Love
Falling Through Thin Ice
Lena inhaled sharply. It was a lie; it had always been a lie and always would be a lie. But she didn't care! She kissed her husband back deeply. Kissing him left her breathless, and knowing this might be their last kiss for who knows how long made it all the more precious to her.
By Call Me Les2 months ago in Fiction
The Keeper of Oakhaven Farm
His name was Jeremiah, though no one had ever called him that. He was just the Scarecrow, a sentinel of straw and old flannel, staked in the heart of the cornfield on Oakhaven Farm. His world was measured in sunrises and storms, in the planting and the harvest. But his purpose, he had come to understand, was far greater than scaring off crows. It was to watch over the family in the white farmhouse.
By Habibullah2 months ago in Fiction
The Golden Bloom
For as long as anyone in the small town of Oakhaven could remember, the Harvest Festival float competition had been a cold war between two factions. On one side was Liam, the artistic, free-spirited owner of the local pottery studio. His floats were bursts of whimsical beauty, all flowing lines and abstract shapes that critics called "ahead of their time" and others called "a bit much."
By Habibullah2 months ago in Fiction
The Time the Land Forgot My Voice
The Time the Land Forgot My Voice. There was a time, far back in the quiet stretch of memory, when the land still carried my voice as though it were a part of its own heartbeat. I can almost feel it if I close my eyes long enough. A world where the fields breathed kindly, where the skies were steady, where the wind arrived like an old friend and not a warning. The seasons followed gentle paths back then, never rushing forward, never pushing too hard. They simply moved in harmony with the people who lived beneath them.
By Marie381Uk 2 months ago in Fiction
The Letters He Never Sent. AI-Generated.
Samuel Graves had not opened the study room in three years. Dust blanketed the shelves like tired snow; the curtains remained frozen in place, trapping darkness inside the walls. The house itself seemed to breathe differently when he stood at the doorway — as if recognizing him with a mixture of relief and sorrow.
By shakir hamid2 months ago in Fiction
The Last Song in the Snow. AI-Generated.
Anton Markovic was known only by the sound of his violin. He played every evening at the frozen train station under the city bridge, where footsteps echoed like ghosts and the cold bit the bones of anyone foolish enough to linger.
By shakir hamid2 months ago in Fiction
The Christmas Angel
The Christmas Angel Every year the town waits for Christmas, but for me it has always been something more than lights or gifts. It is the quiet that falls over the evening streets, the way the snow makes the world feel soft and patient, and the feeling that someone is watching over us. That someone has a name I cannot speak aloud, yet every Christmas I feel their presence. I call it the Christmas angel.
By Marie381Uk 2 months ago in Fiction
Where Our Morning Tea Truly Begins
Where Our Morning Tea Truly Begins Most mornings I sit with my cup of tea and let the steam rise into my face, and I think about how easy it is to take this simple comfort for granted. We boil the kettle. We choose a bag or a spoonful of loose leaves. We pour the water. It feels so ordinary. Yet the truth is that the tea has travelled farther than most of us ever will. So let me tell you where it begins, because the story is worth knowing.
By Marie381Uk 2 months ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Daughter
When the first scream of a newborn echoed through the small town of Verden, every clock stopped. Grandfather clocks stopped in the middle of ticking. Wristwatches halted. Even the tower clock, famous for never stopping, not even during storms, went quiet. Its hands hung in the air, as if they were holding their breath.
By Lori A. A.2 months ago in Fiction
A Thanksgiving Story
When I woke up this morning, I couldn't believe that it was Thanksgiving week once again. Where has the year gone? I guess it's true as one gets older the years do go faster just as our parents said they would when they told you "Just wait till you're my age. You'll find out." Now planning the menu and seeing how many will actually be around for it seems they come and do all the requisite things that are supposed to be said and enjoy the food and company of family all together. Happy Thanksgiving and remember what is important.
By Mark Graham2 months ago in Fiction
