Stream of Consciousness
Spare Change
First payback—coins to me. I figured I miscounted. By the door: a ceramic bowl—keys, coins—a grown-up junk drawer. Pennies, dimes, and one stray token from a laundromat that quit before my lease did. I dump pockets there at night so tomorrow I don’t swear at a washing machine with hands full. Practical. Ugly. Normal.
By Milan Milic2 months ago in Fiction
THE COMMUNITY
“I said I didn’t break the TV, Awura did!” I screamed, tears streaming down my cheeks. “You are the eldest! You will take responsibility for any wrongdoing in this household,” he retorted angrily. He ordered me to go to my room and think about what I had done wrong – not preventing my brother from destroying the brand-new TV he had bought last month.
By Michelle Ewenam Akakpo2 months ago in Fiction
Study Hall
Study hall was a period in our school days that was meant for studying, but who really studied. Yes, you may have crammed for a test or completed an assignment. But actually, if you really think of what was really accomplished during these periods. Nothing really, but a lot of us maybe took short naps, read a book that we wanted to read and some even worked on various projects not related to school while a teacher proctored this time to make sure, we were present physically if not mentally. Shh, this is study hall now study. Yeah, right really.
By Mark Graham2 months ago in Fiction
School Days
School days always start at the lockers where we store our books, coats and lunches unless we buy the hot lunch. We gather around and catch up with our friends maybe ask for help with a homework question and checking when something is due or maybe even copying something to be honest. Gossiping about who, what, when, where and why something or someone happened whether fact or fiction. The lockers depending on where yours was located was also a place for a little privacy maybe for a couple or just for yourself to take a breath before the day starts.
By Mark Graham2 months ago in Fiction
The Day I Stopped Editing My Life
I still don’t know whose blood was on the red pen. It was 3:17 a.m. when I found the Montblanc lying across my manuscript like a murder weapon. The cap was off, the nib bent, and a single crimson bead trembled at the tip. My apartment—usually a surgical white cube of right angles and labeled drawers—reeked of wet iron and turpentine. I hadn’t painted in seven years.
By Wahdat Rauf2 months ago in Fiction
Whispers of Winter Light
The night lay still beneath a soft blanket of snow, each flake a whisper from the heavens. The forest was hushed, the air so crisp it seemed to chime when the wind brushed through the frost-laden trees. Amid the silver silence stood a small wooden cabin, its windows glowing softly like two golden eyes against the indigo sky. Beside it, a single lantern glowed warmly on the snow, casting an amber halo that shimmered like hope itself. Inside the cabin, Emma sat near the window with a cup of steaming cocoa in her hands. She watched the light outside, a simple lantern she had placed earlier in memory of her grandfather, who had built the cabin decades ago. He always said that light was a promise — a small, glowing reminder that warmth could exist even in the coldest of places. Every year, on the first heavy snow of winter, Emma returned to the cabin. It was her sanctuary — a place untouched by time, where memories of laughter, stories, and the comforting scent of pine logs still lingered in the air. Outside, the forest stretched endlessly, cloaked in quiet beauty. The trees bowed under the weight of snow, their branches sparkling under the starlit sky. The North Star gleamed high above, a constant companion to the light below. As she gazed out, Emma thought about how her grandfather used to tell her stories by the fire. “The world may freeze, little one,” he would say with a twinkle in his eye, “but hearts like ours carry the flame.” His words had guided her through life — through challenges, losses, and new beginnings. The light, he said, was not just a symbol, but a way of living: to bring warmth, kindness, and courage into a world that sometimes felt cold. Tonight, that light seemed to glow brighter. Perhaps it was the stillness of the night, or perhaps it was the feeling of being home again after so long. Emma took a deep breath, feeling the quiet peace settle in her heart. She stepped outside, her boots sinking into the fresh snow with a soft crunch. The lantern’s flame flickered gently as she approached, its glow reflecting in her eyes. She knelt beside it, brushing off a light layer of snow from its glass top. “Grandpa,” she whispered, “I made it back.” Her voice trembled, not from the cold, but from the rush of memories flooding her heart. “You were right. Even in the darkest times, there’s always light.” The wind stirred gently through the trees, carrying a faint whisper — or maybe it was her imagination — that sounded like a sigh of contentment. She smiled, standing up and looking toward the horizon where the first hints of dawn began to soften the sky. A pale golden hue mingled with the deep blue, and the stars slowly faded into the morning light. The lantern’s glow blended with the rising sun, two lights meeting — one human, one heavenly. Emma knew she wouldn’t be alone, not really. The warmth she carried was more than memory; it was legacy — the same light her grandfather once carried, now passed on through her. She turned back toward the cabin, where the fire still crackled in the hearth. The little home glowed like a beacon in the midst of winter’s stillness, its windows radiating welcome to any soul lost in the snow. That night, and every night after, the lantern would continue to burn outside her cabin — a soft promise that even the coldest season cannot dim the light within. Visitors who passed through the forest in later years often spoke of that single glowing lantern, how it stood unwavering through every storm, a quiet guide for those seeking warmth or direction. And though Emma would one day be gone, her light — like her grandfather’s before her — would remain. For in every winter’s heart lies a spark waiting to shine, a whisper of warmth that says: Even in the deepest snow, love keeps the world aglow.
By Muhammad Saad 2 months ago in Fiction
