literature
Whether written centuries ago or just last year, literary couples show that love is timeless.
A Wise Woman
In a quiet village nestled between rolling hills and ancient woods, lived a woman named Elira. Her house sat at the edge of the forest, half-covered with ivy, with wind chimes made of glass bottles swaying in the breeze and wild herbs growing along the stone path. People said she had been born under a crescent moon, that she could speak with birds, and that time never touched her skin. Children whispered her name with a mix of fear and wonder: the Wise Woman of Linden Hollow.
By Muhammad Abdullah7 months ago in Humans
The Library of Last Chances
The pink slip arrived at 9:07 a.m. By noon, I’d packed my desk, my 20-year tech career reduced to a cardboard box smelling of stale coffee and regret. That’s when I saw the "For Lease" sign plastered across Page Turner’s Books—a dusty relic wedged between a vape shop and a pawnbroker. Its window display featured a yellowed copy of Great Expectations beside a handwritten note: "Closed. Expectations unmet."
By Ziafat Ullah7 months ago in Humans
The Botany of Regret
The orchid arrived minutes after the divorce papers. Phalaenopsis aphrodite, the tag read: “Symbol of new beginnings.” Ironic, given its petals hung like crumpled tissues, roots spilling over the ceramic pot like frayed nerves. I named it Regret.
By Ziafat Ullah7 months ago in Humans
The Symphony of Silence"*
The first time I heard Mr. Aris play, rain lashed against the boarded-up windows of St. Agnes Community Hall. I’d come to volunteer—a mandatory college requirement—dreading hours of stacking canned goods. Then, notes bloomed in the damp air: a Chopin nocturne, tender as a bruise.
By Ziafat Ullah7 months ago in Humans
The Dictionary of Forgotten Sounds
The tape recorder arrived on a Tuesday, wrapped in yellowed newspaper and smelling of attic dust. I’d ordered it off eBay—a 1973 Sony TC-55, olive-green with chrome accents—because the listing said "Includes mysterious cassette." Grief makes fools of us all.
By Ziafat Ullah7 months ago in Humans
How to Hold an Umbrella
Rain in Seattle doesn’t fall—it looms. A gray, patient presence that slicks the streets and turns the Space Needle into a ghostly spindle. I’d just buried my father when I found the umbrella tucked behind his toolbox, forgotten as a fossil. Faded cherry-red cotton, wooden handle worn smooth as river stone. One spoke dangled loose, like a broken wing.
By Ziafat Ullah7 months ago in Humans
