Jhon smith
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Welcome to my little corner of the internet, where words come alive
Stories (97)
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We Outpaced the Soil
We learned how to move faster than the ground beneath us. At first, it felt like progress. Roads unrolled like promises, machines hummed with the confidence of certainty, and cities rose as if the earth itself had agreed to carry our weight. We measured time in minutes saved, distances conquered, yields multiplied. We learned to outpace the seasons, to outsmart rain, to hurry seeds into obedience. We learned to treat the soil like a resource instead of a relationship.
By Jhon smith16 days ago in Earth
We Are Our Ancestry
I grew up in a house filled with stories. Not the kind written on pages, but those whispered over dinner tables, hummed in lullabies, and carried in the creak of the old wooden floors. My grandmother would sit by the window, staring out at the trees, and begin in a soft voice: “Your great-grandfather once walked these lands, barefoot, with nothing but hope in his pocket.” I didn’t understand the weight of that hope then. I only knew it sounded important.
By Jhon smith17 days ago in Writers
Not All Fear Is Real
The first breath of dawn is a quiet thing, as though the world itself is holding its breath, waiting to exhale. But for Nadia, the morning air felt like a sharp slap against her skin, cold and biting. Her fingers trembled as she clutched the edge of her jacket, the wind tugging at her hair. She stood on the edge of the cliff, her gaze cast over the valley below, the dark outline of the forest stretching far into the horizon. The shadows of night still clung to the trees, but the first threads of daylight were beginning to seep through, spilling gold onto the earth.
By Jhon smith17 days ago in Psyche
Every Brushstroke Was a Wish
In the small, quiet town of Avelar, there was a woman named Lena who painted with the kind of passion that only the truly lost could understand. Her cottage was perched at the edge of a vast forest, the kind of place where the whispers of the trees seemed to reach through the windowpanes, mingling with the rhythm of her brush against canvas. People in the town would pass by and sometimes glance at the paintings displayed in her window. But few, if any, understood the soul of her work.
By Jhon smith17 days ago in Art
Family Is Complicated
No one tells you that family is the first place you learn contradiction. They tell you family is love. Blood. Home. They don’t tell you it is also silence that stretches for years, arguments that begin over nothing and end with everything, and love that sometimes arrives disguised as disappointment.
By Jhon smith18 days ago in Families
The Man Who Never Stole Twice
They said the city raised criminals the way oceans raised storms—slowly, inevitably, without apology. Every alley had a memory, every cracked sidewalk knew a name that never made it into daylight. In this city, crime wasn’t rebellion. It was inheritance.
By Jhon smith18 days ago in Criminal
Happiness Is Allowed
No one ever told us it was forbidden. We just learned to behave as if it were. In the city where I live, happiness feels like a suspicious thing—something you don’t display too openly, like cash pulled out in a crowded place. People smile, but briefly. Laughter is measured. Joy is edited before it reaches the mouth, as if someone might accuse you of not suffering enough.
By Jhon smith19 days ago in Humans
I Missed the Meeting, But the Fire Cats Stayed
I’m sitting here watching a strange video—three orange cats, neon-bright, glowing like embers. The number 333 keeps flashing on the screen, and for some reason it feels intentional, like the universe is tapping me on the shoulder instead of shaking me awake. The sound from the TV hums softly, almost like a bonfire crackling on a beach. Fire cats. That’s what they are. I don’t know why that comforts me, but it does.
By Jhon smith20 days ago in Confessions
