Love

Hidden in Plain Sight
There I stood. At the edge of the dock. The loud thrashing of the waves moving around below my feet. The water moving at a rapid pace; flowing over and around the fallen body. His body. The tattered clothing of his swaying against the current as they barely held against his skin; as if to be holding on for dear life, afraid to become lost amidst the darkness of the ocean forever. My thoughts moving rapidly throughout my mind.
By 'Lissa Stufflestreet2 years ago in Fiction
Book Review: "Embracing the Change"
"Embracing the Change" by Kristen Ashley is a heartwarming friends-to-lovers romance about two characters—Nora Ellington, a socialite in New York, and Jamie Oakley, a billionaire businessman—who navigate their feelings for one another while grappling with the trauma of love and loss. Both characters have endured difficult relationships in the past, and they’re both at a crossroads where their long-standing friendship may evolve into something deeper or come to an abrupt end. The story is filled with tension, emotional depth, and the struggles that come with love.
By vijayasshekar2 years ago in Fiction
DUNE
Looking for a way to enjoy books while you’re on the go? With Audible, you can dive into captivating stories, narrated by talented voice actors, anytime, anywhere. Whether you’re commuting, exercising, or simply relaxing, Audible’s extensive library has something for everyone. Plus, you can access exclusive content like podcasts, guided wellness programs, and Audible originals all in one place.
By Oussama Adel2 years ago in Fiction
Under the Stardust Sky
Jack Atlas had never thought much about love. It wasn't a priority when he was focused on climbing the ranks of the Duel Monsters world, chasing victory after victory. His title as the "Master of Faster" was all that mattered—until Carley Carmine came into his life, and everything changed.
By The Kind Quill2 years ago in Fiction
The Story of An Hour
Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death. It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message. She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her. There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul. She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which someone was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves. There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window. She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams. She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought. There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air. Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will--as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under the breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body. She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome. There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination. And yet she had loved him--sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being! "Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering. Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole, imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door--you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the door." "Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window. Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long. She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom. Someone was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife. When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy that kills. The Story of An Hour was featured as The Short Story of the Day on Wed, Feb 08, 2023 Earlier, I pointed out that this story was first published in 1894 as The Dream of an Hour before being republished in 1895 as The Story of an Hour. Having read the story, why do you suppose Kate Chopin chose to change that one word? Given societal norms and expecations about women and marriage in 1895, do you see how simply changing a single word in the title may have been an answer to the controversy and criticism that the story received at that time? The Story of an Hour is one of the stories featured in our collection of Short Stories for High School I and Short Short Stories to read when you have five minutes to indulge yourself reading a great story.
By Dip2 years ago in Fiction
The First Story. Content Warning.
In an inquisitive little town settled between moving slants and a shining lake, there was a little book shop named "Mumbles of Time." The shop, stacked up with the scent of developed paper and coffee, was a safe-haven for visionaries and admirers of stories. It was here that Lila spent her nights, lost among the books that lined the racks like deep rooted mates.
By Runa2 years ago in Fiction
MOONLIGHT AND ROSES
The crisp night air was filled with a soft rustling, the sound of leaves brushing against each other like whispers in the dark. Under a sky dotted with shimmering stars and a glowing full moon, Prince Aric wandered through the palace gardens. His heart ached with each step, a constant reminder of the curse that imprisoned him in the hours of darkness. By day, he faded into the shadows, invisible, existing only as a wisp of himself. It was only under the blanket of night that he could truly be.
By Ryan Ebakor 2 years ago in Fiction
Happy Birthday, My Love
There was one piece of cake, with one strawberry, and one fork, yet there were two of us here at the table. “Hey, Babe,” I said, leaning in to give her a kiss. She turned away, not saying a word.
By Laura DePace2 years ago in Fiction
Little Red Leaf. Content Warning.
All the leaves are brown, and the skies are grey. Autumn is here and you're away. I look at the richness of the world around me, the pageantry of royal colour in the golds and the reds and the oranges that adorn the trees in their final flourish and it makes me sad that you can't see it.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
Bound by Shadows
Gojo Satoru was not a man to be trifled with. Known as the most powerful and untouchable figure in the underworld, he commanded respect wherever he went. With his snow-white hair and a blindfold hiding his infamous cerulean eyes, he was as enigmatic as he was dangerous. Gojo was a legend in the criminal world, his influence stretching far and wide across the country’s criminal enterprises.
By The Kind Quill2 years ago in Fiction
Snow-man
I await the first flake. For with it, my love will return. Lumen. My Lumen. I hold his heart all year round. It sits in a box on my sideboard. The box is nothing special but what it contains is everything to me. Sometimes, I open it and I look at it, quickly, blue, beating and marvel at the fact that it's mine, that he has chosen me over all others.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
Beneath the Surface: A Love Story of Pain, Recovery, and Hope
Maya was a wealthy young woman who lived in luxury, enjoying all the pleasures money could buy. Despite her parents' disapproval, she spent her days partying, drinking, and smoking. One day, she met a humble fisherman named Kenzo. Kenzo was gentle, kind, and didn’t mind Maya's wild ways. They quickly became close, spending hours by the river, talking and laughing. Before long, they fell in love.
By Peter NK2 years ago in Fiction