Jhon smith
Bio
Welcome to my little corner of the internet, where words come alive
Stories (97)
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Whispers in the Windmill
I never believed in village folklore. Not when I was a child running through the wheat fields, not when I left for the city at eighteen, and certainly not when I returned years later with more mistakes than belongings. But folklore has a strange way of waiting for you, especially in small places where stories cling to the air like dust.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Fiction
Neon-Lit Diary
The city at night was a restless creature—half neon, half heartbeat. It murmured in alleyways, whispered across rooftops, and sighed through the vents of old apartments. Most people hurried past these quiet places, but Luca didn’t. Street-artists rarely did. They listened for what others missed.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Fiction
Paper Wings
Elena Moreau had always believed that a courier saw more of a city than anyone else. Not the postcard version, but the real one—the quiet corners where people whispered their hopes into sealed envelopes, the stairwells that smelled of old wood and loneliness, the rooftops where freshly written dreams dried in the sun like pressed flowers.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Fiction
Caffeine-Stained Pages
The coffee was too hot when I spilled it, the first time, the second time—so many times, it seemed like the universe was sending me a message: slow down, stop rushing. But I never did, not really. There was always something else, some pressing need to fill the silence with words that didn’t always mean much. The coffee stains, dark and stubborn on my desk, became symbols of a process I couldn’t quite understand—writing, creating, living. It was all a mess, but I couldn’t find it in myself to care.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Writers
What the Moon Told My Brokenness
There was a night when I could no longer hold the weight of my own silence. It was the kind of stillness that presses against your chest, where even breathing feels like confession. I sat by my window, the world outside washed in silver, and the moon hung there — round, distant, and unbothered by all the things that had unraveled inside me.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Poets
What We Lost in Our Rush To Be Right
I didn’t notice when it started. Maybe none of us did. One small disagreement, one raised voice, one moment where being right felt more important than being kind. Then suddenly, it became the story of our days: people talking, but nobody listening. Everyone defending, but nobody understanding. It happened in my home too, long before I realized it.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Humans
Becoming a Person I Respect
I used to think that respect was something you earned from other people. Teachers, friends, coworkers, even strangers on the internet. I spent so many years chasing that version of respect, shaping myself into whatever I thought would impress someone else. But the older I got, the more I noticed a quiet truth: none of it mattered if I didn’t respect myself.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Motivation
What Hurting You Taught Me
What Hurting You Taught Me I never imagined that the person who taught me the most about myself would be the same person who broke me open. When we met, it felt like something quiet but certain clicked into place, like the feeling of finally walking into a room you didn’t know you’d been searching for. You were warm, loud in the ways I wasn’t, and soft in the ways I didn’t know how to be. I didn’t fall in love all at once; it happened slowly, like rain soaking into dry earth. I thought that kind of love was safe. I thought it meant forever.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Humans
I’m Not Proud of Who I Was
There are people who say they have no regrets, that everything they’ve done has shaped who they are. I wish I could say that. I wish I could pretend every version of me was necessary—every mistake, every lie, every selfish choice. But the truth is simpler, quieter, and harder to swallow:
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Confessions
Our Old Blue Blanket
The blanket wasn’t much to look at. It was the kind of faded blue that came from years of sun, washing machines, and being dragged around by small hands that didn’t yet know what “delicate” meant. Its edges were frayed. The fabric had thinned in the middle, worn down from the hundreds of nights somebody pulled it close. But in our family, that old blue blanket held a place no expensive quilt or store-bought comforter ever could.
By Jhon smith3 months ago in Families
Ashes of the Eternal City
Rome was a city that breathed fire long before flames ever touched its walls. Its people lived with a confidence that bordered on destiny, believing nothing could shake the stones of the Eternal City. The streets bustled with merchants shouting prices, children weaving between crowds, and senators in crisp white togas drifting like ghosts toward the Forum. But underneath the marble and noise lived a truth Rome never wanted to face—greatness is fragile, and even eternal things can burn.
By Jhon smith3 months ago in History
