Psychological
Before I Knew His Name. Content Warning.
Rebecca sat on the nice, dark leather couch. It looked almost Victorian style but still had that modernized feel to it. She scrolled through Facebook as she waited for him. The man who would supposedly ‘change her life.’
By Mak Wintersabout a year ago in Fiction
My Mother’s Last Recipe
My Mother’s Last Recipe Written by Shah Zai Love isn’t always found in words—it can be folded into dough, stirred into sauce, and passed down through generations, one bite at a time. I never expected a recipe to make me cry. The day after my mother’s funeral, I found myself in her kitchen, holding a weathered wooden spoon and staring at a stack of old index cards. Her handwriting—neat, slanted, and unmistakably hers—stared back at me from the top card: > “Zehra’s Sunday Chicken Stew — For when the soul needs warmth.” The ink was smudged near the corner, perhaps from years of being handled with flour-dusted fingers. Or maybe from tears. I wouldn’t know—until then, I’d never dared cook it myself. My mother had been the sun around which our little family orbited. Her kitchen was her kingdom, and her love language was food. She never said “I’m proud of you,” but she always made sure your favorite dish was ready when you came home. She never said “I love you,” but she always packed your lunch with a secret sweet—just enough to remind you someone cared. When I moved away for university, I never learned to cook. “Too busy,” I used to say. “I’ll learn later.” But later kept getting pushed off until it was too late. And now, here I was—home again, motherless, and more lost than I’d ever been—holding her last recipe like it was some kind of sacred map back to her. The Ingredients of Memory I laid out the ingredients carefully, just like I remembered her doing. Chicken thighs, tomatoes, garlic, potatoes, turmeric, salt, pepper, and the one thing I always teased her about—a cinnamon stick. “Cinnamon?” I’d laugh. “Isn’t that for desserts?” “You’ll understand one day,” she’d say, with a smile that meant she wasn’t going to explain. The house was eerily quiet now, the silence pressing against my ears. I half-expected her voice to float in from the hallway: “Did you wash your hands? Don’t bruise the herbs!” But all I had were memories, each one rising with the scent of every chopped clove and seared onion. I browned the chicken in her old cast-iron pot, just like she taught me, letting it crisp at the edges. The sound—sizzling, popping—filled the emptiness of the room. And then came the tomatoes, softened into a deep red paste that smelled like home. Each stir of the spoon felt like a prayer. A Recipe Written in Love As the stew simmered, I sat at the kitchen table, flipping through more of her recipe cards. Each one was a snapshot of a moment. “Fatima’s Wedding Sweets.” “Rainy Day Lentils.” “Cure-for-Broken-Hearts Rice.” She had named dishes not just for taste, but for life’s occasions. For heartbreak. For joy. For ordinary Wednesdays when you needed something warm and soft to remind you that you were still okay. The door creaked open, and my younger brother Amir stepped in. His eyes were red-rimmed. “Is that… mom’s stew?” he asked. I nodded. He sat down silently, watching the steam curl into the ceiling. “She made it for me the day I flunked my final exam,” he said. “Didn’t say a word. Just put the bowl in front of me like it was medicine.” We didn’t talk for a while. We just sat in the stillness, letting the stew speak for her. The Last Bite When the stew was finally ready, I ladled it into the same chipped bowls we’d used growing up. Amir took one, and I took the other. The first bite was like stepping back in time—rich, tender, warm, and just the tiniest bit sweet. And then I understood. The cinnamon. It wasn’t just an ingredient. It was a signature. A whisper of something unexpected. Like my mother herself—soft where you least expected, bold when it mattered most. Tears rolled down my cheeks, not from grief this time, but from something deeper. Connection. Legacy. A reminder that even though she was gone, she’d left behind a language we could still speak.
By Moonlit Lettersabout a year ago in Fiction
Heatwave shadows. Honorable Mention in The Summer That Wasn’t Challenge.
Every summer, the city roared in colors that never changed. Perpetual sun filtering through yellowing plastic blinds. I heard sirens skipping over the cracked pavement. I felt my own musty scent of sweat. The spoiled fruit from the market two blocks down curled into oblivion, softening inside, rotting.
By Gabriela Trofin-Tatárabout a year ago in Fiction
