family

Border of Forgetfulness
A lonely afternoon turns into an unexpected dialogue between two invisible companions—Memory and Forgetfulness. An aging man finds himself caught between the weight of what should be remembered and the comfort of what must be forgotten.
By Ebrahim Parsa10 months ago in Fiction
Second Chance
A Second Chance My day was off to a bad start. It all began when I woke up as I usually do by 4am, drenching in buckets of sweat and wondering why I couldn’t feel the blasted ceiling fan on me nor hear the swooshing of the blades as it spun around. I groggily stood up, carefully though, so as not to wake my two other siblings who I share the bed with. I traced my fingers on the wall to locate the light switch at the other end of the room and to my utter surprise, the click of the switch did not turn on any light, then, it sank in that ECG** (Electricity Company of Ghana) had done it again. Being so frustrated and irritated, I accidentally knocked my little toe on one of the furniture in the room. Ouch!!!
By Ewura Ekua Acquah10 months ago in Fiction
Down the Red Steps. Runner-Up in The Forgotten Room Challenge.
You always hear that one of the saddest parts of life is not knowing when it’s the last time. The last time you make love to a partner when you know things are about to end, you just don’t know exactly when; the last time you hang up the phone after saying “I love you, grandma,” and then it’s two days later and your mother sits you down after school and says your times tables can wait, that your grandmother passed away peacefully in her sleep early that morning. The last time your dog was able to run and catch a stick before the vet found an inoperable tumor; the last time you could think, uneasy but still a little grateful, “nothing truly bad has happened in my life yet.”
By GL10 months ago in Fiction
Day Four: Four Calling Birds
Stephen woke to an unusual quiet. The partridge perched peacefully on the windowsill like a feathered monk. The pigeons dozed in their bathroom exile. Even the French hens had clustered by the radiator, gossiping in polite whispers.
By Stephen Stanley10 months ago in Fiction
The Pumpkin Patch Proxy War
The Harrington Hollow Pumpkin Patch was a symphony of autumn bliss, but to Chloe, it was a battlefield. The enemy was her entire social media feed, which was currently a barrage of flawless family photos: the Johnsons in matching flannel, the Chen twins artistically dwarfed by a giant pumpkin, the Millers sipping cider with golden-hour light haloing their perfectly tousled hair.
By Habibullah10 months ago in Fiction
The Message That Arrived After My Death
When Liam’s phone buzzed at 3:17 a.m., he thought it was just another spam notification. He almost ignored it—until he noticed the sender’s name glowing in the dark:
By Muhammad Kashif 10 months ago in Fiction
The Silent Hour: A Story of Waiting and Hope:. AI-Generated.
It was simply after nighttime while the power went out. The city, generally alive with neon lighting and stressed visitors, fell into an eerie silence. For a moment, the world appeared to pause. In that silence, tens of millions of humans throughout the globe have been reminded in their personal moments of waiting—moments whilst time itself felt suspended, while the future was unsure, and while hope was the handiest element keeping them alive.
By The Writer...A_Awan10 months ago in Fiction
The Last Train Home
When Anna came the clock in the platform had struck eleven. It was now the evening before midnight and the station was almost deserted--only a janitor sweeping the floor covered with tiles, and a man sleeping on a bench. The cold made her breath cloudy as she stood looking down the tracks and their lines of silver becoming lost in the fog.
By Nusuki10 months ago in Fiction
Door closed open once more.. Top Story - November 2025.
The house was quiet since mom died, outside the wind was howling as if it were mourning. It sounded like a wolf that had lost its pack and was searching for them. I was laying in bed, my mind racing with so much information. My mom had left me a key to a room that in all my years I had never been in. I do remember her going in and out of the room but it just never peaked my interest. I never even realized that it was locked.
By WrittenWritRalf10 months ago in Fiction
Day Three: Three French Hens
At 6:40 a.m., the doorbell rang with the authority of a police raid. The partridge, asleep on the router like a dragon on a hoard of warm LEDs, detonated into the hallway. One of the pigeons cooed in the bathtub as if to say, we warned you about mornings. Jane rolled over and tugged the duvet over her head.
By Stephen Stanley10 months ago in Fiction
Whispers of Winter Light
‎The night lay still beneath a soft blanket of snow, each flake a whisper from the heavens. The forest was hushed, the air so crisp it seemed to chime when the wind brushed through the frost-laden trees. Amid the silver silence stood a small wooden cabin, its windows glowing softly like two golden eyes against the indigo sky. Beside it, a single lantern glowed warmly on the snow, casting an amber halo that shimmered like hope itself. ‎ ‎Inside the cabin, Emma sat near the window with a cup of steaming cocoa in her hands. She watched the light outside, a simple lantern she had placed earlier in memory of her grandfather, who had built the cabin decades ago. He always said that light was a promise — a small, glowing reminder that warmth could exist even in the coldest of places. ‎ ‎Every year, on the first heavy snow of winter, Emma returned to the cabin. It was her sanctuary — a place untouched by time, where memories of laughter, stories, and the comforting scent of pine logs still lingered in the air. Outside, the forest stretched endlessly, cloaked in quiet beauty. The trees bowed under the weight of snow, their branches sparkling under the starlit sky. The North Star gleamed high above, a constant companion to the light below. ‎ ‎As she gazed out, Emma thought about how her grandfather used to tell her stories by the fire. “The world may freeze, little one,” he would say with a twinkle in his eye, “but hearts like ours carry the flame.” His words had guided her through life — through challenges, losses, and new beginnings. The light, he said, was not just a symbol, but a way of living: to bring warmth, kindness, and courage into a world that sometimes felt cold. ‎ ‎Tonight, that light seemed to glow brighter. Perhaps it was the stillness of the night, or perhaps it was the feeling of being home again after so long. Emma took a deep breath, feeling the quiet peace settle in her heart. She stepped outside, her boots sinking into the fresh snow with a soft crunch. The lantern’s flame flickered gently as she approached, its glow reflecting in her eyes. She knelt beside it, brushing off a light layer of snow from its glass top. ‎ ‎“Grandpa,” she whispered, “I made it back.” Her voice trembled, not from the cold, but from the rush of memories flooding her heart. “You were right. Even in the darkest times, there’s always light.” ‎ ‎The wind stirred gently through the trees, carrying a faint whisper — or maybe it was her imagination — that sounded like a sigh of contentment. She smiled, standing up and looking toward the horizon where the first hints of dawn began to soften the sky. A pale golden hue mingled with the deep blue, and the stars slowly faded into the morning light. The lantern’s glow blended with the rising sun, two lights meeting — one human, one heavenly. ‎ ‎Emma knew she wouldn’t be alone, not really. The warmth she carried was more than memory; it was legacy — the same light her grandfather once carried, now passed on through her. She turned back toward the cabin, where the fire still crackled in the hearth. The little home glowed like a beacon in the midst of winter’s stillness, its windows radiating welcome to any soul lost in the snow. ‎ ‎That night, and every night after, the lantern would continue to burn outside her cabin — a soft promise that even the coldest season cannot dim the light within. Visitors who passed through the forest in later years often spoke of that single glowing lantern, how it stood unwavering through every storm, a quiet guide for those seeking warmth or direction. ‎ ‎And though Emma would one day be gone, her light — like her grandfather’s before her — would remain. For in every winter’s heart lies a spark waiting to shine, a whisper of warmth that says: ‎ ‎Even in the deepest snow, love keeps the world aglow. ‎
By Muhammad Saad 10 months ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Gift
In a small cobblestoned town in the middle of two green hills lived an old clockmaker, Elias Thorn. His workshop, tucked at the corner of Willow Street, was a symphony of crushing sounds - hundreds of clocks, ticking with a life of their own.
By Nusuki10 months ago in Fiction