Love

Riptide; Chapter 4
Raven stops beside me on the deck. "Cannons at the ready, Captain." I nod, watching the ensign as they finish reknotting the remaining rigging of the mainmast. If this idea worked, we just might be able to get the fixed sail up. "Are they loaded?"
By Katarzyna Crevanabout a month ago in Fiction
The Viking
His touch was sharp and shook her to the core. Their eyes met and there seemed to be something almost glowing about him. She quickly brushed it off as a trick of the light.
By Leah Suzanne Deweyabout a month ago in Fiction
The Gospel of Gumption
The assignment from her editor was a footnote, a punishment for having annoyed a major advertiser. “Go to Gumption, Vermont,” the email read. “Cover their ‘Fall Furnival.’ Yes, with a ‘U.’ File 500 words on the quirky local color. Try not to poison the well.”
By Habibullahabout a month ago in Fiction
The fair of love
The Summer Before Thomas I still have Thomas' hanky. It may seem silly—his sixty-three years wrapped up in a piece of woven cotton. It no longer smells like him—it smells like my dresser—a mix of cedar and cedar-scented lavender sachets forgotten. But my fingers remember him, even when my nose forgets.
By BHUMIabout a month ago in Fiction
One Cigarette, One Memory
Sometimes, one cigarette is not just smoke. It is a memory, a face, a voice that never fully left. You take one deep puff, and suddenly she appears in your mind.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Fiction
The Last Café Before Midnight. AI-Generated.
The Last Café Before Midnight Rain didn’t usually scare anyone in the city. But that night, it seemed heavier—like the sky was trying to wash away something it couldn’t name. The streetlights blurred into long yellow streaks, and the wind carried the smell of wet asphalt and loneliness.
By shakir hamidabout a month ago in Fiction
"The Stranger on the Bridge"
In the late November evening of London, the damp and chilly fog rose along the Thames River. Emma tightened her scarf and hurried towards Waterloo Bridge - that was the shortcut she took every day after work. The bridge lights had just come on, casting a dim yellow glow in the fog.
By Léo Youngabout a month ago in Fiction
The Threshold of Then
Elara found the door on a day when her present felt particularly thin. The maple tree at the edge of her property was ancient, its bark a geography of ridges and valleys. Today, in the low, slanting light of October, she saw the lines she’d always taken for natural cracks had formed a perfect rectangle. And within that rectangle, someone had long ago painted a simple, weathered green door, complete with a tiny brass knob that was just flecks of ochre paint.
By Habibullahabout a month ago in Fiction
The White Cliff and the Swift Dove
June 1942 · London The air-raid sirens tore through the London dawn. James Miller was in the vaulted basement of the British Museum, gently wiping the lens of a damaged theodolite. Three months into the Blitz, he had grown accustomed to the distant thunder; the steadiness of his hands had become a quiet form of defiance.
By Léo Youngabout a month ago in Fiction
Snowed Under
She held the hot cup in her hands, letting the warmth spread through her and ease the stiffness. She took small steps, watching the liquid hit the rim of the mug as she moved into the living room and sat in her armchair. Carefully, she brought the scalding hot drink up to her lips and took a first sip of Christmas cheer. It always brought her back to Christmases in her childhood. She eased into the calm of it and turned to look out the window.
By Leah Suzanne Deweyabout a month ago in Fiction
The Lonely Grave of Tala
On the vast and ancient soil of Iraq, along a quiet stretch of desert highway between Dhi Qar and Basra, lies a small, solitary grave. There is no marble, no ornament, no towering gravestone. Just a humble mound of earth with a simple name etched upon it:
By Ikram Ullahabout a month ago in Fiction
Our Old Story. Top Story - December 2025.
She reached for it… But she had one final thing to say first… “Darling, I know that this is probably the absolute worst moment to end things with a speech, but the doctors say that you will not remember this tomorrow, and I have so much that I still want to tell you before I leave. So…let’s start at the very beginning…
By Kendall Defoe about a month ago in Fiction