The Kind Quill
Bio
The Kind Quill serves as a writer's blog to entertain, humor, and/or educate readers and viewers alike on the stories that move us and might feed our inner child
Stories (260)
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The Forgotten Room
In our house, the hallway upstairs had a rule: Never touch the last door on the left. Mom never wrote it down, but the rule was solid as concrete. Holidays, birthdays, random Tuesdays - nobody went in. If a guest got lost looking for the bathroom and wandered too far, they were intercepted with a speed that suggested Olympic training and generational trauma.
By The Kind Quillabout a month ago in Fiction
Patch Notes for a Life
It started with a glance through a keyhole that wasn’t a keyhole at all, just a smart panel mounted inside a maintenance closet no one was supposed to open. The door had been left a finger’s width ajar—a cracked mouth in a corridor of quiet—and I was on my night rounds, a janitor-security hybrid with a ring of keys heavy enough to anchor a small boat. The new building had new protocols; the new protocols had new passwords. But the oldest security is human laziness, and someone had propped the closet with a mop to “air it out” and then forgot the mop.
By The Kind Quill2 months ago in Fiction
Butterflies
They say love comes when you least expect it. Sometimes it feels like a myth, a story passed down in whispers, a threadbare tale spun to comfort those who wait too long. But then, against all odds, two people who once claimed they didn’t need love, who swore they would never chase it, find themselves standing side by side as friends—and somehow, quietly, something begins to stir.
By The Kind Quill4 months ago in Poets
Spicy Burrito Bowl
On paper, it was nothing unusual: an al pastor burrito bowl, warm with roasted pork, peppers, rice, and spice. But in the moment, it became something far more than dinner. It became a mirror. A container for the feelings I hadn’t yet named and the questions I was almost afraid to ask.
By The Kind Quill4 months ago in Confessions
A Blue Memory
It started with a flying chair. August 1st, 2021 — the kind of humid New York summer night that sticks to your skin like sweat and nostalgia. The kind of night when possibility hangs in the air, draped in disco lights and drowned beneath the bass of a now-shuttered gay club whose name I can’t quite say without feeling a pinch in my chest.
By The Kind Quill5 months ago in Confessions
The Gap in the Lights
The hillside is the kind people pay to get married on, groomed to look like it never needed grooming. Rows of grapevines contour the slope like the ribs of some benevolent giant, and beyond them the river unspools in a silver S, ferrying light instead of boats. I’m on the balcony above the reception lawn with a flute of seltzer that keeps fogging my fingers. The glass sweats more than I do. Through my sunglasses, the whole place is color-graded into a pretty lie—blues deeper, greens silkier, faces dewy with someone else’s good lighting.
By The Kind Quill5 months ago in Fiction
