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Where Our Morning Tea Truly Begins
Where Our Morning Tea Truly Begins Most mornings I sit with my cup of tea and let the steam rise into my face, and I think about how easy it is to take this simple comfort for granted. We boil the kettle. We choose a bag or a spoonful of loose leaves. We pour the water. It feels so ordinary. Yet the truth is that the tea has travelled farther than most of us ever will. So let me tell you where it begins, because the story is worth knowing.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 10 months ago in Fiction
For All The Ages. Top Story - November 2025.
Thalia, acknowledged bastard of the Royal House of Dorion, was not the simpleton that so many assumed her to be. It seemed to come with being the daughter of the goddess of beauty and love: everyone supposed that you could have no interest beyond fashion and relationships. Thalia was good at relationships, seeing them in others, or at least the potential for them. Other than that perception, and some minor shapeshifting abilities that allowed her to subtly change her features, her powers were extremely limited.
By Natasja Rose10 months ago in Fiction
Cold Storage
The houses on Old Tanner Drive were some of the oldest homes in the city. It seemed they really knew how to build back then. They survived the earthquake of 1922, the blizzard of 1935, and the hurricane of 1947. While these three disasters nearly decimated the town, the five houses on Old Tanner Drive remained completely unharmed—not even a shingle was lost.
By David E. Perry10 months ago in Fiction
Please Come In
Please Come In The forgotten room was quiet now. It sat at the far end of a long, dim hallway inside a place no architect had ever drawn, and no human foot had ever stepped inside. The walls were wallpapered with memory, peeling at the edges, some corners bright as sunlight, others shadowed with dust. A shag carpet from the 1970’s covered the floor in bold burnt-orange swirls. A stack of vinyl records leaned against one wall, a Polaroid camera hung from a hook by the door, and an old concert wristband lay curled like a dried leaf on the dresser.
By Patti Marrs Magill10 months ago in Fiction
The Room That Remembered Her
The New (Old) Home Mary Alden had only been in the big house on Briarwick Hill for three weeks, but it still didn’t feel like hers. It felt like a place that tolerated her the way adults sometimes tolerated children; politely, distantly, with just enough warmth to not seem cruel. Her father and his new wife, Clarissa, kept saying it would feel like home “soon enough.” But “soon enough” was what grown-ups said when they didn’t know the real answer.
By Patti Marrs Magill10 months ago in Fiction
