family
My Dad
I got my story in a magazine; it was about my dad, George Hurst. He was the best dad in the world. He loved his family and raised his children while my mum was always ill with her nerves. He cooked, cleaned, and worked down the coal mine. My dad was like me: always happy and helping others, but usually taken for granted, too.
By George’s Girl 2026 a day ago in Fiction
The Leaving Door
Mara noticed it before she noticed the quiet. The driver set her suitcase beside the gate, nodded once toward the house, and returned to the road without looking back. Not at the porch. Not at the windows. Not at Mara standing there with one hand on the latch and the other wrapped around the strap of her bag.
By Flower InBloom3 days ago in Fiction
Echoes of Resistance
The streets of Bristol were alive that day, though not with the usual hum of buses and chatter, but with the heavy pulse of voices that demanded to be heard. I had not intended to join the protest—I came to observe, to write, to bear witness—but once I stepped into the swell of people, the energy was impossible to ignore. The banners waved above heads, each one a story, a demand, a prayer. The scent of rain-soaked asphalt mixed with the faint tang of chalk from hastily scrawled messages, leaving the air electric.
By imtiazalam3 days ago in Fiction
