Jhon smith
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Welcome to my little corner of the internet, where words come alive
Stories (68)
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The Letters That Survived a War
In 1942, in a small town in northern France, life felt impossibly fragile. The war had already changed everything. Streets that once carried children laughing were now filled with silence or the distant thrum of military vehicles. The air carried a tension that had no scent, a weight you could feel pressing on your chest whenever you stepped outside.
By Jhon smith27 days ago in History
The Bug That Refused To Be Found
I still remember the first time my code worked exactly the way I wanted it to. It was a small program and nothing impressive by any professional standard, but watching it run without errors felt like magic. The screen responded the way I expected it to, and for a brief moment, the world made sense. That moment pulled me toward technology. The idea that logic could become something useful fascinated me, and I wanted to understand how problems could be solved not by guesswork but by patience and structured thought.
By Jhon smith27 days ago in Geeks
Last Bus
The bus came through my neighborhood every night at 11:47. I knew because I heard it before I saw it. The low engine hum. The soft rattle of windows. The sigh of brakes somewhere down the road. Even when I wasn’t looking for it, my body recognized the sound.
By Jhon smith27 days ago in Fiction
Space Between the Brushstrokes
I used to believe that real artists were always working. Every photo I saw online showed someone painting late into the night, hands stained with color, eyes burning with passion. Sketchbooks were always open. Canvases were always half-finished. The message was clear: if you weren’t constantly creating, you were falling behind.
By Jhon smith27 days ago in Art
The Library Ladder
I’ve always believed that old libraries have their own kind of weather. Not rain or wind, but something gentler—like a hush that settles between the shelves, carrying the scent of dust, paper, and the thousands of hands that once turned those pages. On the morning everything changed, the library felt storm-still, as if it had been waiting for someone to open its doors and let the light in.
By Jhon smithabout a month ago in History
The Echoing Train Whistle
It started with a sound most people in town slept through. A long, low whistle cutting across the midnight fields, rolling over grain silos and quiet porches, slipping beneath doors like a wandering ghost. In our little Midwestern town, trains were ordinary—background noise for those who’d lived here long enough. But that night, the echo felt different. Sharper. Closer. Almost intentional, as if it were calling someone awake.
By Jhon smithabout a month ago in Confessions
Amber Heartbeat
The first time the wall pulsed beneath Aria’s palm, she thought it was a trick of the late-evening light—one of those soft illusions old houses like to play on tired minds. The hallway was already quiet in that peculiar, listening way, its faded wallpaper breathing dust and age. A thin beam of dusk filtered through the cracked window above the staircase, striking the vine-patterned wallpaper like a spotlight trained on forgotten history.
By Jhon smithabout a month ago in Fiction
Whispering Walls
Most people don’t pay attention to walls. They walk past them as if they’re blank things—silent, unmoving, unimportant. But I’ve always believed walls remember what we forget. Maybe that belief began the summer I returned to my childhood home to clear it out after my mother passed. Or maybe it began long before, back when I was a kid and the house seemed to hum with a life of its own.
By Jhon smithabout a month ago in Confessions
Moon-lit Knitting Circle
They gathered every Thursday night beneath the old iron streetlamp on Calder Lane—five seniors, five chairs, and one moon that always seemed to rise a little brighter for them. The neighborhood called them the Knitting Circle, but the name never captured the magic that flickered, quiet and honest, in their hands.
By Jhon smithabout a month ago in Poets
