family

FUZZY BEAR
*Fuzzy Bear: A Hug You Can Trust* In a cozy little forest surrounded by tall trees, colorful flowers, and chirping birds, lived a teddy bear named *Fuzzy*. Fuzzy wasn’t like other bears—he wasn’t wild or loud. In fact, he wasn’t even real. He was a soft, stuffed bear with button eyes, stitched paws, and golden brown fur that was always warm, no matter how cold the night was.
By Ibrahim Shah about 3 hours ago in Fiction
The Letters In His Desk - Pt. 2. Content Warning.
Ethan stands at the bathroom mirror already dressed in dark jeans and a fitted gray pullover, the collar slightly uneven where he pulled it on too quickly and never fixed it. The fluorescent light above the sink hums softly, washing the small bathroom in a pale glare that makes everything look sharper and a little more tired than it really is. He tilts his chin up and drags the razor carefully along the uneven line of hair at the base of his neck, moving slowly and deliberately as if precision alone will keep him from messing it up. A thin streak of shaving cream clings just beneath his jaw, and he leans closer to the glass, narrowing his eyes at his reflection. He presses a little too hard and feels the faint sting of it, quickly adjusting his grip with a quiet breath through his nose. The scrape of the blade against his skin sounds louder in the morning stillness, and he focuses on that instead of the thoughts trying to crowd in.
By Riaabout 15 hours ago in Fiction
I Was Your Passport
I Was You Passport I chose you over my mother and father. I chose you over my brothers and sisters. I gave my everything to you.
By Marie381Uk about 16 hours ago in Fiction
What We Lost in Winter
The night Liang Jie left, the city was covered in snow. Not the soft kind. The kind that turns sharp at the edges and makes everything look cleaner than it really is.
By Zidaneabout 24 hours ago in Fiction
February Robin
Her hands at a militant 10 & 2 on the steering wheel, Jessica gritted her teeth as she began the wide and gentle turn off of the side street.
By Judey Kalchik a day ago in Fiction
A Special Mug Of Tea
Agnes always made two cups of tea in the morning. She’d set out the matching mugs, one far more faded than the other, put a spoonful of sugar in each one, and add whichever flavour of tea she wanted. The kettle would boil while she potted around in the kitchen, dragging her tartan slippers on the tiles as she moved about the small room. The whistling would stop; she would add the boiled water and stir in a dash of milk when she was ready. The teabag would find its way to the bin, and she would take her own, faded mug with her as she started her morning routine.
By Maddy Haywooda day ago in Fiction
Relic
Every Saturday morning I write her a letter in place of a cup of coffee. The kettle can wait. The stove can click itself awake without me. What matters is the scrape of the chair across the tile and the pen uncapping with that soft, hungry pop, like the day taking its first breath.
By SUEDE the poeta day ago in Fiction
Bundles For the Soul
The island sun, a white-gold coin pressed against the immense blue dome of the sky, baked the limestone flagstones of Hvar’s main square. Tourists flowed like a bright, chattering river between cafes and yachts in the harbor, their laughter bouncing off ancient walls. Yet, in the shadow of the Renaissance cathedral’s bell tower, there was a pocket of stillness. It was the stall of Magda, the woman who sold lavender.
By Anna Soldenhoffa day ago in Fiction
Toe Painting for a Donkey
“You have to come. I don’t care. Meet there. Bye.” Lola ended the call abruptly, frustrated. Jim is always so hard to convince. Sick of his stupid crap. He knows we do this every year.
By Andrea Corwin a day ago in Fiction
The Letters In His Desk. Content Warning.
Ethan Calloway woke as if he had been pulled violently upward from deep water, his body surfacing before his mind could follow, lungs straining against a pressure that did not exist outside of him yet felt crushingly real. The darkness in his bedroom seemed thicker than usual, less like the natural absence of light and more like something intentional that had gathered in the corners and along the ceiling, watching him struggle. For several long seconds he did not move, did not even blink, because movement would mean confirming that he was awake and he was not entirely sure that waking was safer than remaining where he had just been. His sheets were tangled around his legs, damp with sweat, and the air in the room felt wrong in a way he could not articulate, as if it had been breathed too many times and had nothing left to give him. When he tried to inhale deeply, the breath caught halfway down, splintering into sharp, shallow pulls that made his chest tighten painfully. The red glow of the clock on his nightstand slowly sharpened into focus through the blur at the edges of his vision. 3:17 a.m. The numbers felt accusatory, like witnesses who had seen this happen before and would see it happen again.
By Riaa day ago in Fiction
When Hurt Changes Hands
The first time she said it, he believed her. They were at the kitchen table. Late. The overhead light was too bright, the kind that exposes flaws. She had just finished telling him that he was exhausting to be around, that his sensitivity made everything heavier than it needed to be.
By Jesse Leea day ago in Fiction
Pot Belly
The sour smell of the basement resembled a garbage disposal. Flies, sweaty from the scorching summer, circled the fruits and vegetables, munching on flour and potatoes before settling on the compost bucket. They dined there for a while, finding solace and freedom away from human hands and a break from the endless circling air. After all, they were regulars, and that demanded respect.
By Moon Desert2 days ago in Fiction