle can wait. The stove can click itself awake without me. What matters is the scrape of the chair across the tile and the pen uncapping with that soft, hungry pop, like the day taking its first breath.
By SUEDE the poet7 months ago in Fiction
Bundles For the Soul
The island sun, a white-gold coin pressed against the immense blue dome of the sky, baked the limestone flagstones of Hvar’s main square. Tourists flowed like a bright, chattering river between cafes and yachts in the harbor, their laughter bouncing off ancient walls. Yet, in the shadow of the Renaissance cathedral’s bell tower, there was a pocket of stillness. It was the stall of Magda, the woman who sold lavender.
By Anna Soldenhoff7 months ago in Fiction
Toe Painting for a Donkey. Honorable Mention in Rituals of Affection Challenge.
“You have to come. I don’t care. Meet there. Bye.” Lola ended the call abruptly, frustrated. Jim is always so hard to convince. Sick of his stupid crap. He knows we do this every year.
By Andrea Corwin 7 months ago in Fiction
The Light She Tends
The stone steps of the Veli Rat lighthouse were worn smooth in the centre, a shallow groove carved by a century of keepers’ boots. Petra knew each one by heart—the twelfth step that chirped like a cricket, the twenty-eighth where a seam of quartz caught the sunset and glowed like a vein of gold.
By Anna Soldenhoff7 months ago in Fiction
The Friday Ritual
The routine was a loop, the same silent ceremony every Friday at 7:00 PM sharp. It had been going on for three long years. Marko would stand at the heavy oak table, his shoulders tight, and begin to slice the sourdough. Skritch. Skritch. The sound of the blade biting through the hard crust was the only clock that ticked in that house. He cut each slice with the focus of a surgeon, terrified that if a single crumb fell outside some imaginary line on the dark wood, the fragile peace he’d spent years building would just snap.
By Feliks Karić7 months ago in Fiction
