Love
Performative Ritual. Runner-Up in Rituals of Affection Challenge.
He has certain expectations for the women in his life. Her closet represents many of them; only whores show their shoulders or their knees. Skirts must be long. Tank tops are simply for other people. People who aren’t them. People who aren’t decent like they are.
By Leigh Victoria Phan, MS, MFA8 months ago in Fiction
Four
… After kissing Victoire goodbye and leaving her in the middle of the night street, Romain and I enter his building and climb up to the fourth floor. Incidentally, I live on the fourth floor too. So does Victoire. As it happens, most of my friends have ended up on this floor, without meaning to. Is there something magical about this even natural number? One, two, three, four.
By Anastasia Tsarkova8 months ago in Fiction
“Marry, and Become a Philosopher or a Happy Man”: Exploring Socrates’ Timeless Wisdom. AI-Generated.
Socrates, the ancient Greek philosopher who famously declared that “the unexamined life is not worth living,” had a unique way of blending humor with profound insight. One of his lesser-discussed, yet strikingly witty quotes goes:
By Ayesha Lashari8 months ago in Fiction
One Night
Rain pelted the window. Jessica Spring sighed. She heard a knock on the door. She answered and met the most gorgeous man she ever met in her life. He wore a white suit with a red shirt underneath. His white tie contrasted nicely with the vibrant red shirt.
By DJ Robbins8 months ago in Fiction
Platform 4
She was with Lucas, the love of her life, and they were going to their last date, at a motel. After this, they were finally going to get married. At night, the train station felt like a threshold between worlds. There was a cool breeze which carried the calming scent of lavender. “I wish this feeling would never end”, said Lucas with a content expression. Maxine had one too. She was happy, an emotion she felt only when she was around him. That emotion, however, led to a series of events. As she happily twirled, carefree and on top of the world, she slid off the edge of the platform, landing harshly on the tracks.
By Ankitaa Arun💕8 months ago in Fiction
Celebration of Life. Content Warning.
A little boy died at the age of 9 and a young woman at 19. Both of these babies came from the same family, and both of these babies are grieved by many of the same people. One little boy passed in a car accident and one young woman who passed when she was hit by a train. Every year passes without them there through the holidays, their birthdays, special events, and of course their death-day. Every year we remember when they die because the event is etched into our souls. Every year we try to keep living without grief taking complete control. These two children from the same family who died 10 years apart never to be forgotten.
By Tabitha Hinkley8 months ago in Fiction
The Valentine’s Feast. Runner-Up in Rituals of Affection Challenge.
Corinne arrived at 8 p.m. sharp with her wicker picnic basket. She spread her patchwork quilt across the frozen ground, sat down cross-legged, and began to unload the contents of the basket onto the quilt between them.
By Bride of Sound8 months ago in Fiction
The Question of Breakfast . Content Warning.
The Question of Breakfast The kettle whistled, the low, polite sound it made every time the cycle completed. Tea was every afternoon at four. George didn’t have to look at the clock. The television paced their days. The advert breaks gave him just enough time to put the kettle on. The steam hitting the tile was his reminder, like a trusty timepiece. Honor liked her tea at four, before the start of the antiques show where they tried to outdo each other on guessing the profit. Although lately it was more about the quiet realisation that most of the antiques were now just childhood memories, at a vastly inflated price. He brought the tray into the sitting room where she sat, remote in hand, making sure the afternoon matinee ran as planned. As the credits rolled, they both turned to the Scrabble board already open on the table, the wooden tiles worn smooth at the edges. He had set it up while she rested her eyes, pretending to still be watching the programme. His eyes lifted every few seconds, checking that she was still with him. “Seventeen points,” Honor said, tapping the board. She had played TRAIN. “You always get the double letter,” George grumbled, though he’d watched her count the spaces three turns ago. He smiled into his tea. “I’m filing a formal complaint.” “File it with the cat,” she said, though the cat had been dead for six years. They both laughed. It was an old joke, worn comfortable like a favourite T-shirt. The news came on at six. They didn’t listen to the headlines anymore, but they liked the murmur of the presenter’s voice; it filled the gaps between their own. They ate chicken with potatos and peas, followed by a small bowl of tinned peaches and evaporated milk. George cleared the plates before she could reach for them. By ten, the lights were out. The next day followed the same shape. The morning passed quietly. Honor read aloud from the newspaper at the table, stopping every few sentences, the pause stretching as she gathered her thoughts. For a moment it felt as though time stalled, then continued again just as George was about to ask what came next. “They’re putting up new traffic lights on the high street,” she said. “Good luck to them,” George replied, confused but smoothing over the discontinuity as he always did. She suggested they might need some yellow lines as well, gesturing vaguely towards a junction that existed only in her head. He agreed, though silently finished the thought the way he always did: yellow lines would be pointless, everyone ignores them anyway. By midday, the rain had started, pattering gently against the window in a way that suggested it wouldn’t last. “Shall we sit by the window?” she asked. “If it clears,” he said. They would sit there anyway. They did. Lunch was soup from a tin and half a loaf of bread that had begun to go stale at the edges. George buttered her slice first and handed it to her. Only after she took a bite did he turn back to his own. “You’ll spoil your appetite,” he said. “For what?” she asked. “Dinner.” She laughed. “Ambitious.” In the afternoon they watched a programme about gardens. Neither of them gardened now. Honor liked the presenter’s voice; George liked that she didn’t have to concentrate too hard on it. It gave him time to watch her face as she smiled at the screen. She loved hearing about which roses to plant and when, even though the garden they had once tended was no longer theirs. The apartment was small, but it made sense. Everything she needed was within reach. When the rain stopped, they commented on the way the light changed on the pavement outside, how the sound of the cars shifted as tyres passed over wet tarmac. When the rain started again, they agreed it had been too brief to matter to the roses. At four, the kettle whistled again. George didn’t have to look at the clock. He poured the tea and carried it in on the tray. The Scrabble board was still out. It never really went away, just rotated, and nudged, then left ready. Today George won by four points, which he felt was worth mentioning. “You miscounted,” Honor said mildly. “I did not.” “You always do.” He grinned. “Then I won honestly, by mistake.” Dinner was salmon that night, overcooked slightly. George apologised. Honor said she preferred it that way. He made a note to cook it a minute less next time. They went to bed at the usual time. He turned off the lamp. She reached for his hand in the dark, more out of habit than need. George stayed awake a moment longer, listening to her breathing settle, before allowing himself to sleep. “Same again tomorrow,” she said. “Of course,” he replied. The phone rarely rang. The letterbox was filled with pizza flyers and local council updates. They didn’t use a calendar anymore; the only reminders were medical appointments that chimed quietly through the ageing mobile he kept by the bed. If it was raining, they stayed in. If it was sunny, they still stayed in but sat by the window. They were content. This was their life now. It had settled this way without either of them noticing when. In the morning, the light filtered through the thin curtains, casting a pale yellow square across the duvet. George stretched, his joints popping in the quiet. He turned onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. “What do you want for breakfast this morning?” he asked. He asked it the same way other people checked the weather, not because the answer mattered, but because it told him how the day should begin. They both knew there was only porridge or toast. “Surprise me,” Honor would usually say, eyes still closed. “Crêpes? Smoked salmon? A five-course gourmet delight?” “I’ll see what the chef can do,” George would reply. That morning, the square of light stayed motionless. Honor’s eyes didn’t open. The room remained perfectly, brutally silent. There was no punchline. The delay stretched from a second into a minute, then into a permanent state of being. The afternoon was a blur of grey trousers and polite, professional voices. George sat in the plastic chair at the hospital and signed the forms where the nurse pointed. He spoke clearly. He confirmed the dates and the spellings. He was good at moving through days; he had decades of practice in following a sequence. “Do you have someone to call, Mr McAllen?” the doctor asked. “No,” George replied. “Just the arrangements, please.” He walked home. He let himself into the apartment. The air smelled of the salmon from the day before. The Scrabble board was still on the table, the word HOME sitting where he had left it, his winning flourish from the day before. He went into the kitchen. He stood by the counter. He looked at the bread bin. He looked at the box of oats. He knew how to cook. What he could not do was choose, because the choice required her to witness it. He went to the window and looked out at the street. People were walking dogs. Cars were turning corners. He realised then that he had no way to explain to any of them what had happened, because to explain the end, he would have to explain the routine, and the routine was his entire vocabulary. He looked at her chair in the sitting room. I don’t know how to exist without you. The kettle, left untouched, cooled on the stove, making tiny, metallic clicking sounds in the silence.
By Claire McAllen8 months ago in Fiction
What Easter Really Means
What Easter Really Means Easter is one of the most important holidays in Christianity, observed by millions of people around the world. It celebrates the resurrection of Jesus Christ, which Christians believe occurred three days after his crucifixion. This event is the cornerstone of the Christian faith, representing hope, renewal, and the promise of eternal life. For believers, Easter is a time to reflect on the significance of Jesus’ life, his sacrifice, and the victory over death that his resurrection represents.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 8 months ago in Fiction
What We Never Named
Blair Because the baby monitor cracked open the dark like something dropped, and the toddler started calling my name with the urgency of someone drowning in three inches of water. I woke already bracing. Not fear. Just readiness. The kind that lives in muscle before it ever reaches thought. The kind that knows rest is over without checking the clock. 6:12 a.m. My body knew. It always did. I slid out of bed carefully so I wouldn’t wake her. She was curled on her side, one arm flung toward the empty middle of the bed where one of the kids must have been earlier in the night. Even asleep, she looked tired—like rest skimmed her instead of landing. I paused. Just a second. There was a version of me that wanted to crawl back in, to steal five more minutes of being held before the day asked for me again. But wanting felt indulgent. Touch would wake her. Wake would cost energy. Energy was already rationed. The monitor crackled again. I was moving before the sound finished. The floor was cold. The hallway smelled like baby shampoo and yesterday’s dinner and something sweet gone stale. A toy waited in the dark like a test. I stepped on it anyway. Didn’t swear. Didn’t slow down. By the time I reached the nursery, my voice was already tuned to the exact frequency that soothed without waking the whole house. “It’s okay. I’m here.” The baby cried like this was the worst moment that had ever existed. The toddler clung to my leg like proof. The morning unspooled. Diapers. Bottles. A cup dropped on purpose. A spoon refused. A cartoon turned on too loud because silence sharpened the crying. Breakfast dishes stacking in the sink like they were waiting to be noticed. I didn’t sit. I moved the way people do when stillness feels dangerous. Wiping counters that weren’t dirty. Folding laundry halfway before being pulled away. Picking up the same toy three times. At some point, she got up. I noticed it indirectly. The bedroom door opening quietly. Footsteps careful in the hall. The low murmur of the coffee maker starting in the kitchen. She existed softly, like someone passing through a space that wasn’t quite theirs. She kissed my temple once. Brief. Weightless. “I’m heading out,” she whispered. I nodded without looking up. “Drive safe.” She hesitated—just long enough for the moment to almost become something else—then grabbed her keys and left before the kids noticed. Before goodbyes demanded more than she had. The door closed quietly. The house expanded in volume immediately. By noon, it felt smaller. By two, it pressed against my chest. I checked my phone standing at the counter, one hand braced against the edge like I might need it to stay upright. I wasn’t waiting for anything specific. I just needed proof that time was still moving somewhere else too. Her text sat there from earlier: Busy morning. Hope it’s calm there. I stared at the word calm. It landed wrong. Soft in a way that missed. I typed: All good here. Deleted it. We’re surviving lol. Deleted that too. Finally: All good ❤️ Because it was easier. Because it closed the door. Because it didn’t invite questions I didn’t have the energy to answer. Around 5:30, something shifted. Not relief. Preparation. I started straightening up. Not because she expected it—she never did—but because I didn’t want her walking into the chaos I’d been sitting in all day. I wanted the house to look manageable. Calm. Like nothing here required me to disappear to keep it running. By the time headlights washed across the living room wall, the house looked like a normal, reasonable day. I felt proud of that. I also felt emptied out. I told myself what I always did: Be easy. Be calm. Don’t unload. She’s tired too. The ritual was already waiting at the door. Sage I drove to work without music. Not as a rule. Just because sound feels like something I’d have to respond to. Silence doesn’t ask. Work began before I clocked in. Someone needed clarification. Someone else needed reassurance. A problem from yesterday followed me in like it knew I’d take responsibility for it eventually. I did. I always did. I was good at being necessary. Good at anticipating what people would ask for before they realized they were about to ask. People thanked me for it. I smiled. Said, “No problem.” By noon, my body felt used in that quiet way that doesn’t count as pain. I ate standing up. A sandwich I didn’t taste. Coffee gone lukewarm before I remembered it was there. Then the tug started. Not dramatic. Just a quiet misalignment. Like standing in the wrong room of your own house. You’re not where you’re supposed to be. I checked my phone. All good ❤️ Relief hit fast and clean. Good. Okay. Good. I didn’t imagine the deletions behind it. Didn’t hear the strain folded into the heart. By the time I pulled into the driveway, I felt hollowed out. But I straightened anyway. Adjusted my shirt. Smoothed my hair. Don’t be tired. Be helpful. Be light. She’s tired too. Inside, dinner was already ready. “Oh,” I said, surprised in a way that felt bigger than it should have. “You already cooked.” She nodded. “I figured I’d get ahead of it.” I thanked her. Meant it. We moved through the evening like choreography we’d learned years ago. Plates. Cups. One kid crying over the wrong fork. Another spilling something no one reacted fast enough to stop. After dinner, baths. Pajamas. Teeth brushed badly, then brushed again. One kid overtired. The other refusing sleep like it was a personal boundary. I took one. She took the other. We didn’t discuss it. We never did. When she asked if I could watch them for a minute—just a minute—I said yes before the sentence finished. Of course. I meant it. The kids settled. One asleep against my shoulder. The other curled beside me. The house quieted in layers. I waited. When she came back, lighter, cleaner, relieved, I smiled. Said it was no problem. That was the ritual too. What We Never Named It went like this for a long time. I stayed quiet. She stayed functioning. We called it love. I learned how to swallow wants before they became needs. How to turn need into usefulness. How to make myself smaller without thinking about it. How to confuse endurance for devotion. How to make devotion look like competence. How to stay so carefully it almost looked like peace. She learned how to lean without noticing how much weight she placed. How to accept relief without asking where it came from. To mistake quiet for consent. To believe that what never asked for anything must not need anything at all. The ritual persisted. It held. I stayed quiet so she wouldn’t disappear. She stayed because nothing demanded she choose. I told myself that if I didn’t ask, she wouldn’t leave. She told herself that if I didn’t complain, everything was fine. When it ended, it didn’t announce itself. It didn’t end loudly. There was no argument sharp enough to remember. No sentence anyone could repeat later and say, That was it. There was only a moment when she stopped turning toward me. No fight. No betrayal anyone could name. Just absence. A moment when my silence was no longer useful. I had stayed. I had been good. I had been quiet. She left anyway. The ritual did exactly what it was meant to do. It kept her comfortable. It kept the house running. It kept the connection intact. It consumed me slowly. Politely. Without urgency. I learned how to stay quiet. I learned how not to need. I learned how to disappear without leaving. And when there was nothing left of me that could ask to be chosen, the ritual let go— not with grief, not with cruelty, but with the calm, indifferent precision of something that had already finished its work and left no self intact to mourn.
By Tifani Power 8 months ago in Fiction
THE CHECK ENGINE LIGHT IS MY SPIRIT ANIMAL
"The clock has struck three, the coffee is cold, and the shadows are beginning to speak. Welcome back to the desk of The Night Writer, where the stories are brewed in the dark." Let’s be honest: cars are weird. They're these hulking metal beasts we invite into our lives, demanding fuel, affection, and an occasional, inexplicable sacrifice to the Great Mechanic in the Sky. We climb into them daily, entrusting our very existence to a symphony of controlled explosions and rapidly spinning rubber. It’s like a daily game of automotive Russian roulette, except the chamber is filled with traffic, potholes, and that persistent, existential dread of a flashing "Check Engine" light. But where did these magnificent, frustrating contraptions come from? It wasn't always about lamenting gas prices or explaining to your toddler that no, we cannot take the Batmobile to the grocery store (though I've certainly tried). The Dawn of the Horseless Horsepower (And Why It Probably Smelled Worse) Imagine, if you will, the late 19th century. People are still riding around on actual horses, which, while majestic, leave behind a certain… aroma. Enter the pioneers of the automobile, looking at a horse and thinking, "You know what this needs? Less hay, more internal combustion!" Karl Benz, bless his mechanically inclined heart, is often credited with the first true automobile in 1886. Picture it: a three-wheeled contraption that looked less like a car and more like a fancy, overgrown tricycle designed by a mad scientist with a penchant for top hats. It probably rattled like a skeleton doing the Charleston and spewed exhaust fumes that made modern smog look like a spring breeze. The first road trip? His wife, Bertha Benz, took it without telling him, effectively becoming the original "Honey, I'm taking the car for a spin (and maybe inventing road trips in the process)." She even stopped at an apothecary for ligroin to refuel – because gas stations weren't a thing yet. Imagine explaining that to your GPS: "Refuel at ye olde chemist, good sir." The early cars were a delightful hodgepodge of steam, electricity, and gasoline. It was like a technological Wild West where everyone was trying to lasso the future. And for a while, electric cars were actually winning! Before the Model T democratized gasoline power, electric vehicles were quiet, clean (by comparison), and didn't require you to hand-crank the engine until your arm felt like it had wrestled a bear. Ah, if only they'd stuck with it. We might be living in a silent, emission-free utopia now, instead of arguing about charging stations. The Ford Model T: When Everyone Got a Car (And Knew How to Fix It) Then came Henry Ford, a man who looked at the artisanal, bespoke nature of early cars and said, "Nope. We're doing this like hot dogs: cheap, plentiful, and exactly the same." The Model T rolled off the assembly line in 1908, becoming the automotive equivalent of the ubiquitous 'Starter Pack.' It was affordable, reliable (for its time), and came in any color you wanted, "as long as it is black." Talk about minimalist design choices! The Model T wasn't just a car; it was a cultural phenomenon. It gave rise to the American road trip, the joy of tinkering in the garage, and probably the first recorded instances of road rage (though it was probably more of a slow, exasperated sigh than an aggressive honk). People learned to fix these things themselves, which is a stark contrast to today where even changing a headlight feels like you need a degree in quantum physics and a special wrench blessed by ancient automotive gods. My grandpa once told me he could fix a flat tire on his Model T with a screwdriver, a prayer, and a strong cup of coffee. I can barely change the batteries in my TV remote without calling tech support. The Age of Chrome and Confusion Fast forward to the mid-20th century. Cars weren't just transportation; they were status symbols, declarations of freedom, and occasionally, mobile living rooms. Fins grew longer, chrome shone brighter, and dashboards began to resemble the control panel of a spaceship (if that spaceship was designed by someone who really loved buttons). This was the era of the muscle car, the behemoths with engines that sounded like angry dragons gargling jet fuel. The gas mileage was abysmal, but who cared when you could go from 0 to "arrested" in under five seconds? This was also the era where cars started getting personality. The Volkswagen Beetle, the Cadillac Eldorado, the impossibly cool Aston Martin DB5 (complete with ejector seat for unwanted passengers, a feature I still think should be standard). But with great power came great… well, complexity. Suddenly, the average driver wasn't just dealing with a carburetor; they were facing intricate wiring, power steering, and air conditioning that inevitably broke down right before your summer road trip to Death Valley. The car stopped being a simple machine and started becoming a sentient, temperamental entity with an inexplicable hatred for Mondays and your wallet. The Modern Marvels and the Existential Dread of the Algorithm Today’s cars are less about mechanical brute force and more about silicon wizardry. They brake for you, parallel park themselves (sometimes better than you can), and politely inform you when you've drifted out of your lane, often with a gentle ding that sounds suspiciously like a disappointed parent. We're living in the age of autonomous vehicles, electric dreams, and cars that can connect to your phone faster than you can find your actual keys. But here’s the kicker: the more advanced they get, the less we understand them. My car once told me it needed "AdBlue." I briefly considered if it was a new brand of artisanal windshield wiper fluid before realizing it was a diesel exhaust fluid that sounded like something from a dystopian sci-fi novel. The "Check Engine" light, once a mere annoyance, now feels like a cryptic message from an alien civilization, demanding sacrifices I cannot comprehend. We have cars that practically drive themselves, yet we still spend hours stuck in traffic, staring at the bumper of the car ahead, wondering if a horse-drawn carriage would actually be faster. We obsess over horsepower and torque, yet the biggest challenge many of us face is finding a parking spot that doesn't require the spatial reasoning of a NASA astronaut. So, the next time you get into your car, take a moment. Appreciate the absurdity, the genius, and the sheer mechanical ballet of it all. Marvel at how far we've come from Karl Benz’s tri-wheeler, and maybe, just maybe, give a little nod to Bertha Benz, the original road warrior. And for the love of all that is holy, if your car asks for AdBlue, just Google it. Trust me. "Daylight is coming to claim the quiet, but these words stay with you. If you enjoyed this journey into the midnight hours, leave a heart or a tip to keep the candles burning. Sleep well—if you can. — The Night Writer."
By The Night Writer 🌙 8 months ago in Fiction
