Jhon smith
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Welcome to my little corner of the internet, where words come alive
Stories (97)
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I Was Productive Successful and Quietly Miserable
I built a life that looked finished before it was ever lived. My days were stacked with achievements like trophies placed carefully on a shelf. I woke early not because I wanted to but because discipline had replaced desire. I answered emails before sunrise and told myself this was ambition. I measured my worth in deadlines met and tasks completed. I was productive in ways that impressed everyone except me.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Psyche
Whispers of the Old Woods
The villagers said the forest had a memory. Not the memory of men, who forgot quickly and argued loudly, but a patient, listening memory, older than the river, older than the hills, older than the stones lining the village square. It hummed quietly at night, a sound like wind brushing against the trees, or perhaps the echo of old voices. No one ventured deep into the woods after dusk—not without reason. And those who did often returned changed, carrying the strange weight of stories they had not told themselves. Elara was not like the others. She had grown up on the edges of the forest, her window facing the trees that seemed to sway even without wind. Her grandmother would warn her, “The forest listens, child. It remembers your footsteps. Speak carefully, or it will answer in ways you cannot understand.” But Elara had a hunger for stories, a thirst for the unseen. One autumn evening, when the sunset painted the sky in molten gold, Elara walked along the familiar path into the forest. She carried nothing but a small lantern and her notebook. She wanted to hear what the forest had to tell her. The air smelled of wet leaves and moss. Shadows stretched long, reaching for her feet like dark fingers. And then, just as she reached the oldest oak in the heart of the woods, she heard it—a voice, soft and melodic, like someone humming an ancient lullaby. She froze, her breath forming tiny clouds in the cool air. “You come for stories,” the voice said. It seemed to drift from the bark of the tree itself. “But stories have their price.” Elara swallowed her fear and nodded. “I will pay it.” From the darkness, shapes began to appear—figures that were neither fully human nor entirely shadows. They danced slowly, circling the oak, their movements silent but precise. Elara realized they were the forest’s memory made flesh: the ones who had been lost to time but remembered still. “Long ago,” the tallest shape whispered, its voice like the rustle of dry leaves, “a child like you wandered here, seeking tales of courage and folly. She spoke, she laughed, she cried. And in return, the forest kept her, just as it will keep you, if you are not careful.” Elara’s hand gripped her notebook. “I seek only the stories,” she said, “not to be taken by them.” The figures paused, their eyes glimmering like starlight. Then one stepped forward, extending a hand made of woven branches. “Very well,” it said. “Listen closely.” And Elara listened. They told her of the fox spirit who outwitted the hunters, leaving only riddles behind. They spoke of the river maiden, who wept pearls into the stream and taught mortals the language of water. They whispered of the old king of the forest, whose crown of leaves had turned to ash, leaving only the wind to carry his commands. Each story twisted in her mind, strange yet familiar, like remembering a dream she had almost forgotten. Hours—or perhaps minutes, for time had little meaning here—passed. When she finally looked up, the figures were gone, and the oak stood silent, ancient as ever. But in her notebook, the stories were written, as if her pen had moved on its own. She returned to the village at dawn, carrying the forest’s memory with her. When she shared the tales, the villagers listened with wide eyes. Some laughed, some wept, some shook their heads and muttered about imagination. But Elara knew the truth: the forest had spoken, and she had heard it. Years later, when her own children grew old enough to walk among the trees, she would tell them to listen carefully. “The forest remembers everything,” she would say, “the good, the bad, and the forgotten. It speaks to those willing to hear—and sometimes, it answers in ways you cannot foresee.” And at night, when the wind rustled through the leaves, she would hear it: faint whispers, like the echo of a hundred old voices, singing stories meant for those who dared to walk beyond the edge of the known. In the forest, stories never die. They only wait, patient as stone, ready to find a listener willing to remember.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Poets
The Hole in the Ice That Rewired My Mind
Four years ago, if you had told me that one day I would willingly cut a hole in a frozen lake and submerge myself in it, I would have laughed—politely at first, then with concern for your mental health. If you had added that I would grow so attached to this winter ritual that I’d crave it, depend on it, even shape my days around it, I might have checked whether you were joking. Or hallucinating.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Motivation
The Day I Tried to Cook Like a YouTube Chef
I’ve never been good in the kitchen. I mean really bad. I can barely boil water without feeling like I’m performing some kind of dangerous science experiment. But one Sunday morning, after scrolling through hours of YouTube cooking videos, I had an epiphany: maybe I just needed the right tutorial.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Humor
The Letters That Survived a War
In 1942, in a small town in northern France, life felt impossibly fragile. The war had already changed everything. Streets that once carried children laughing were now filled with silence or the distant thrum of military vehicles. The air carried a tension that had no scent, a weight you could feel pressing on your chest whenever you stepped outside.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in History
The Bug That Refused To Be Found
I still remember the first time my code worked exactly the way I wanted it to. It was a small program and nothing impressive by any professional standard, but watching it run without errors felt like magic. The screen responded the way I expected it to, and for a brief moment, the world made sense. That moment pulled me toward technology. The idea that logic could become something useful fascinated me, and I wanted to understand how problems could be solved not by guesswork but by patience and structured thought.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Geeks
Last Bus
The bus came through my neighborhood every night at 11:47. I knew because I heard it before I saw it. The low engine hum. The soft rattle of windows. The sigh of brakes somewhere down the road. Even when I wasn’t looking for it, my body recognized the sound.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Fiction
Space Between the Brushstrokes
I used to believe that real artists were always working. Every photo I saw online showed someone painting late into the night, hands stained with color, eyes burning with passion. Sketchbooks were always open. Canvases were always half-finished. The message was clear: if you weren’t constantly creating, you were falling behind.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Art
The Library Ladder
I’ve always believed that old libraries have their own kind of weather. Not rain or wind, but something gentler—like a hush that settles between the shelves, carrying the scent of dust, paper, and the thousands of hands that once turned those pages. On the morning everything changed, the library felt storm-still, as if it had been waiting for someone to open its doors and let the light in.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in History
The Echoing Train Whistle
It started with a sound most people in town slept through. A long, low whistle cutting across the midnight fields, rolling over grain silos and quiet porches, slipping beneath doors like a wandering ghost. In our little Midwestern town, trains were ordinary—background noise for those who’d lived here long enough. But that night, the echo felt different. Sharper. Closer. Almost intentional, as if it were calling someone awake.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Confessions
