Love

I Found a Diary Under My Floorboards… The Last Entry Was My Name
When I moved into the old Victorian house on Hawthorn Lane, I expected creaky floorboards and cold drafts—not a terrifying mystery under the floor. I was drawn to the place for its charm, its history, and, frankly, the affordable rent. But what I found buried beneath the floorboards was something far more chilling than I ever imagined: a diary, stained, worn, and with a final entry that read—my name.
By Muhammad about a year ago in Fiction
The Last Rose of Spring
In a quiet town nestled between misty hills and flowering meadows, there lived a young florist named Elina. Her shop, Bloom & Whim, was a cozy corner filled with the scent of jasmine, tulips, and her favorite — roses. People came not just to buy flowers, but to hear the stories she weaved for each bloom she wrapped.
By syed waqar ahmedabout a year ago in Fiction
The Thirsty Crow
Once upon a time, in a small village surrounded by green fields and dense forests, there lived a clever little crow. His feathers were glossy black, and his eyes shone like tiny beads. He was known throughout the village for his wit and intelligence. While other birds would often act foolishly or get into trouble, this crow always managed to find a way out of tricky situations. One particularly hot summer afternoon, the sun blazed mercilessly in the sky. The air shimmered with heat, and not a single cloud floated above to offer shade. All the ponds, rivers, and wells in the village had either dried up or were reduced to muddy puddles. It was a difficult time for every living creature in the area. Birds sat panting on the branches of leafless trees, and animals hid in their burrows and caves to escape the unbearable heat. The little crow had been flying around for hours in search of water. His throat was parched, his wings felt heavy, and his beak was dry. He desperately needed a drink, but wherever he went, he could find no water. He flew over the fields, hovered near the village wells, and searched around the edges of the forest, but all in vain. Tired and exhausted, the crow finally landed on the branch of a tall, old tree at the edge of the village. He sat there for a while, catching his breath and wiping his beak against the rough bark. Just then, his sharp eyes caught sight of something glinting in the sunlight below. Curious, he flew down to investigate. To his great joy, he discovered an old earthen pot lying near a small hut. The pot looked weathered and cracked, but when the crow peered inside, he saw a small amount of water collected at the bottom. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to quench his thirst. The crow eagerly tried to reach the water with his beak, but the neck of the pot was too narrow, and the water was too low. He tried tilting the pot, but it was too heavy for him to move. He even tried dipping a stick inside, hoping it would bring some water up, but the stick was too thick to fit. For a moment, the crow felt frustrated and hopeless. He was so close to water, yet he could not reach it. But being clever and quick-thinking, he didn’t give up. Instead, he looked around carefully to see if there was something nearby he could use. Suddenly, an idea struck him. He noticed that the ground around the hut was covered with small pebbles and stones. The crow recalled something he had seen before: when stones are dropped into water, the water level rises. Maybe, just maybe, he could use this trick to bring the water within his reach. Without wasting any time, the crow picked up a small stone in his beak and dropped it into the pot. Plop! The stone sank to the bottom, and the water rose slightly. Encouraged by this, the crow quickly picked up another pebble and dropped it in. Plop! Again, the water rose a little higher. The crow worked tirelessly, flying back and forth, picking up pebble after pebble, and dropping them into the pot. With each stone he added, the water level rose a little more. Though it was hard work, and the sun beat down on him relentlessly, the thought of finally quenching his thirst kept him going. After many trips and much effort, the water level finally reached the brim of the pot. The crow could now easily reach it with his beak. With great relief, he dipped his beak into the cool water and drank deeply. The water tasted sweeter than anything he had ever known. His dry throat felt soothed, and the coolness revived his tired body. Feeling satisfied and proud of his cleverness, the crow looked up at the bright blue sky and let out a loud, happy caw. He had not only quenched his thirst but had also proved once again that intelligence and determination can overcome even the toughest obstacles. The crow then flapped his wings and took to the sky, feeling refreshed and joyful. As he soared above the village, he noticed other birds still struggling in the heat. Remembering his own struggle, he decided to share his newfound trick with them. He flew to the tallest tree and called out to the other birds, telling them about the pot and how he had raised the water with pebbles. The birds, grateful for the crow’s wisdom and generosity, followed his advice and soon found relief too. From that day on, the crow became a symbol of cleverness and resourcefulness in the village. The villagers would often tell their children the story of the thirsty crow, teaching them that with a little bit of thought and perseverance, any problem can be solved.
By Muhammad Naeemabout a year ago in Fiction
That Little Boy
Once upon a time, a baby boy was born and he was a miracle. And God smiled. He set this one apart because He knew his heart and path long before he was born. "There will be plenty of athletes ; I have other plans for this one"
By Colleen Waltersabout a year ago in Fiction
The Bench by the Lake. AI-Generated.
Lia and Noah met when they were nine years old, both curious and barefoot, chasing dragonflies near the lake. From that day on, the wooden bench by the water became their place—a small world of secrets, laughter, and shared dreams.
By Cristanabout a year ago in Fiction
A Little Boy’s Dream
Once upon a time, there was a little boy who dreamed about getting married one day. Most of the other little boys his age dreamed of playing professional sports one day for renowned teams. This little boy didn’t care about playing sports. Instead, he just wanted to get married one day so that he could be a husband and be a father to children. He didn’t exactly know how children came to be, but he knew that it took a wife to have a family. He just knew he was supposed to have this experience in life.
By Rowan Finley about a year ago in Fiction
The Night I Accidentally Summoned a Succubus… And Fell in Love
It started as a joke—that’s the part I keep coming back to. If I had known the old leather-bound book in my uncle’s attic was an actual grimoire and not just some weird Victorian erotica, I never would have read the Latin passage out loud. Especially not after three whiskeys.
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"about a year ago in Fiction
Eid ul-Adha.
Chapter 1: Introduction to Eid ul-Adha Eid ul-Adha, also known as the "Festival of Sacrifice," is one of the two most important Islamic holidays celebrated by Muslims across the globe. The other is Eid ul-Fitr, which marks the end of Ramadan. Eid ul-Adha commemorates the profound act of obedience and devotion exhibited by the Prophet Ibrahim (Abraham) when he was willing to sacrifice his son as commanded by Allah (God).
By Krypton about a year ago in Fiction
Fallout - Chapter 6
The hum of early morning was always the same. Steel racks creaking under weight, boots thudding across concrete, the hiss of showers and lockers slamming shut. Controlled chaos.
By Delaney Allenabout a year ago in Fiction
Fallout - Chapter 5
The mess hall was half empty by the time I sat down with my tray – eggs, dry toast, black coffee. Fuel, not food. Conersations buzzed at other tables, but I wasn’t listening. My eyes kept flicking to the far end of the room without meaning to.
By Delaney Allenabout a year ago in Fiction
I’m Glad My Mom Died
The first time I felt relief instead of grief, I was standing over her casket, staring at the too-perfect makeup plastered on her face. Lilies choked the air—her favorite flower, though she’d never once planted a garden. My hands didn’t shake. My chest didn’t tighten. Instead, I felt the weight of a thousand swallowed words dissolve like sugar on my tongue. Someone behind me whispered, “Poor girl, she’s in shock,” but I knew the truth: I was finally free. And that freedom tasted like guilt, like oxygen, like coming up for air after decades of drowning. 🌊 Part 1: The Funeral That Wasn’t for Her The funeral home smelled like regret. Aunt Carol had insisted on open caskets, as if death required proof. Mom looked peaceful, which was the first lie of the day. Peace wasn’t Her language. “Her love was a riptide—violent, relentless, dragging you under just to prove it could.” I wore black, but not for mourning. “Black hides stains." People patted my shoulder, mistaking my dry eyes for strength. “She’s in a better place,” they said. I bit my tongue. The better place was here, in this room, where she couldn’t scream at the priest for reading the wrong Bible verse or critique the pallbearers’ posture. The better place was anywhere she wasn’t. 🎭 Part 2: The Checklist of a “Good” Daughter Mom didn’t believe in birthdays, only bargains. When I turned seven, she gifted me a porcelain doll with hollow eyes and a dress stitched from her old wedding veil. “l” she said. I kept it on a shelf for 20 years, dusting its lifeless face every Sunday. Her love came with conditions:  Are you thinner?  Are you quieter?  Are you sorry yet? By 15, I’d carved myself into something bite-sized and palatable, a performance she’d grudgingly applaud. “Finally,” she’d say, “you’re starting to try.” 🌪️ Part 3: The Boyfriend Who Broke the Spell At 22, I brought home a boyfriend—kind, soft-spoken, a teacher who quoted Neruda and baked sourdough. Mom met him at the door with a smile sharp enough to slice bone. “You’ll ruin her,” she told him. “She’s fragile.” Later, she handed me a list titled “Why You’ll Regret This.”Item #3:“He doesn’t know how to love someone like you.” I married him anyway. “She wore white to the wedding “ 💀 Part 4: The Last Bargain Cancer came like a thief, but Mom treated it like a negotiation. “If I survive this,” p rasped from her hospital bed, IV lines snaking around her wrists like jewelry, “you’ll quit your job. Move home. Fix what you broke.” I brought her Jell-O instead of promises. The last time she spoke to me, she didn’t say “I love you.” She said, “You’ll miss me when I’m gone.” “She was half right. “ 🌻 Part 5: The Color of Freedom After the funeral, I sold the doll. I kept the veil. Therapy taught me the difference between love and labor. Love doesn’t keep receipts. It doesn’t tally faults like a debt collector. I started small: - Ate meals without counting calories. - Cried during sad movies. - Painted my walls sunflower yellow, a color she’d call “garish.” Last week, my daughter asked why we don’t visit Grandma’s grave. “She’s not there,” I said. “But we are.” 🕊️ The Final Anchor: Breaking the Surface Grief is a shape-shifter. Sometimes it’s a fist. Sometimes it’s a key. I don’t know if I’ve forgiven her, but I’ve stopped begging her to forgive me. “The cycle ends here”, in this house with yellow walls, where the air smells like burnt cookies and my daughter’s laughter. Where the water is calm. “Where I’m learning, finally, how to float.”
By Wilfredabout a year ago in Fiction
The Love We Found in Autumn Rain
The Love We Found in Autumn Rain By Lila Hart It was raining the day I met him—one of those soft autumn rains that turns the city into a watercolor painting. Leaves clung to sidewalks like forgotten memories, and the air smelled like cinnamon and change.
By Lila Hartabout a year ago in Fiction