Young Adult
The Chosen; Chapter 6
I sit in our camp space glowering into the fire. We had been traveling for two days without any incidents. It was unsettling. Ahriman had known where we were. He had come after us and now nothing. Amara saw it as a sign that we had gotten away from him successfully, that we were now in the clear for the moment. To me, it felt more like we were in the eye of the storm.
By Katarzyna Crevan5 days ago in Fiction
Please don't go
He looked at me, I looked at him. When he looked at me, it felt like my stomach was invaded with butterflies, but... not this time. At this very moment his eyes could laser through my stomach if he wanted to. I wish he did. For the pain of what he is about to say to me, is much worse than a couple of seconds of my stomach being lasered off. His sweet lips that spoke words in my ears, that made my face flush with red. I could predict the next words coming out of those pretty lips. "I can't bare the silent game, SPEAK JUST SAY IT ALREADY" I thought impatiently.
By C⃣ h⃣ a⃣ n⃣ e⃣ l⃣6 days ago in Fiction
Guard Your Battery, Lose Your Humanity
I used to think my phone was my lifeline. In Amsterdam, where rain slicks the cobblestones and bikes fly by like they're late for something important, my screen was the one constant: notifications buzzing through tram rides, endless scrolls while waiting for koffie at a brown café, quick checks at red lights on the Keizersgracht. It felt safe. Controlled. Connected. Until it didn't. By early 2026, I was exhausted in a way sleep couldn't fix. My anxiety had crept up quietly — heart racing in crowds, that low hum of dread when the battery dipped below 20%. I blamed the city, the weather, work. But deep down, I knew the truth: I'd outsourced my presence to a rectangle in my pocket. I was here, but never really here. So on a drizzly February morning, I made a rule that felt ridiculous: no phone in public for 30 days. Pocket, bag, or leave it at home — but never in hand when outside my apartment. If I needed directions or music, tough. The goal wasn't total detox; it was forcing myself to look up, be bored, and — if the moment felt right — talk to someone. One stranger conversation a day if it happened naturally. No forcing, just availability. What broke first was the fidgeting. Days 1–10: The Withdrawal Hits Hard The first week was brutal. At the Albert Cuyp Market, my hand kept reaching for my pocket like a phantom limb. Without the screen to hide behind, every line felt exposed. I noticed things I'd ignored for years: the way an old man feeds pigeons near the Nieuwmarkt, the precise rhythm of bike bells, the smell of fresh stroopwafels mixing with canal water. I also noticed people. Everyone else was doing what I'd been doing — heads down, thumbs moving. On the 2 tram toward Centraal, a carriage full of silent faces lit by blue light. No one spoke. No one looked up. It hit me: we're all in our own little bubbles, floating through the same beautiful city. By day 5, boredom turned into restlessness. Waiting for coffee at a spot on the Prinsengracht, I had nothing to do but watch. A woman in a red coat struggled with her umbrella in the wind. Our eyes met. She laughed first. "This weather," she said. I replied, "It builds character, right?" We chatted for two minutes about nothing — the rain, the best waterproof jackets. It felt awkward, electric, alive. That tiny exchange cracked something open. My anxiety didn't vanish, but it lost its grip for a moment. Days 11–20: The City Starts Talking Back Halfway through, the experiment shifted from punishment to curiosity.
By Shoaib Afridi7 days ago in Fiction
Door of Secrets
I knew the moment I touched the handle that I wasn’t supposed to open that door. The hallway was silent. Too silent. The old house had many rooms, but this door was different from the others. It stood at the very end of the corridor, hidden behind a faded curtain like something the house itself was trying to forget.
By imtiazalam8 days ago in Fiction
Butter Upping to Easter
Easter was never about Jesus to us scrawny egg headed heathens, we'd run around in itchy dress clothes, wide-eyed and goofy looking for marshmallow chicks hidden in the house way before Granma arrived. Aunts and mothers made food in the kitchen, none that we liked except for chocolate pie. It seemed like forever before we could change into our play clothes and move on with the hunt, the required croquet games and finally one doozy of an easter dinner.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)8 days ago in Fiction
My Pen is
My Peace is My Pen Arguing happens again, the police at the door making reports of domestic abuse. Screams can be heard down the alley from my bedroom window. Gunshots ricochet from the bricks of my home, on the floor we sleep. We wake to see the damage, blood spilled in the streets where we played. Let’s see who can catch this football in the vacant lot of a church that supplied the neighborhood with supplies such as clothing and food. The neighbors running trap houses as kids wait for seven o’clock to hear Mr. Frostee tunes blaring from around the corner. I can remember begging for dollars from the locals just for a vanilla soft served cone. My mother always liked hers dipped. We get ready for dinner, another soulful meal prepared by the man and woman that loved us.
By Charelle Landers9 days ago in Fiction
The Room Still Smells Like You: Letting Go After Heartbreak
It had been three months since he left, three months since the door clicked shut behind him for the last time. And yet, the apartment still smelled like him—cologne, faintly floral, a trace of coffee and early morning sunlight. She breathed it in, each inhalation a knife pressed gently against her chest.
By Ihsanullah9 days ago in Fiction
