Young Adult
After the Storm. Top Story - February 2026.
After the storm of winter snow there sat a small bear by the name Ted, of course. He loves the snow and likes to roll around in it making all sorts of trails and whatever he has a mind to do. He wondered where all the people are, but in a way, he is hoping that they are all snug in the homes maybe drinking hot chocolate-one of his favorite drinks with mini-marshmallows and eating something homemade for he likes this winter wonderland all to himself to romp and play and maybe even catch some fish down by the river.
By Mark Graham4 days ago in Fiction
Its Been One Year
It's been one year since you left me for good, one year of heartbreak. I still live here in the house by the beach, the beach you always loved going to. I remember you used to grab my hand, while we ran along this beach as the world faded around us. You were a master with the waves making it seem you had them under your control. I haven't been back to your beach since the day you left me for good, though today I ponder going back. After some time of thinking I put on my black sandals, and put on your favorite shirt of mine, the one you said made me special. As I walk out the door onto the steps down to the beach, the memories come flooding in. Every day, every night, every special moment on this beach comes back to me. I slowly pick up the sand, twist it through my fingers as it falls back to the earth. It’s still as warm and soft as it was the first day we came here though it seems it lost its golden color the day you left me for good. I lie down making the earth my bed and sit there for what seems like hours not caring what happens next, just daydreaming you were back. That's when I saw a golden necklace in the distance, it wouldn't have been enough to get me up from my bed. But this necklace was shining a special kind of gold, I just had to see it. As I get up and dust sand off my shorts and T shirt, I realize what this necklace truly is. It's the one I gave you, the day before you left me for good. It's still got our photograph embedded inside the middle, our agreed favorite one, with the words I love you like you love the waves. I can’t believe I'm holding this in my hands, this feels like some unseen dream but this is real. It's here golden as ever just like the day I first got it for you. They said your stuff was lost, though maybe you left them to the sea, the same sea I once believed you could control.
By Christian Sanchez5 days ago in Fiction
What A Clown. Top Story - January 2026.
I heard of the jokester in town. My staff was afraid to share the tales, for they knew the stories infuriated me and punishment was my expertise. I inflicted many types, and excelled at using sharp objects and heated “instruments.”
By Andrea Corwin 5 days ago in Fiction
The Duelist. Top Story - November 2025.
The rays of a dying red sun flashed against the onrushing blade. The grey beards say the key to dueling lies in size, speed, reach, righteous fury, whatever the person in front of them pays them to say. Matteo knew better than any it was none of these and had an undefeated record on these sands to prove it.
By Matthew J. Fromm8 days ago in Fiction
Silenced by My Own Thoughts
Silenced Between Heartbeats I learned early how to be quiet. Not the kind of quiet that comes from peace, but the kind that grows when noise feels dangerous. The kind that teaches your throat to close before a sound ever reaches your lips. Silence, for me, became a reflex—automatic, practiced, praised. “You’re so mature,” they used to say. What they meant was obedient. What they meant was easy. I remember the first time my body knew something was wrong before my mind did. A tightness in my chest. A twisting low in my stomach. A warning without words. I didn’t understand it then, so I did what I always did—I ignored it. Because good people don’t overreact. Because feelings can be wrong. Because making a fuss is worse than being uncomfortable. That’s what I was taught. So I smiled when my insides shook. I nodded when confusion pressed against my ribs. I learned to laugh softly, carefully, so no one would ask questions I didn’t know how to answer. The voice in my head became louder than any voice outside. It’s not that bad. You’re imagining things. Don’t ruin the moment. Don’t make it awkward. Every time I swallowed my discomfort, that voice grew stronger. Every time I stayed silent, it sounded more reasonable. It sounded like me. Silence doesn’t arrive all at once. It’s built—moment by moment, memory by memory. It’s in the pauses you don’t fill. The boundaries you don’t draw. The truths you fold into smaller and smaller shapes until they fit somewhere you can ignore. I became very good at folding myself. When something felt off, I told myself it was normal. When something hurt, I told myself others had it worse. When something crossed a line, I erased the line entirely. Because if the line didn’t exist, then nothing had been crossed. That was easier than admitting I didn’t know how to protect myself. There were moments I almost spoke. Moments where the words rose to the back of my throat, heavy and urgent. Moments where honesty felt close enough to touch. But then I imagined the consequences—the looks, the sighs, the disbelief. The disappointment. I imagined being told I misunderstood. That I was too sensitive. That I was making something out of nothing. And the words retreated. Silence felt safer than being wrong about my own pain. What no one tells you is that silence doesn’t disappear after the moment passes. It stays. It settles into your bones. It teaches your body to flinch even when nothing is happening. Years later, I’d still feel that same tightness. Still hesitate before speaking. Still apologize for taking up space I was allowed to occupy. I’d say “it’s fine” when it wasn’t. “I’m okay” when I wasn’t. “I don’t mind” when I did. Because silence had trained me well. I didn’t realize how much I had lost until someone asked me a simple question one day: “What do you want?” The room went quiet—not the uncomfortable kind. The honest kind. And I had no answer. Not because I didn’t want anything, but because I had spent so long burying my wants that they no longer had names. I could sense them—faint, distant, like echoes—but I couldn’t reach them. I felt grief then. Not loud grief. Quiet grief. The kind that settles behind your eyes and stays there. I mourned the versions of myself that never spoke. The boundaries I never defended. The younger me who thought silence was kindness. Healing didn’t begin with shouting or confrontation. It didn’t arrive as a dramatic moment or a perfect speech. It began with a whisper. A small, trembling sentence spoken out loud when no one else was around. “That wasn’t okay.” Saying it felt dangerous. My heart raced. My hands shook. The old voice screamed back—Don’t exaggerate. Don’t rewrite the past. But I said it again. “That wasn’t okay.” And something shifted. Learning to speak after years of silence is not elegant. It’s messy and uneven and often terrifying. Sometimes my voice cracks. Sometimes I cry before I finish a sentence. Sometimes I say things too late. But I say them. And each time I do, the silence loosens its grip. I’m learning that discomfort is not a moral failure. That boundaries are not accusations. That my body’s warnings deserve attention, not dismissal. I’m learning that being quiet is not the same as being safe. There are still days when silence tempts me. When it feels easier to shrink, to nod, to let things slide. Old habits don’t vanish just because you recognize them. But now, when that familiar tightness returns, I pause. I listen. And sometimes—gently, imperfectly—I speak. Not loudly. Not confidently. But honestly. And that is enough.
By Inayat khan9 days ago in Fiction
