Love
She was the strongest person I knew until I met her
There was a time when just her name made my chest feel heavy. Not from sorrow. Not even from remorse. It was the weight of admiration, the kind that comes from watching someone burn and still carry light for everyone else.
By Timeless Truthsabout a year ago in Fiction
the heart beneath the stone
In a world not quite like ours, where magic clung to the air like mist and forgotten dreams lay buried beneath layers of time, there existed a statue of a man unlike any other. He sat motionless in an abandoned garden, his form carved from flawless stone, every muscle, every line etched with heartbreak and precision. His eyes were closed, and his face wore an expression of deep sorrow, as though he had seen too much and felt too deeply. His chest bore a single, jagged crack—right where his heart should be. And through that crack, if one looked closely, a faint glimmer of red pulsed like a dying ember.
By Alex Farnandoabout a year ago in Fiction
From Failure to Forever
I was never the kind of student who stood out for anything good. In fact, if there was ever a competition for the most underperforming student in class, I would win it without even trying. Grades? Low. Confidence? Lower. Dreams? Faint and fading. I was the guy who teachers either ignored or pitied. The one who sat quietly at the back of the classroom, watching the clock tick away, waiting for the day to end.
By Taslim Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
No Recourse. Content Warning.
I was deep inside her when my wife walked on us. We'd gone to a barbeque at Mike and Angela's, and of course Paige was there. A friend of a friend of a friend. I had to pretend we were no more than acquaintances, and it was killing me. The sun was out. Beers were flowing. I'd already taken my turn at the grill. All the kids were splashing about in a paddling pool at the far end of the garden. Megan was hovering nearby, doing her bit to make sure none of them drowned. We have four. Katie is the oldest, then Arlo, and then the twins. Anya and Zoey were young enough that she didn't want to step too far away. Grateful for the excuse to hide my wandering eyes behind my sunnies, I let them rest on Paige's curves. God, she was gorgeous. The breeze tugged at her sundress, and I wandered whether she was wearing knickers. She definitely wasn't wearing a bra. When the sun dipped lower in the sky, Megan suggested she take the kids home and get them bathed and ready for bed.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
The Porch Light Still Glows ( today I miss my mom)
Today, I miss my mom. There’s nothing significant about the date. It’s not Mother’s Day, not her birthday, not even the anniversary of her passing. It’s just a regular Thursday in May, the kind of day she used to call “good porch-sitting weather.” The kind of day she’d pour two glasses of sweet tea and say, “Come sit with me for a spell.” She’s been gone for almost four years now, but grief doesn’t care about the calendar. It shows up when it wants—softly, suddenly, and without warning. Today, it showed up in the middle of my lunch break, when I spotted her favorite sunflowers blooming by the fence. I grew up in a small town in Kentucky, where the summers are sticky and the people wave when they pass you on the road. Mom was the heart of our home—always baking, always humming Patsy Cline, always reminding me to say “please” and “thank you” and “don’t forget to write your grandma a thank-you note.” She taught me how to balance a checkbook, how to drive on gravel roads, and how to fry chicken the right way.
By Dr Gabriel about a year ago in Fiction
You're My Favorite Murderer (Chapters 10-12). Content Warning.
Chapter 10: 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘦𝘳 𝘉𝘰𝘺 It's only been a handful of months since we've crossed paths but seeing her, even just the back of her; those dark waves save for her silver streak, arises too many emotions. The most prominent being hate. Pure hatred for this fucking woman. The way she burrowed her way into my skin, into my very fucking soul and tore it apart with her red-marbled blade. Passion, anger and pain are among some of the others but hate overshadows them all hands down.
By 𝓗. 𝓒. 𝓡𝓾𝓫𝔂about a year ago in Fiction
You're My Favorite Murderer (Chapter 6-9). Content Warning.
Chapter 6: 𝓓𝓪𝓻𝓴𝓼𝓲𝓭𝓮 Just as I make it out of the building's French doors and down the stairs that same deep voice calls out to me, somehow breaking through the chaos of everything. "Hey. Hey you." I force my head down, not bothering to look, knowing it's the sexy mystery geek who helped me. But calling out most likely means he's looking for something in return for his volunteered services. And I'm not in a giving mood. "Yeah, that's okay just walk away. I'll be sure to let the professor know you cheated" he projects across the space. Christ, did he have to let the whole goddamn world know? Gritting my teeth I turn around quickly eating up the distance as I come face to face with the gorgeous man trying to fuck up my life. I won't deny his good looks but the malicious smile he's wearing says he's gonna make this fucking hurt. And not in a good way.
By 𝓗. 𝓒. 𝓡𝓾𝓫𝔂about a year ago in Fiction
You're My Favorite Murderer (Chapters 1-5). Content Warning.
Chapter 1 : 𝓓𝓪𝓻𝓴𝓼𝓲𝓭𝓮 Have you ever killed someone? No? Aw, poor innocent little thing. Well, I have and fuck, it's exhilarating! Unlike anything you'll ever experience. You don't understand, feeling the life leaving their body, seeing their unseeing eyes knowing there's nothing behind them, merely a hollow shell. Shit, it's powerful, you literally hold their life in your hands.
By 𝓗. 𝓒. 𝓡𝓾𝓫𝔂about a year ago in Fiction
The Infinite Loop of Us
Julian had spent the last five years learning how to manipulate time—not to become rich, not to alter history, but to save his marriage. The first time he lost Emily, it was subtle. A missed anniversary dinner here, a forgotten conversation there. He always thought there would be time to fix it—until one day, there wasn't. She left him with a quiet, tearful goodbye and a single phrase that haunted him more than any temporal paradox ever could: “I just don’t feel seen anymore.” That night, alone in his cluttered lab, Julian activated the loop. Version One lasted a week. He returned to the moment a year before she left. He bought flowers, cooked her favorite meals, complimented her eyes like he used to when they first met. She smiled. But it wasn’t enough. The spark fizzled again, and she slipped away. Version Two lasted a month. He learned to listen—really listen. He responded with thoughtful questions, sat with her in silence, touched her hand when she needed it most. But she could still sense it—an artificial thread sewn through his intentions. He was trying too hard, not being himself. Version Thirteen lasted nearly a year. It was his best attempt yet. He’d mapped every argument, every silence, every sigh. He thought he had it mastered. But love, he learned, wasn’t a line of code to be debugged. It was messy, unpredictable, and human. “Julian,” Emily had said in that version, “I don’t know what’s changed in you, but it’s like... you’re chasing something. And I don’t want to be a goal you’re trying to achieve. I want to be your partner.” And just like that, she was gone again. Each loop left a scar on his memory, a residue of failure that accumulated like cosmic dust. He began to forget which version he was in. Time bent around him like glass under heat, warping reality into a blur of missteps and do-overs. It wasn’t until Version Twenty-One that he did something different. He stopped trying. He didn’t recite rehearsed lines or cook a perfect dinner. He didn’t avoid the fight about her career or their mismatched schedules. Instead, he let the conversation happen. He let the silence hang. And when she cried about feeling like she had to be the one holding everything together, he didn’t try to fix it. He just held her. They sat on the kitchen floor that night, backs against the refrigerator, two humans unraveling the knot they’d become. “Why now?” she asked. “Why does this feel different?” Julian took a breath, the weight of twenty failed timelines pressing down on his chest. “Because I stopped trying to control the story. I realized I’ve been trying to edit our love like it was a machine. But it’s not. It’s alive. And sometimes... it breaks.” She looked at him, really looked at him—for the first time in what felt like lifetimes. “That’s the most real thing you’ve ever said,” she whispered. He didn’t loop after that. He let the days roll forward, uncertain and raw. They had fights. Some ended in slammed doors. Others in laughter. They built new habits. Morning coffees with eye contact. Evening walks without phones. Honest conversations about therapy, about starting over. Julian decommissioned the machine. He buried the time circuit in their backyard with a simple note: Some things are worth living once. A year passed. Then two. Emily didn’t leave this time. Instead, one spring morning, she stood beside him in the garden, hands in dirt, planting a lemon tree. “I want roots,” she said. “Here. With you.” He nodded, unable to find words. For a man who had all of time in his hands, this moment felt eternal.
By Syed Kashif about a year ago in Fiction
