literature

Families and literature go hand in hand; fictional families to entertain, reflect and inspire.

The Kneeling Mother
The sun had not yet risen over the city of Kobe, Japan, when the earth began to tremble. It started as a low rumble, like a distant thunder, and then quickly escalated into a violent roar. Buildings swayed like trees in a storm, glass shattered, screams filled the air, and within moments, everything turned into dust and chaos.
By Ahmad shah5 months ago in Families
The Last Passenger
Rain fell in soft waves against the train window as the 7:15 evening express rolled through the countryside, the landscape blurred like a half-forgotten dream. Claire Hart sat alone in Carriage B, clutching her leather satchel with fingers too cold for August. The train was unusually quiet. No chatter. No conductor. Just silence and the low hum of motion. She checked her phone—no signal. Again. Claire had boarded the train from Greystone Station an hour ago, heading back to the city after a funeral in her hometown. Her brother Michael, only 34. Sudden heart attack. A life ended mid-sentence. Now, she was headed back to her own life, the one with endless meetings, takeout dinners, and text messages that said “We should catch up soon!” but never meant it. She looked around. Not a single soul in sight. Maybe she was in the wrong carriage? Maybe everyone had moved for some reason—maintenance, something technical. She stood, stretching her legs, and stepped into the next car. Empty. Next one. Also empty. The dining car had tables still set, untouched tea cups rattling slightly with the train’s movement. A half-eaten biscuit rested on one saucer, as if its owner had just stepped away. Her stomach twisted. This wasn’t normal. Claire rushed to the front of the train. No conductors, no engineers. Nothing. The driver’s cabin was locked, of course. She pounded on the door, but no one answered. She wasn’t panicking. Not yet. Returning to her seat, she spotted something strange. A single ticket stub sitting on the seat opposite hers. It hadn’t been there before. She picked it up, turning it over in her hand. It wasn’t hers. Different name. Passenger Name: Isaac Whitmore Seat: B4 Departure: Greystone Station Arrival: King’s Hollow Date: August 6 Same as her. But no one had sat in B4 when she boarded. She was sure of it. “Excuse me,” a voice said softly behind her. Claire turned so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet. An older man, maybe mid-sixties, stood there in a long grey coat, damp from the rain. His hands trembled as he reached for the luggage rack above seat B4 and pulled down a worn brown suitcase. “I—” Claire started, but the man looked at her and gave the kind of smile you reserve for strangers on buses and in elevators. Polite. Distant. “I believe you have my ticket,” he said gently, gesturing to the stub in her hand. Claire blinked. “Sorry, I didn’t—there was no one—” “No need to explain. These things have a way of finding their way back.” He took the stub with care and sat down across from her, folding his hands in his lap. The train continued to move, gently swaying. Claire watched him for a long moment. “I thought I was alone,” she said finally. The man nodded. “Most people do, until they’re not.” His words were cryptic, but not threatening. There was something familiar about him, in the way a scent or song brings back a memory you can’t quite place. “You knew someone in Greystone?” she asked, unsure why she felt compelled to fill the silence. “Yes,” he said after a pause. “I came to say goodbye.” Claire’s breath caught. “Me too,” she said. “My brother. He died last week.” “I know,” he said softly. She froze. “What?” The man smiled again, that same patient smile. “Michael Hart. He played guitar, right? He used to sing Beatles songs when you couldn’t sleep.” Claire’s mouth went dry. “How do you know that?” The train gave a soft lurch, and outside, the world had gone darker, the rain now misting rather than falling. She stood up suddenly, heart pounding. “Who are you?” The man didn’t move. “Sit, Claire.” She did, against her own instincts, like her body had made the choice for her. He looked out the window, then back at her. “You’re not supposed to be on this train,” he said gently. “Not yet.” “I don’t understand.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded newspaper clipping. He slid it across the table. It was her brother’s obituary. She remembered helping write it, every word a dagger. She flipped the paper over. On the back was a short headline: “Train Derailment Avoided After Last-Minute Track Inspection.” Date: August 6 But something was off. Her eyes scanned the article. No mention of her train. It wasn’t avoided—the wording said it had happened. Claire’s stomach dropped. “I died,” she whispered. The man shook his head. “Not yet. But you were meant to. This train wasn’t going to make it. A signal error, a missed inspection. Everyone aboard… gone.” Claire’s head spun. “But… then why am I still here?” He looked at her, eyes soft. “Because you weren’t ready to go.” The rain outside had stopped. The train slowed. “I don’t want to die,” Claire said quietly. “No one does. But you… you held on. Somehow. Maybe it was the grief. Or maybe it was something stronger.” The train screeched gently as it began to pull into a station. A glowing sign read: Return Point – One Way Claire looked out the window. The platform was empty, fog curling like smoke around the benches. “You can step off,” the man said. “And wake up. You’ll be in a hospital. Tubes, machines. But alive.” “And you?” she asked, her voice small. He smiled again, but this time it was tinged with something sad. “I’m the last passenger. I stay until the last seat is empty.” Realization bloomed slowly in her chest. “You’re not real,” she said. “Or maybe not alive.” “I was once. Long ago. My family never knew I didn’t make it home. So I stayed. Helping others off the train. One at a time.” Claire stood. “Thank you,” she whispered. He nodded. “Tell Michael something for me?” She blinked. “What?” “Tell him… I liked his version of Hey Jude best.” Tears stung her eyes. “You knew him?” He nodded once, just as the doors opened. Claire stepped off. She awoke three days later in a hospital bed, surrounded by machines and the smell of antiseptic. Her lungs ached. Her head throbbed. But she was alive. The nurse called for the doctor. Her mother cried. Her father, who hadn’t spoken since the funeral, kissed her hand and didn’t let go. And Claire, through tears and hoarseness, whispered a name. “Isaac Whitmore.” They didn’t know who he was. But she did. The last passenger. And the reason she came back.
By Sajid 5 months ago in Families
"The Importance of Apologies". Content Warning. AI-Generated.
We all make mistakes. We say things we don’t mean, hurt people we care about, or act in ways we later regret. In such moments, one of the most powerful tools we have for healing and restoring trust is a simple, sincere apology.
By Najeeb Scholer6 months ago in Families
The Value of Tradition. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
In the peaceful valley of Noorabad, time seemed to move with the sun—slow and steady. Birds chirped in the early morning mist, oxen plowed the soil while farmers sang old songs, and every evening, the smell of wood fires and spiced lentils filled the air. It was a village wrapped in rhythm, rituals, and stories passed from generation to generation.
By Najeeb Scholer6 months ago in Families
"The Gift of Time". Content Warning. AI-Generated.
In the heart of a busy city, where the buildings reached high into the sky and the streets buzzed with cars and crowds, lived a little girl named Amaya. She was eight years old, curious and bright, but often alone. Her father, Mr. Ravi, was a successful businessman who always seemed to be in a hurry—on calls, in meetings, or rushing off to catch a flight. Her mother had passed away when Amaya was very young, and though her home was filled with toys, books, and beautiful clothes, it often felt empty.
By Najeeb Scholer6 months ago in Families
"The Power of Forgiveness". Content Warning. AI-Generated.
In a quiet village nestled between rolling hills and whispering trees, lived a kind-hearted old man named Arman. He was known by everyone as a gentle soul who lived a simple life in a small wooden house near the edge of the forest. Arman spent his days tending to his garden, feeding birds, and sharing stories with the village children under the shade of the old banyan tree.
By Najeeb Scholer6 months ago in Families
Gus the Goat and the Garden of Gratitude. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
In the gentle hills of Clover Valley, where the sun always seemed to smile and the breeze smelled like wildflowers, lived a young goat named Gus.
By Najeeb Scholer6 months ago in Families
The Whispering Wind and the Angry Ant. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
In a vast, green meadow where tall grass danced like ocean waves, lived a very tiny but very busy ant named Alden. Alden was strong. He was smart. And he was always angry.
By Najeeb Scholer6 months ago in Families
Penny Penguin Shares Her Ice. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
Far down in the shimmering, frozen land of Snowflake Bay, lived a young penguin named Penny. She was smaller than most of the other penguins and didn’t waddle as fast, but she had the warmest heart in the entire colony.
By Najeeb Scholer6 months ago in Families
Milo the Mouse Finds Courage. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
In the heart of a tall, swaying meadow lived a tiny gray mouse named Milo. He was smaller than the other mice in his village, with big round ears and a nervous twitch in his whiskers. Milo was gentle, kind, and smart—but terribly shy and afraid of nearly everything.
By Najeeb Scholer6 months ago in Families
Benny and the Borrowed Bike. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
In a sunny town called Maplewood, where flowers bloomed year-round and the air smelled like cinnamon waffles, lived a curious and cheerful boy named Benny. Benny loved adventure more than anything—climbing trees, chasing butterflies, or building forts out of sticks and boxes.
By Najeeb Scholer6 months ago in Families
Freddy Fox and the Truth Trouble. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
In the heart of the Whispering Woods lived a fox named Finnegan, known far and wide for his cleverness. He could outsmart hunters, trick the crows out of crumbs, and even talk a squirrel out of its last nut.
By Najeeb Scholer6 months ago in Families