art

Family-themed art is a look into one's living room; it depicts celebration, crises, and the quiet moments of familial interactions.

The Weight of Glass Petals
The air in Elara’s sunroom always tasted of dust and something vaguely metallic, like old pennies left too long in a forgotten jar. It wasn’t a sunroom in the cheerful, plant-filled sense, no. This was a sanctuary for her flowers, shelves upon shelves of them, each one painstakingly crafted from glass, catching the weak afternoon light like tiny, frozen moments. A garden of crystal, she called it, though no soil touched these roots, and no bee ever buzzed near their delicate, sharp petals. They were her life, her entire world, balanced precariously on antique mahogany.
By HAADI2 months ago in Families
Moonlit Fissures
The porch light clicked off the second Lena’s car tires crunched on the gravel drive. A familiar greeting. Her mother, Clara, always did that, a small, passive-aggressive flourish that said, 'You’re late,' without opening her mouth. Lena sighed, a breath that hitched in her chest, the kind that tasted like old dust and unspoken arguments. The house loomed, a darker rectangle against the bruised twilight sky, smelling of lemon polish and the faint, enduring scent of Clara’s lavender potpourri.
By HAADI2 months ago in Families
Where My Heart Learned to Stay
My home does not stand out on any map. It is not famous, grand, or celebrated in photographs. Yet, to me, it is the center of the world—the place where my life first learned its shape, where memories cling to walls like quiet echoes, and where my heart always returns, no matter how far I wander.
By Farhad2 months ago in Families
The Blue Door of Ard na Mara
Clara sat on her worn-out couch, the city hum a dull ache behind the thin walls of her apartment, a ceaseless, indifferent drone. Another Tuesday, another takeout container cooling on her lap, the plastic lid sweating condensation. She scrolled through meaningless feeds, her thumbs moving on autopilot, a restless current under her skin, a craving for something real. Everything felt… temporary, provisional. Like she was just passing through, waiting for a life she hadn't quite grabbed hold of yet. The only constant, the only thing that felt truly rooted, was an ache in her gut, a deep-seated yearning for a place she’d only seen in faded photographs and heard in her grandmother’s lilting, memory-softened voice.
By HAADI2 months ago in Families
The Unspoken Volume
Elara's car crunched gravel, a sound too loud for the oppressive quiet of her grandmother's property. The house, an old brick beast, sat slumped under the weight of years, ivy clutching its walls like desperate fingers. She hadn’t been here since she was a little kid, not properly, and the air still carried that same smell: dust, lemon polish, and something else, something sharp and metallic, like old pennies.
By HAADI2 months ago in Families
The Man Who Kept the Lights On
At half past five each morning, before the city properly woke up, Martin swung his legs out of bed and sat still for a moment.
By LUNA EDITH2 months ago in Families
The Scent of Other Basil
The kitchen always smelled of garlic and something else, something vague and sweet, like old wood and sunshine. Elena, my mother, leaned against the counter, hands kneading olive oil into dough for focaccia, her knuckles white. Her voice, thin with age but still carrying the lilt of Calabria, started on the same story, the one about her childhood, about Nonna Mariella’s kitchen, back in some village I couldn’t even point to on a map. ‘The morning light,’ she’d say, eyes unfocused, looking right through me, ‘it poured through the window like thick honey, right onto Nonna’s hands as she shelled peas.’ I could see it. I could feel that light, warm on my own skin. Hear the gentle pop of the peas from their pods, a quiet rhythm against the chirping of crickets outside an open window I’d never sat beside.
By HAADI2 months ago in Families
The Ghost Village in My Bones
Marco felt it most on Sundays. Not the lazy Sunday afternoon quiet of his own suburban street, but a different kind of quiet, one that hummed with cicadas and the distant clang of a church bell. He felt it in the smell of his Nonna Emilia’s kitchen, a mix of tomato, garlic, and something ancient, something that smelled of dusty sunshine and sea salt. He’d be sitting at the chipped Formica table, pushing around pasta, while Nonna, gnarled hands kneading dough on the worn wooden board, would talk. Always talk about Fiumedinisi.
By HAADI2 months ago in Families
Wet Glow
Frank rubbed at his temple, the cheap coffee from the gas station still hot but doing little to warm the chill that had settled deep in his bones. Rain had finally let up, but the streets outside were black mirrors, catching every lurid flash from the liquor store sign, the blinking neon of the late-night diner. Ten past midnight. Leo was late. Again. The wipers on his beat-up Ford Escort made a sad, rhythmic thwack-scrape, like a worn-out heart.
By HAADI2 months ago in Families
The Weight of Unread Pages
The library swallowed the light. Not just dimmed it, but chewed it up, leaving only tired, yellowed slivers struggling through the arched windows. Clara pulled the heavy oak door inward, the groan of hinges a familiar, weary sound, like an old man clearing his throat. Dust motes danced in the lone shaft of light cutting through the gloom, a spotlight on neglect. The air tasted of old paper, decaying leather, and something else—stagnation. Her father, Arthur, was a hunched shadow at his usual desk, spectacles perched on his nose, a magnifying glass held to a crumbling page. He didn't look up, just grunted. "You're here." Not a question. Never a question with Arthur. Just a statement of undeniable fact, delivered like a verdict.
By HAADI2 months ago in Families
When you fall in love, you lose an average of two close friends. AI-Generated.
The Lonely Side of Love: Why Falling in Love Costs You an Average of Two Close Friends Picture this. You meet someone special. Your days fill with texts, dates, and endless talks. Then, poof—your phone goes quiet with old friends. That group chat? It fades. Why? New love grabs your full attention. You might not notice at first.
By Story silver book 2 months ago in Families
Digital Ghosts: When Your Smartphone Knows You Better Than Your Partner. AI-Generated.
We are being haunted by friendly ghosts. They live in our pockets, on our desks, in our living rooms. These ghosts don’t rattle chains; they whisper perfect recommendations. They don’t chill the air; they curate a climate of flawless understanding. Your streaming service suggests the next show you’ll love before the credits roll. Your music app divines your afternoon mood and builds a playlist to match. Your shopping app shows you the jacket you were just thinking about. This is the age of the Algorithmic Intimate—a silent, omnipresent entity that studies the breadcrumbs of your digital life and offers a mirror of your desires so precise, it feels like companionship. But this is a phantom relationship, a one-way street of data extraction masquerading as empathy, and it is quietly raising the bar for human connection to an impossible height.
By HAADI2 months ago in Families