Love

"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
Memory Lane
"Perhaps we can take her out to the atrium today?" suggested Angela as she walked beside her younger brother, Jon. It seemed as if he hadn't heard her as they turned the corner leading from the vestibule to the main hallway. Angela knew better.
By V. H. Eberleabout a month ago in Fiction
His heart (was) charcoal
I've met a man the sun filled his heart. The kind of man a woman in her 20's fantasizes about, a man with golden locks of hair and a golden soul, with a mind clear like a transparent sea, with depths that can go beyond you've ever thought possible. He was always kind and friendly, his words could warm your heart. Small verbal gestures like, "I hope you've had a great day today", or "how's your grandma lately? I heard she was feeling ill." Or big words like, "the light of day is fleeting and eternal all at once, actually" – spoken with a soft, bashful smile. He was considerate, an aura behind his head like some kind of saint. But. He was not a saint, not ever, because his mind was hiding a secret. Carrying it inside of it like a fetus in a womb, just waiting to come out of its' hideout. He had cruelty inside his heart. A charcoal heart waiting to come out. Someone once said to him cruelty comes from pain, that a sickened heart is indeed a heart that cannot let go. And he couldn't let go. Yet.
By Maya Or Tzurabout a month ago in Fiction
Meet-Cute Mistletoe
It was warmer than I remembered, and it was a little disappointing. I had come to really love the snow and real white Christmases. Nothing here had ever felt right; it always felt like something had been missing. But it was too late, I had already made the choice to be here for Christmas.
By Leah Suzanne Deweyabout a month ago in Fiction
The House at the End of the World
The sound the ocean makes as it cascades over the edge of the actual world into nothingness is impossible to fathom — simultaneously too loud because of the ocean’s immeasurable volume and not loud enough, as there’s nowhere for the water to land below. If you’ve been to the house at the end of the world, then you know what that sounds like. You also know that it’s impossible to describe to another living soul with any accuracy.
By Shannon Hilsonabout a month ago in Fiction
Satellites and Violets
Gina was old now by nearly anyone’s standards. Her face was wrinkled and her joints creaked when she moved, especially first thing in the morning or when rain was on the way. The young people she passed in the streets on the way to buy bread and vegetables from the market saw someone else’s grandmother in a tattered grey cardigan and a faded, flowered skirt — a stranger they didn’t know and couldn’t relate to.
By Shannon Hilsonabout a month ago in Fiction
THE LAST LIGHT IN WILLOW CREEK
When I returned to Willow Creek after twelve years away, the town looked almost exactly as I’d left it—small, neat, peaceful—like someone had pressed “pause” on time. The wooden houses stood in rows like storybook cottages, the old bakery still filled the street with the smell of cinnamon buns, and the creek ran lazily beside the main road, singing its familiar whispering song.
By Alisher Jumayevabout a month ago in Fiction