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The Secret Drawer
Growing up, there was one rule in our house I never dared to break: Don’t touch the drawer in Dad’s study. It was an ordinary drawer in an old wooden desk — scratched, dusty, the handle barely hanging on. But to me, it might as well have been a vault. Dad’s tone made it clear — that drawer was off-limits.
By Straylight8 months ago in Chapters
My Neighbor’s Cat Thinks I’m Its Owner Now
It started with a meow. A single, innocent meow. At the time, I didn’t realize that meow was a legal contract in cat law, binding me for life to an arrangement I never agreed to. If I had, I might’ve shut my window, moved to another city, or learned how to meow back in a way that screamed, “Wrong house, furry overlord.”
By shittu adeola8 months ago in Chapters
The Day My Dog Became My Therapist
It all started on a Tuesday. Now, Tuesdays are usually uneventful. But this particular Tuesday, the universe decided to hit me with a whirlwind of chaos, confusion, and cold leftover lasagna. The morning started with me waking up to the sound of my alarm doing its best to imitate a dying robot. I slapped it into silence, stumbled out of bed, and stepped directly into something cold and squishy.
By shittu adeola8 months ago in Chapters
Every Day Is Theirs: A Heart’s Tribute to Our Parents Beyond One Day
✍️ By: Umair Ali Shah Yousafzai --- 🌸 Introduction: The Problem with “One Day” In an age where love has been reduced to emojis and celebrations are confined to trending hashtags, it’s become common to see people dedicate just one day a year to their parents — usually in the form of a well-edited photo, a generic social media caption, or a short video clip. "Happy Parents’ Day!" they declare, and with that, consider their duty fulfilled. But can one day capture the essence of lifelong sacrifice? Can a Facebook status outweigh a mother’s sleepless nights? Can an Instagram reel compensate for a father’s decades of toil? The answer — spoken by the heart — is a resounding no. Parents are not a seasonal celebration. They are the soul of our lives. They do not deserve a day; they deserve our every day, our every breath, our every success, our every prayer. --- 🕊️ A Love Beyond Comprehension Parental love is not poetic — it is prophetic. The mother’s womb becomes a sanctuary before we even open our eyes. Her body breaks to give us life. Her nights shatter so our dreams can form. Her meals go cold so ours stay warm. She becomes our shadow, our comfort, our shield. And the father? He becomes the silent mountain who absorbs the storm before it reaches us. He ages behind the curtain so we can grow on stage. His shoes wear thin so ours stay new. His pockets empty so our dreams can fill. His hands become rough while ours remain soft. Such love cannot be compared. It cannot be counted, priced, or postponed. It is as eternal as the sky — silent but all-encompassing. --- 🏠 From Cradle to Grave: They Gave Us Everything The truth is simple and painful: the very people who gave us everything, we give them the least. They carried us when we were weak. They taught us to walk, to speak, to eat. They encouraged our smallest achievements and bore our greatest failures. They forgave our rebellion, our rudeness, our rejection. They kept loving even when we didn’t love back. And what did they ask for in return? Nothing — except a little time. A little respect. A little remembrance. And yet, many of us fail even in that. --- 📅 One Day is Not Enough — It’s Almost Insulting Designating one day for parents is, in many ways, an insult wrapped in sentimentality. It suggests that gratitude can be scheduled, that love can be timed, that sacrifice can be acknowledged only when it's convenient. Do parents love only once a year? Do they support us only on Sundays? Do they pray for us only during exam season? No. Their love is relentless, their loyalty unconditional, their prayers eternal. Then how dare we give them just a day? --- 🕯️ Real-Life Reflections: Forgotten Candles of Our Lives Visit an old age home and you will see forgotten candles flickering dimly, waiting for someone to relight their flames. Mothers who once carried their children now carry loneliness. Fathers who once stood tall now sit silently by windows, hoping someone might knock on the door. "I gave him everything," says one mother, staring into her fading memories. "And now he sends money, but not himself." What do we owe them? Not riches. Not luxury. We owe them presence. We owe them honor. We owe them time. And if we fail to pay that debt in life, we will spend the rest of our lives repaying it in guilt. --- 🌙 The Islamic Perspective: A Duty, Not a Favor In Islam, honoring one's parents is not optional. It is second only to worshipping Allah. The Qur’an places “being good to parents” immediately after “worship none but Allah” (Surah Al-Isra, 17:23). > “And lower to them the wing of humility out of mercy and say: ‘My Lord, have mercy upon them as they brought me up [when I was] small.’” — (Qur’an 17:24)
By Umair Ali Shah 8 months ago in Chapters
The Lion Emperor: Rise of the Golden Roar
In the heart of the Great Savannah, beneath the burning sun and the endless skies, the animal kingdom faced an uncertain future. The once-united tribes of the wild—lions, elephants, gazelles, rhinos, leopards, and more—had grown divided. Tensions rose over water rights, hunting grounds, and old grudges that had not been forgotten.
By ibrahimkhan8 months ago in Chapters
Chapter 7: Carriers of the Light — The Guardians of the Quran
Chapter 7: Carriers of the Light — The Guardians of the Quran In the early morning stillness of Medina, a soft breeze rustled the palm trees as golden rays of sun poured gently over the city. The scent of earth and jasmine drifted through the streets, but within the humble home of Zayd ibn Thabit, all was silent but for the scratching of a reed pen on parchment.
By ibrahimkhan8 months ago in Chapters
The importance of authenticity: His true power returns when he sheds the foreign influences and reconnects with his roots.. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
The importance of authenticity: His true power returns when he sheds the foreign influences and reconnects with his roots.---- The Priest-King loses his connection to his power and his land by embracing foreign objects and practices (the throne, crown, clothing, marble floors, and even the blood ritual itself). His brother, the High Priest of the Dark God, helps him realize that true power comes from being rooted in his own land and identity.----It all started with a dizzy spell. One minute I was the Priest-King, crown on my head, performing a ritual, and the next, I was almost on the floor. My ornate crown clattered away, making a racket. Just as I thought I was going down, a hand grabbed my arm, pulling me back up.
By MD Melon9 months ago in Chapters
A Door in the Fog
The fog rolled in just after midnight, the kind that swallowed everything in silence—the trees, the houses, even the stars. Elia stood at the edge of the field, the wet grass brushing her ankles, heart pulsing as if the mist itself had stirred it awake.
By ibrahimkhan9 months ago in Chapters
The Blessing After The Break
Story: The Blessing After the Break She sat quietly on the prayer mat, her fingers gliding over the prayer beads with the slow rhythm of a soul trying to steady itself. The room was dim, and outside, the city buzzed on without pause, without knowledge of the quiet storm she had just endured.
By Esa khan 9 months ago in Chapters
When Hearts Collide.
Brussels was a world away from Marlowe Bay. Cobblestone streets and Gothic architecture replaced sandy paths and wooden piers. The salty tang of the sea was traded for the scent of roasted coffee and damp stone. And Ava, for the first time in her life, felt split down the middle.
By Krypton 9 months ago in Chapters
When Hearts Collide.
In Marlowe Bay, summer had its own rhythm: lazy mornings, sunny afternoons, and evenings when the air smelled of salt and hope. Ava had begun to fall into the beat of it, like a dance she hadn’t realized she was learning.
By Krypton 9 months ago in Chapters
When Hearts Collide.
Marlowe Bay awoke with a golden yawn, the sun casting shimmering ripples across the water’s surface. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries sharp and distant. Ava watched the sunlight make patterns on the ceiling's wooden beams as she slept in Liam's bed. She had stayed the night, though they had simply talked and fallen asleep in one another’s arms. There was a calm between them now—a soft steadiness, like the tide pulling gently at the shore.
By Krypton 9 months ago in Chapters