family
Chicken Soup of the Heart
She was finally asleep. He leapt into action. The flame on the oven went on immediately. He started boiling the chicken broth. He opened up the chicken breasts and plopped them into the broth. Three days ago, she had caught a cold and had never let it go. He chopped up the vegetables, starting with the carrots, moving on to the celery, and even an onion or two. They had tried the Nyquil, the Dayquil, all the quils, all to no effect. He minced parsley and added it, with the vegetables, to the soup. She slept a lot, thankfully, but still retained the temperature.
By Jamais Jochim7 months ago in Fiction
Filial Laws
“What your father needs is patience and a consistent routine,” the doctor says. What he needs is something he never gave me. Our relationship was never built on gentleness. The relationship only depended on rigid, unforgiving authority. When that failed, nothing remained. It runs like a lack of feedback in a open-loop.
By Sama Habib7 months ago in Fiction
“Marry, and Become a Philosopher or a Happy Man”: Exploring Socrates’ Timeless Wisdom. AI-Generated.
Socrates, the ancient Greek philosopher who famously declared that “the unexamined life is not worth living,” had a unique way of blending humor with profound insight. One of his lesser-discussed, yet strikingly witty quotes goes:
By Ayesha Lashari7 months ago in Fiction
Celebration of Life. Content Warning.
A little boy died at the age of 9 and a young woman at 19. Both of these babies came from the same family, and both of these babies are grieved by many of the same people. One little boy passed in a car accident and one young woman who passed when she was hit by a train. Every year passes without them there through the holidays, their birthdays, special events, and of course their death-day. Every year we remember when they die because the event is etched into our souls. Every year we try to keep living without grief taking complete control. These two children from the same family who died 10 years apart never to be forgotten.
By Tabitha Hinkley7 months ago in Fiction
What We Never Named
Blair Because the baby monitor cracked open the dark like something dropped, and the toddler started calling my name with the urgency of someone drowning in three inches of water. I woke already bracing. Not fear. Just readiness. The kind that lives in muscle before it ever reaches thought. The kind that knows rest is over without checking the clock. 6:12 a.m. My body knew. It always did. I slid out of bed carefully so I wouldn’t wake her. She was curled on her side, one arm flung toward the empty middle of the bed where one of the kids must have been earlier in the night. Even asleep, she looked tired—like rest skimmed her instead of landing. I paused. Just a second. There was a version of me that wanted to crawl back in, to steal five more minutes of being held before the day asked for me again. But wanting felt indulgent. Touch would wake her. Wake would cost energy. Energy was already rationed. The monitor crackled again. I was moving before the sound finished. The floor was cold. The hallway smelled like baby shampoo and yesterday’s dinner and something sweet gone stale. A toy waited in the dark like a test. I stepped on it anyway. Didn’t swear. Didn’t slow down. By the time I reached the nursery, my voice was already tuned to the exact frequency that soothed without waking the whole house. “It’s okay. I’m here.” The baby cried like this was the worst moment that had ever existed. The toddler clung to my leg like proof. The morning unspooled. Diapers. Bottles. A cup dropped on purpose. A spoon refused. A cartoon turned on too loud because silence sharpened the crying. Breakfast dishes stacking in the sink like they were waiting to be noticed. I didn’t sit. I moved the way people do when stillness feels dangerous. Wiping counters that weren’t dirty. Folding laundry halfway before being pulled away. Picking up the same toy three times. At some point, she got up. I noticed it indirectly. The bedroom door opening quietly. Footsteps careful in the hall. The low murmur of the coffee maker starting in the kitchen. She existed softly, like someone passing through a space that wasn’t quite theirs. She kissed my temple once. Brief. Weightless. “I’m heading out,” she whispered. I nodded without looking up. “Drive safe.” She hesitated—just long enough for the moment to almost become something else—then grabbed her keys and left before the kids noticed. Before goodbyes demanded more than she had. The door closed quietly. The house expanded in volume immediately. By noon, it felt smaller. By two, it pressed against my chest. I checked my phone standing at the counter, one hand braced against the edge like I might need it to stay upright. I wasn’t waiting for anything specific. I just needed proof that time was still moving somewhere else too. Her text sat there from earlier: Busy morning. Hope it’s calm there. I stared at the word calm. It landed wrong. Soft in a way that missed. I typed: All good here. Deleted it. We’re surviving lol. Deleted that too. Finally: All good ❤️ Because it was easier. Because it closed the door. Because it didn’t invite questions I didn’t have the energy to answer. Around 5:30, something shifted. Not relief. Preparation. I started straightening up. Not because she expected it—she never did—but because I didn’t want her walking into the chaos I’d been sitting in all day. I wanted the house to look manageable. Calm. Like nothing here required me to disappear to keep it running. By the time headlights washed across the living room wall, the house looked like a normal, reasonable day. I felt proud of that. I also felt emptied out. I told myself what I always did: Be easy. Be calm. Don’t unload. She’s tired too. The ritual was already waiting at the door. Sage I drove to work without music. Not as a rule. Just because sound feels like something I’d have to respond to. Silence doesn’t ask. Work began before I clocked in. Someone needed clarification. Someone else needed reassurance. A problem from yesterday followed me in like it knew I’d take responsibility for it eventually. I did. I always did. I was good at being necessary. Good at anticipating what people would ask for before they realized they were about to ask. People thanked me for it. I smiled. Said, “No problem.” By noon, my body felt used in that quiet way that doesn’t count as pain. I ate standing up. A sandwich I didn’t taste. Coffee gone lukewarm before I remembered it was there. Then the tug started. Not dramatic. Just a quiet misalignment. Like standing in the wrong room of your own house. You’re not where you’re supposed to be. I checked my phone. All good ❤️ Relief hit fast and clean. Good. Okay. Good. I didn’t imagine the deletions behind it. Didn’t hear the strain folded into the heart. By the time I pulled into the driveway, I felt hollowed out. But I straightened anyway. Adjusted my shirt. Smoothed my hair. Don’t be tired. Be helpful. Be light. She’s tired too. Inside, dinner was already ready. “Oh,” I said, surprised in a way that felt bigger than it should have. “You already cooked.” She nodded. “I figured I’d get ahead of it.” I thanked her. Meant it. We moved through the evening like choreography we’d learned years ago. Plates. Cups. One kid crying over the wrong fork. Another spilling something no one reacted fast enough to stop. After dinner, baths. Pajamas. Teeth brushed badly, then brushed again. One kid overtired. The other refusing sleep like it was a personal boundary. I took one. She took the other. We didn’t discuss it. We never did. When she asked if I could watch them for a minute—just a minute—I said yes before the sentence finished. Of course. I meant it. The kids settled. One asleep against my shoulder. The other curled beside me. The house quieted in layers. I waited. When she came back, lighter, cleaner, relieved, I smiled. Said it was no problem. That was the ritual too. What We Never Named It went like this for a long time. I stayed quiet. She stayed functioning. We called it love. I learned how to swallow wants before they became needs. How to turn need into usefulness. How to make myself smaller without thinking about it. How to confuse endurance for devotion. How to make devotion look like competence. How to stay so carefully it almost looked like peace. She learned how to lean without noticing how much weight she placed. How to accept relief without asking where it came from. To mistake quiet for consent. To believe that what never asked for anything must not need anything at all. The ritual persisted. It held. I stayed quiet so she wouldn’t disappear. She stayed because nothing demanded she choose. I told myself that if I didn’t ask, she wouldn’t leave. She told herself that if I didn’t complain, everything was fine. When it ended, it didn’t announce itself. It didn’t end loudly. There was no argument sharp enough to remember. No sentence anyone could repeat later and say, That was it. There was only a moment when she stopped turning toward me. No fight. No betrayal anyone could name. Just absence. A moment when my silence was no longer useful. I had stayed. I had been good. I had been quiet. She left anyway. The ritual did exactly what it was meant to do. It kept her comfortable. It kept the house running. It kept the connection intact. It consumed me slowly. Politely. Without urgency. I learned how to stay quiet. I learned how not to need. I learned how to disappear without leaving. And when there was nothing left of me that could ask to be chosen, the ritual let go— not with grief, not with cruelty, but with the calm, indifferent precision of something that had already finished its work and left no self intact to mourn.
By Tifani Power 7 months ago in Fiction
THE SEA RAIDERS
Until the strange events at Sidmouth, the deep-sea creature known as Haploteuthis ferox was barely understood by science. Only fragments—tentacles found near the Azores and a decaying body discovered off Land’s End—hinted at its existence. Like most deep-sea cephalopods, it lived beyond the reach of nets and observation, known only through rare accidents. Zoologists could not explain how or why such creatures ever reached shallow waters.
By Amelia Miller7 months ago in Fiction
A Child With A Broken Heart
Lisa used to be a free-spirited child until dark cloud and curses strike her life at an early age. Lisa was the apple of her father's eyes and also his pride and joy at an early age. Her dad was very controlling to her mother, and her mother would not have any of that. Lisa's mother moved to Florida to get away from a controlling man. Different people would babysit Lisa because her mother had to work to support them. There was no stable babysitter in 2-year-old Lisa of life.
By Mariann Carroll7 months ago in Fiction
