Historical Fiction
Bucket List Seaplane Journeys Around The World
Seaplane Trips on Your Bucket List: 800 Words of Aerial Adventure Seaplanes are undeniably magical because of the way they effortlessly transition from the water to the air, providing breathtaking views and access to remote locations that traditional aircraft are unable to reach. For aviation enthusiasts and travel lovers alike, seaplane journeys represent the pinnacle of adventure, combining luxury, exclusivity, and awe-inspiring scenery.
By parves mosharaf8 months ago in Chapters
Einstein in Europa
May 12, 1935 Prague, Czechoslovakia I arrived in Prague just before dusk, the air thick with lilac and the memory of rain. The Vltava flowed like molten silver beneath the bridges, and the rooftops, slick from earlier showers, glistened under a hazy sun. Prague has always felt like a city suspended between times—Gothic spires reaching for the heavens and Kafkaesque alleyways pulling you inward, toward thought, toward unease. It felt fitting that such a place would become the cradle of a quiet resistance.
By Alain SUPPINI8 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 Equations of Fate
March 1934. The chill of late winter lingered in the air as Albert Einstein arrived in Prague, his steps slow but determined. This time, he was not just a physicist or a philosopher of peace—he was an emissary between old and new worlds. The cafés still bore the scent of roasted coffee and aged wood, but the conversations had changed. Scientists, students, refugees—everyone whispered about the shifting tides in Europe.
By Alain SUPPINI8 months ago in Chapters
Beneath the Silent Ice
"Beneath the Silent Ice" In the waning days of the Arctic summer, when the sun hung low in the sky and the ice began to whisper its return, a team of scientists landed on Ellesmere Island for what was supposed to be a routine glaciological study. The lead researcher, Dr. Elara Mendez, had studied ancient ice cores for over a decade, trying to reconstruct the climate of Earth’s distant past. But this mission would mark something far more profound than she—or anyone—had expected.
By Akhtar Ali 8 months ago in Chapters
Einstein's Europe
In the spring of 1934, Einstein had settled into a rhythm in Zürich, teaching occasionally at the ETH (Eidgenössische Technische Hochschule) and frequenting a modest café tucked along the Limmat River. Its interior was perpetually smoky, the tables often cluttered with books, pipes, and the impassioned hands of those arguing ideas. It was there, in the Café Morgenstern, that a new kind of resistance began to form—not one of arms, but of thought.
By Alain SUPPINI8 months ago in Chapters
Einstein in the Shadow of War
Zurich, Switzerland — October 1939 The autumn air in Zurich carried a sharpness that matched the tension humming beneath the surface of Europe. In a modest study filled with the scent of pipe smoke and old paper, Albert Einstein stared at the unfinished letter before him. Its edges curled slightly from the weight of his indecision. Meant for President Roosevelt, the letter warned of the possibility of Nazi Germany developing a nuclear bomb. It was a letter that, in another timeline, would change the world. But here, Einstein had not signed it.
By Alain SUPPINI8 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
October 2, 1950 – Sevagram Ashram I awoke today before the birds. The air was cool, laced with the scent of neem and the faint whisper of spinning wheels. It is my birthday. I have lived eighty-one years in this world — and in this one, it seems, the sun chose a gentler path to rise.
By Alain SUPPINI8 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
June 2, 1930 – Nightfall The village of Kheda has always known how to listen to the wind. Tonight, it whispered hope. I arrived just before sunset, the horizon stained in hues of burnt orange and indigo. The air carried a scent of ripe millet and wood smoke. The children waited at the edge of the fields, barefoot and glowing with pride, each one clutching a small lantern fashioned from clay and filled with mustard oil. Their hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the weight of what they were about to do.
By Alain SUPPINI8 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
April 30, 1931 – Near the Village of Kalol, Gujarat The soil is soft between my fingers this morning. I rise before the sun, the stars still winking overhead, and step barefoot into the small garden the villagers have let me tend while I stay here. It is not a grand field. It grows no great bounty. But in the gentle sprouts of okra, mustard greens, and tuvar dal, I see the rhythm of service, of dharma. The earth, humble and enduring, reminds me of our people—trod upon, yet full of life.
By Alain SUPPINI9 months ago in Chapters
