Love
A Love Story With a Heartfelt Twist
Once upon a time, in a small village nestled amidst lush green hills, lived two young souls named Emily and Thomas. They were childhood friends, and their bond grew stronger with every passing day. As they grew older, their friendship transformed into deep and affectionate love.
By Dabasish Pal2 years ago in Fiction
The Remnants of Love
The soft hum of the city’s nightscape was a stark contrast to the turmoil within Emma’s heart. She stood by her apartment window, gazing at the city lights that blurred into a shimmering sea as tears welled in her eyes. This was supposed to be their first anniversary, a day she had dreamed of celebrating with Jack. Instead, it marked the end of a love that once seemed invincible.
By Maribel Golosino2 years ago in Fiction
A Former Flame Drops In On the Gym
(I've changed the name of the former crush, obviously. Now, ENJOY...) It was another day and another couple of cents in this economy. I had walked into my Locker Room Attendant job for just another shift before I should wrap up and enjoy my evening. I didn't project anything too out of the ordinary for the day. "Smile. Be polite. Engage with the members. Keep the Locker Room and gym functioning. Try not to ACTUALLY kill my Women's Locker Room Attendant counterpart (though I was grateful that neither she, nor anyone else in the vicinity, was psychic; because, in MY mind, I was working with a former partner again).I rounded my way casually out onto the Cardio Floor to drop off some small towels. My hands now free, I even waved to a few of our elderly members and even smiled congenially at a snide remark or two before I kept my own retort to myself and kept on walking. I rounded the walking track to the Free Weight Floor occupied by a membership demographic that was a little closer to my age if not slightly younger. Then, from across the way, I saw......Nah; it was impossible. THAT wasn't Hillary standing across from me there. It LOOKED a lot like her; as I remembered her from close to sixteen years ago. Yeah; that's it. I was inappropriately eyeballing a young woman who happened to be sixteen years my junior all because she did REALLY look like a former flame. I mean, WHY would Hillary be in my hometown; in my place of employment; and why......Why would whoever THIS attractive specimen of female was be beckoning me over from clear across the room like she knew me? No, I've been here before; she was CLEARLY waving at somebody ELSE and I was awkwardly mistaken. Best to keep moving...
By Kent Brindley2 years ago in Fiction
The Gazebo
The early spring air was cold and damp on her skin. A light ocean breeze gently pushed the long chestnut hair off her shoulders. The curls fell onto her back as the breeze let up. The lights reflected in the bay as the water rippled. The smell of salt air was so strong she could almost taste it. Was it the scent of the approaching summer or the scent of the marsh nearby trying to come back to life?
By Jamie Callaghan2 years ago in Fiction
The Buried Truth
When Grandma died, we were all summoned home for her burial. Despite being 21 years old, I had never met her. My dad had always kept us, his children, away from his mother, a decision that had mystified us for years. I am the only daughter among six siblings, with two older and three younger brothers. Our curiosity about Grandma was persistent. While we frequently visited our maternal grandmother, who lived further away, we were never allowed to see our paternal grandmother, who lived in a nearby city. Our mother eventually revealed that ever since Dad's father died, he had avoided his mother, refusing to visit her or allow us to. She offered no further details, leaving us to speculate. Just as my siblings and I were planning a secret trip to see Grandma, one of our uncles called. I watched my dad answer the phone and hang up, his demeanor unchanged. That night, he gathered us all to announce, without a hint of emotion, that Grandma had died. He informed us we would be attending the burial the following week, spending five days away. Our regret was immediate—we had never met her while she was alive. Arriving at Grandma’s mansion the following week, we were stunned by its grandeur. The street was even named after our grandfather. It was evident that our grandparents had been affluent. I couldn’t understand why Dad had distanced himself from such a privileged background to live a modest life elsewhere. In the large compound, we saw our cousins playing together. We had little relationship with them, as Dad had kept us away from his family. Our arrival felt like an intrusion; all eyes were on us, the family of the estranged son. That evening, we were assigned rooms. I shared a room with Rose, a cousin who had visited us once before with her father, who had tried unsuccessfully to persuade Dad to visit Grandma. For the first time, I saw pictures of my grandparents. They were old photos, and I regretted never knowing Grandma before she passed away. As I lay in bed, I overheard Dad’s siblings confronting him about his long absence and sudden return. The argument was heated, but Dad’s attempts to defend himself were futile. He eventually stormed out, slamming the door. Rose, startled by the noise, revealed she was also awake. As the house quieted, I finally fell asleep, only to find myself in a vivid dream. I was outside the mansion, watching a younger version of my dad with his parents. They had just argued, and Dad had urged them to sleep and discuss things in the morning. Suddenly, a scream pierced the night. Rushing to their room, I saw Grandma holding a knife, bloodied, over Grandpa’s lifeless body. Dad accused her of murder, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Grandma, shocked and confused, denied it, but the sight of her favorite knife in her hand told a different story. Dad packed his bags and left, leaving her devastated. Rose’s call woke me. It was morning, and the sun was already high. The dream haunted me, but I kept it to myself. The next night, the dream repeated. This time, Grandma begged me to believe she hadn’t killed her husband, her eyes filled with tears. I awoke, terrified, and unable to sleep for the rest of the night. The next morning, I confided in Dad. He listened, visibly shaken, and asked me to seek more information if the dream recurred. That night, despite my fear, I fell asleep quickly. The dream returned. Remembering Dad’s request, I asked Grandma what happened after Dad left the room. She wept, then pointed towards a passage. I followed and saw a masked figure fleeing. Catching up, I unmasked him—it was Dad. He confessed, saying he had been drunk and didn’t remember killing his father. Grandma, who knew the truth, had kept silent all these years. I awoke in confusion. The dream suggested Dad had unwittingly killed his own father, a secret he had buried deep. After breakfast, I told Dad about the latest dream. He broke down, finally acknowledging the truth he had long suppressed. He asked me to forget it, and it was the last time I had the dream. At Grandma’s burial, Dad, usually stoic, was the most emotional. His grief was raw, surprising everyone but me. I realized he had finally confronted the buried truth, a secret Grandma had taken to her grave. Now, it was my burden to carry, a hidden truth that would remain with me forever.
By Oluwatosin Tade2 years ago in Fiction
The Last Leaf of Autumn: Hope Blooms in the Face of Loss
The Last Leaf of Autumn Eudora's boots scrunched against the dry leaves as she walked through the orchard, the sound echoing through the stillness of the evening. The sun was setting behind the rolling hills, casting a warm orange glow over the trees. The air was crisp with the scent of ripe apples and damp earth, and Eudora breathed it in deep down, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease.
By Kingsley Gomes, PhD.2 years ago in Fiction
The Girl Nextdoor
I was never particularly interested in girls as a boy. It wasn't that I had anything against them, but I just didn't feel the same spark that my friends were experiencing. They'd often joke that there must be something wrong with me, but I would laugh it off, undisturbed by their childish beliefs. My lack of interest continued as I got admission into the university, where, despite my indifference, I somehow managed to attract a good number of attention from the girls. Many of them tried to get close to me, while some went as far as confessing their feelings outrightly. This only made things worse with my male friends, especially when their crushes turned their affections toward me instead. I became a target of their resentment, even though I was never interested in their girls. It sometimes got me worried. I focused on my studies, trying to ignore the drama that was swirling around me.
By Oluwatosin Tade2 years ago in Fiction
To Dream is to Forget. Content Warning.
"I've dreamed a lot. I'm tired now from dreaming, but not tired of dreaming. No one tires of dreaming, because to dream is to forget, and forgetting does not weigh on us, it is a dreamless sleep throughout which we remain awake." - Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet
By Paul Stewart2 years ago in Fiction
Heaven is Behind Closed Eyelids. Runner-up in 3:00 AM Challenge.
I don’t know where she goes, but it’s always the same. One moment she’s there, holding my hand, caressing my brow, kissing my cheek. Eyes like a summer sky crinkle in the corners as she graces me with that lopsided smile, the one that says, I love you, you big silly man, as she wipes away my tears born from thinking myself into a vortex that drags me into the murky depths of my own mind.
By Dominic Casey-Lee2 years ago in Fiction
