The River That Refused Straight Answers
Truth Moves Like Water

Whenever someone asked the river a question, the current shifted but never replied directly. Reflections bent. Sounds distorted. Answers came later, in unrelated moments. The river taught that truth rarely travels in straight lines.
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from GoldenSpeech and writers in BookClub and other communities.
Book Review: Atmosphere by Taylor Jenkins Reid
I flipped the book over in my hands in the centre of the small airport book shop. Although I had heard promising reviews of Atmosphere by Taylor Jenkins Reid, I hesitated. The synopsis didn’t compel me - I wasn’t much of a space girly. In high school it made me cringe when my peers would talk about the stars.
By sleepy drafts7 days ago in BookClub
7 Amazing Books That Will Make You Think Deeply
In a fast-paced world dominated by fleeting trends and superficial content, the power of a book to challenge our thinking has never been more vital. Books that make us think deeply are more than entertainment—they are mirrors reflecting the complexities of life, society, and the human mind. They compel us to question assumptions, explore ethical dilemmas, and confront uncomfortable truths about ourselves and the world around us. Below is a list of 7 amazing books that will make you think deeply.
By Diana Meresc5 days ago in BookClub
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanova2 days ago in Poets


Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.