Mystery
The Meeting
The city was slick with rain — the kind that clings to your coat and blurs the edges of the night. Neon signs bled their colours into puddles, flickering like restless ghosts on wet asphalt. The smell of damp concrete mixed with exhaust fumes, hanging heavy in the air like a warning. I kept my eyes on the road, but my mind tuned into the quiet tension resting heavy in the backseat.
By Bentley Brownabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clock That Never Ticked
There was a clock in my grandmother’s house that never ticked. It hung above the fireplace—heavy, carved, ancient. The kind of thing you don’t question as a child. You just accept it. It was always midnight, or always noon. Depending on how you looked at it.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
Home Without a Map
I spent a long time trying to leave the place I came from. Not physically—though I did that, too—but emotionally. I tried to untangle myself from the soil that shaped me. As if I could uproot my past like a weed and toss it behind me, like it never mattered.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Long Way Around"
We sketch out our dreams in bold ink — a clear vision of what we want, where we’re headed, and how long it should take to get there. We imagine we’ll follow a clean path from point A to point B. Graduate by this age. Land a job by that one. Find love. Settle down. Climb the ladder. Check off each goal like a to-do list. But the truth is, life doesn’t care about our timelines. For many of us, things don’t go according to plan. We miss exits, make wrong turns, circle back, stall out, and sometimes start completely over. It’s easy to feel like we’re behind. Like we took too long. Like we somehow failed. But what if we didn’t fail at all? What if we were just taking the long way around? That phrase — “the long way around” — used to sound like a curse to me. Like a euphemism for being lost or late or lagging behind everyone else. But with time, I’ve come to see it differently. Now, I think of it as the scenic route. The path full of growth, unexpected detours, surprising lessons, and hidden beauty you wouldn’t see if you were speeding through. The long way around might not be efficient. But it can be extraordinary. My own journey has been anything but direct. I graduated college with a degree I don’t use. I changed careers twice. I fell in love, got my heart broken, and then fell in love again — in an entirely different way, when I wasn’t even looking. I’ve lived in places that didn’t feel like home until I left them. I’ve quit jobs without a plan, taken risks that didn’t pay off, and made decisions that scared the life out of me. And yet, somehow, all of those winding roads have brought me here — not where I thought I’d be, but somewhere meaningful all the same. Along the way, I’ve met people I never would have encountered if I’d stuck to the script. I’ve had conversations that shifted my perspective. I’ve experienced setbacks that cracked me open in ways that led to something better. It hasn’t always been easy. In fact, sometimes it’s been painful. But growth often hides inside those detours. There’s wisdom in the slow path. When we rush through life, focused only on getting to the “next” thing, we miss what’s happening now. We forget that value isn’t just in outcomes — it’s in the experience. The long way teaches patience. It invites reflection. It humbles us. It reminds us that we don’t need to have everything figured out to be moving in the right direction. I used to look at people who seemed to have it all together and feel like I was failing. The ones who climbed fast, hit milestones early, checked all the traditional boxes. But what I’ve learned is that everyone has their own version of the long way — even if it doesn’t look like mine. Some journeys wind quietly, inward. Others are loud and messy and public. There’s no one right way to live a life. One of the most liberating things I’ve realized is that there is no “behind” — not really. Time isn’t a race. Life doesn’t grade us on punctuality. It rewards presence, authenticity, and resilience. Taking the long way around has helped me define success for myself. It’s no longer about hitting benchmarks on someone else’s timeline. It’s about alignment — about living a life that feels honest and rich, even if it looks different from the one I once imagined. If you’re in a season where things feel slow or uncertain, I hope you give yourself grace. Maybe you’re not lost. Maybe you’re just in the middle of becoming. And maybe becoming takes time. Sometimes the long way offers what the shortcut never could: depth. Perspective. Strength. A chance to rebuild on your own terms. So take your time. Sit with the questions. Wander. Get curious. Pause when you need to. Start over if you must. The path might not be straight, but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. The best stories are rarely the neatest ones. They’re the ones full of pivots and plot twists, of valleys and summits and wide-open skies you never saw coming. The long way around might just be the path that leads you to the most unexpected, most meaningful version of your life. And when you look back, you might realize: it was never about getting there fast. It was about becoming someone worth arriving as.
By Kaleem Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
In the Arms of the Night
The next morning, sunlight streamed through Mira’s window, casting warm patterns on the floor. Yet, despite the brightness of day, her mind kept drifting back to the night before — that profound quiet, the comforting darkness, the stars watching silently like ancient guardians.
By Esther Sunabout 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
