Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Families.
The Beggar’s Curse
The Beggar’s Curse Uncle Chaman was known in his neighborhood as the most miserly man around. Whenever a guest visited his house, after the usual formal greetings, he would start complaining about every little thing: “You won’t want tea, right? That’s harmful. Well, the sherbet is slightly warm; will that do? The cake and biscuit shop is closed right now; what can I do? The samosa seller is just heating the oil; it will take some time. How long do you plan to sit here?” And so on.
By Sudais Zakwan28 days ago in Families
When Thursday Became the Hardest Day
I used to love Thursdays. It was fish and chips night, football practice with my son Jake, and bedtime stories about dragons. Now, Thursdays are the day I sit in my empty flat, staring at photos on my phone, wondering if I'm doing any of this right.
By Jess Knauf28 days ago in Families
The River That Carried My Questions
The river appeared where the forest ended, wide and patient, reflecting the pale light of early morning. Its surface moved slowly, as if reluctant to disturb the silence that rested over the valley. Imran stood on its bank, hands in his pockets, watching the water carry fragments of leaves and sky toward a destination no one could see. He had come here after many restless nights. In the city, time ran fast and loudly. Clocks ruled walls, phones ruled hands, and thoughts ruled sleep. Even when Imran closed his eyes, the world continued speaking inside him — about plans, regrets, deadlines, and choices he feared he had made too late. So he escaped, carrying nothing but questions. The path to the river wound through tall trees whose branches filtered sunlight into trembling patterns on the ground. Birds sang without urgency, as if music itself were a form of rest. Imran walked slowly, uncertain whether he sought answers or simply silence. When he reached the water, he sat on a smooth stone, letting the river speak first. At first, he heard only motion — the soft collision of currents, the whisper of water sliding over hidden rocks. But as minutes stretched into stillness, the sound became something deeper. Not noise, but rhythm. Not chaos, but order. He remembered stories his grandfather once told: that rivers were old teachers, that they carried memories of mountains, rain, and time itself. As a child, he had believed them without question. As an adult, he had forgotten how to believe at all. Imran picked up a small pebble and tossed it into the water. Circles spread outward, widening until they vanished. “Everything leaves a trace,” he murmured. His thoughts drifted back to the crossroads of his life — the job he accepted when his heart hesitated, the relationships he left unfinished, the dreams postponed in the name of safety. He had told himself these were sacrifices, but lately they felt more like abandonments. The river did not argue. Instead, it showed him something simple: every leaf, no matter how torn or twisted, kept moving. Some spun in small circles, trapped briefly by eddies, but eventually they found the main current again. Perhaps, he thought, confusion was not failure. Perhaps it was only a pause before direction. A fisherman appeared upstream, casting his line with slow precision. Each movement seemed deliberate, free from hurry. Imran watched him in quiet admiration. The man waited without impatience, as if time were an ally rather than an enemy. For the first time in weeks, Imran stopped checking his watch. He closed his eyes and listened — not to the river alone, but to himself. Beneath layers of worry, he found a gentler voice, one he had ignored for years. It spoke of curiosity, of unfinished ambitions, of a desire not for success, but for meaning. The river flowed on, unconcerned with human hesitation. When Imran opened his eyes, the light had changed. The sun now climbed higher, painting gold across the water’s surface. He realized that hours had passed unnoticed. Strangely, he did not feel he had lost time. He felt he had recovered it. Before leaving, he dipped his hand into the river. The water was cold, alive, undeniable. It reminded him that motion was natural, that stagnation was the true danger. As he stood, a thought settled gently in his mind: answers were not destinations. They were directions. He did not leave with a plan. He left with something better — clarity without pressure. Walking back through the forest, Imran noticed how light filtered through leaves, how insects traced invisible paths in air, how life continued patiently in every corner. He understood then that wisdom rarely arrived as thunder. More often, it came as water. When the city finally rose again before him, tall and restless, he did not feel the familiar tightening in his chest. The noise would return, yes. The responsibilities too. But now, somewhere beyond schedules and expectations, a river continued to flow — carrying not his answers, but his courage to keep asking. And that, he realized, was enough to begin again.
By Muhammad yaseen28 days ago in Families
Genetic Confession
I didn’t come for forgiveness. I came for a kidney. The air inside the confessional smelled of old cedar, floor wax, and the faint, lingering scent of frankincense. It was a heavy, suffocating smell—the kind that makes you realize how hard it is to breathe when your own body is slowly betraying you.
By Jhon smith29 days ago in Families
A Story of Leavie Scott
Leavie Scott’s story begins with a simple but powerful belief: that growth is possible at any stage of life. From an early age, Leavie understood the value of resilience, shaped by family influence and real-life experience rather than shortcuts or easy answers. Growing up, the lessons that mattered most were not always spoken aloud—they were shown through perseverance, responsibility, and the expectation that hard work would eventually open doors.
By Organic Products 29 days ago in Families
The Sorrow of an Innocent Angel
The colorful clothes of the people in the marketplace spread hues like a rainbow. The constant movement of shopkeepers and customers added even more vibrancy to those colors. The murmurs of the crowd, the calls of street vendors, the arguments between buyers and sellers, the laughter of groups of wandering youths, and the harsh noise of impatient horns all merged into the air of the bazaar, crushing the faint voice of poverty and dissolving into the sky.
By Sudais Zakwan29 days ago in Families
The Punishment of Greed
The Punishment of Greed Once upon a time, in a small village, there lived a farmer with his two sons, Ahmed and Muhammad. Ahmed was clever and cunning, always thinking of ways to get more for himself, while Muhammad was innocent, simple-hearted, and somewhat naive. The farmer owned three valuable things: a cow, a fruit-bearing tree, and a blanket.
By Sudais Zakwan29 days ago in Families
