family
A Bright Ribbon in Darker Times
A flower in a pot, a card and Heroes sweets in Morrisons brown paper bag warm the spot behind the door. I pick them all up, stunned, after reading his message, “I dropped a little something on the doorstep for you.” We are not lovers, not even friends.
By Moon Desertabout a month ago in Fiction
The Man Who Always Fixed the Chair
There was a chair by the window in my childhood home that never stayed broken. It wasn’t a special chair. Wooden, plain, slightly uneven. One leg shorter than the others, so it rocked if you weren’t careful. Over the years, it cracked, loosened, and complained every time someone sat down too hard.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Fiction
Coming of Age
Over the last five years, life in the Bay State seemed to be in a constant state of turmoil. Tariffs on glass, lead and several other items were responded to by the colonists with boycotts. Unrest grew to a fevered pitch until, on March 5th, 1770, the Boston Massacre occurred. Three years later, a group of men dressed as Native Americans boarded a ship and tossed its cargo of tea into Boston Harbor. Their action was dubbed the Boston Tea Party. It was easy to see how a fourteen-year-old boy who lived twenty miles from the big city could be easily confused by the state of the world.
By Mark Gagnonabout a month ago in Fiction
The Rules That Kept the House Quiet
I didn’t know about the rules at first. I only noticed that she moved through motherhood like someone walking across ice: slow, deliberate, always listening for cracks. She was careful, but it didn’t look gentle. Her carefulness felt more like holding something in.
By Lori A. A.about a month ago in Fiction
Miss Persephone's Manual to a Seemingly Ordinary Life. Top Story - January 2026.
Miss Persephone was found at the dining table, her blue eyes swollen, her tears arriving and retreating like the tides of the ocean. Earlier that day, her family had visited her in the retirement home where she had lived for eight years. It was her eightieth birthday.
By Imola Tóthabout a month ago in Fiction
The Chair by the Window
I didn’t realize how important the chair by the window was until no one sat in it anymore. It wasn’t a special chair. Just an old wooden one with a thin cushion that slid around when you stood up too fast. The paint had chipped near the legs, and one screw was always threatening to come loose. But every afternoon around four, my father would sit there, facing the street, cup of tea balanced carefully in his hand like it mattered.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Fiction
