Excerpt
The Stories That Shape Us
Before there were books, before there were screens glowing in the night, humans relied on each other to remember. We sat in circles, huddled near flickering fires, and listened. Every tale told was a thread woven into the fabric of memory, a lifeline connecting the living with the past. Stories of gods and spirits, heroes and tricksters, warnings and wonders—these were the first schools, the first libraries, the first teachers. Memory was sacred, and storytelling was survival.
By LUNA EDITHabout a month ago in Fiction
The Hunger of Sea Glass. Top Story - February 2023.
Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. Generations had grown on the foothills of Ambria and gazed in wonder of their choreography, humbled by the majesty of nature and beauty locked in an unending embrace. The dreamscape of twilight was an enduring reminder that all is as it was and always would be, a shining glimpse of eternity.
By Call Me Lesabout a month ago in Fiction
The Library That Opened Only at Midnight
No one noticed the library at first. That wasn’t unusual in Graybridge. People hurried through the town like they were late for something important, even when they weren’t sure what it was. Stores opened and closed. Cafés changed names. But the narrow street behind the old cinema remained ignored, lit by a single flickering lamp.
By Yasir khanabout a month ago in Fiction
How We Stay Lit
Winter arrives without apology. It closes its hands around the hours, tightens the air until even silence shivers. The world grows careful. Footsteps soften. Voices lower. Everything essential learns how to last. In this season, warmth is no longer loud. It does not roar or demand attention. It survives in fragments— a candle steady on the sill, its flame no bigger than a thought, yet brave enough to stand against the dark. That small light gathers the room gently, pulling shadows closer, teaching them how to rest. It does not banish the cold. It negotiates with it. Small heat lives in the pause between breaths fogging the window, in the way hands linger around a cup long after the tea has cooled. It hums quietly in wool scarves, in coats that still remember yesterday’s body. There is warmth in presence, too— a shoulder leaned into at a bus stop, a shared silence that does not need words. Two breaths syncing, creating a fragile pocket of mercy inside the frost. Winter compresses the world, but small heat resists by expanding inward. It teaches patience. It teaches listening. It teaches that survival is not always grand— sometimes it is careful and deliberate, a decision made again and again to stay lit. A lamp left on in an empty room becomes a promise. A quiet reminder that someone will return, that absence is temporary, that darkness does not own the final word. How we stay lit is not by overpowering the cold, but by softening its edges. By holding space for gentleness when the season insists on hardness. And when spring finally loosens winter’s grip, it will not remember the storms first. It will remember the lights that stayed on. The hands that held. The flames that refused to go out.
By Awa Nyassiabout a month ago in Fiction
