The Stuck Splinter ( Short story )

The Splinter

The splinter had lodged itself deep, not just in her finger, but in the marrow of her soul. For years, it festered in silence, a tiny intruder that refused to budge. She had felt its presence in every heartbeat—a sharp, constant reminder of the day it entered her life. It began as a careless jab, a thorn from a rose she’d plucked in a garden of broken promises. Back then, she’d been a child, innocent and trusting, believing love was a shelter, not a battlefield.

Her parents’ voices still echoed in the hollows of her memory—sharp, dismissive, vanishing like shadows at dawn. “We’re too busy for your tears,” they’d said. “Grow up.” So she had, but not in ways the world expected. She learned to love fiercely, to cling to those who might abandon her, to build her world around the fear that she was unlovable. The splinter, metaphor and reality, became her constant companion. She tried to pry it out with her own strength once—childish tweezers, frantic prayers under her breath—but only managed to drive it deeper.

For years, she cycled through relationships, jobs, even cities, chasing a cure that never came. The splinter taught her the language of pain: how to mask it with laughter, how to let it harden into a granuloma of numbness. Yet beneath the surface, it festered. Pus bloomed as panic attacks; redness flared in her eyes when someone said, “You’re too much.” She felt the weight of an abscess forming, a rot that could one day swallow her whole.

Then, one night, she collapsed in her kitchen, the light from a chipped nail revealing the splinter’s true depth. It was lodged beneath the moonlit curve of her thumb, its edges jagged, its hold ironclad. She wept—not for the pain, but for the aching truth: I cannot do this alone.

“God,” she whispered, her voice a cracked leaf in the wind. “If You are real, show me how to let this go.”

The nights that followed were a series of small surrenders. She picked up a Bible, its pages dusty with disuse, and read of a God who tended wounds not with tweezers, but with mercy. She prayed not for a quick fix, but for the courage to press into the hurt, to let the Holy Spirit be the surgeon’s hand. It hurt—oh, how it hurt—to face the raw places, to dissect the lies she’d believed for decades. But with each prayer, the splinter’s grip loosened.

One morning, as sunlight pooled on her skin, she saw it: the splinter, curled and silver, curling its way to the surface at last. With trembling hands, she sterilized a needle, not as a self-rescuer, but as a partner with the Healer who’d walked this path before. The sting was brief. The relief, eternal.

Now, her thumb bears a faint scar—a testament to the battle and the victory. She still feels the phantom ache sometimes, a reminder of how deeply she was once broken. But when it comes, she smiles through the memory and whispers, “You’ve already healed me.”

The splinter is gone. Its song, once one of despair, has become a hymn of liberation. And in the freedom, she’s learning a new truth: she is lovable, not because the world says so, but because the Lover of her soul has already declared it.

“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” —Philippians 4:13

In this story, the splinter becomes both metaphor and mirror, reflecting the journey from self-abandonment to divine embrace. Just as a physical splinter demands care—whether by the body’s own healing or a doctor’s hand—the soul’s wounds require attention, often through surrender to a power greater than ourselves. The infection? It is the world’s unlove, which only the Author of Life can undo. Keep pressing forward. Freedom is near.

From Sun Up to Sun Down

From Sun Up to Sun Down

The morning light slips through the cracked edge of the bedroom curtain—thin, golden, insistent. It lands across the pillow beside mine, the one that still holds the ghost of his shape. I watch it there, just lying still, not daring to touch it. Sun up. Another day. Another war.

I don’t remember the last time I looked in the mirror and saw myself. I see shadows beneath eyes that used to carry laughter. I see hands that used to reach for his, now always folding into themselves, gripping nothing. Sixteen months since he left. Sixteen months of breathing without music, loving without audience, existing without witness.

They say grief comes in waves, but this feels more like a drought. A slow, relentless pulling away of everything wet and warm inside me until I’m just dust and echo. From sun up to sun down, I move through rituals. Coffee. Shower. Walk. Laundry. Repeat. It’s not living—just endurance dressed in routine.

There was a time—just a few years ago—when I believed love was for other people. That I was built wrong for it. Too sharp. Too quiet. Too much past. Then he came. Not handsome in the way magazines praise, but kind in a way that made the world softer. He’d hum off-key while fixing the sink. Leave little notes in my coat pockets: "Don’t forget your umbrella. I love you." He’d hold my hand when I cried, not trying to fix it, just saying, "I’m here. I’m here."

We met late. I thought I was too old to be discovered, too broken to be chosen. But he saw me. Not fixed me—saw me. And for the first time in my 58 years, I let someone love me. Really love me. And I—finally—let myself love back.

And then, three years in, his heart betrayed him. Just like that. One minute laughing at a dumb cat video, the next, gone. No time for last words. No time to say I’m sorry I didn’t lean into you sooner. I’m sorry I held back when I was afraid to need you too much.

I wait for guilt to fade. It hasn’t. Sometimes I lie awake thinking, What if I had noticed the fatigue sooner? What if I had made him go to the doctor that week? What if I had held him tighter that last morning?

But there is no “what if” in death. Only what is.

From sun up to sun down, I pray. Not the polished prayers from church. The raw, gasping kind. The kind that come out like sobs flung at the sky. "God, I can’t do this. Help me do this. I don’t want to be strong. I just want to feel close to him again. Let me hear his voice. Let me feel his hand."

And sometimes—on the best days—I do. In the hush between breaths. In the sudden warmth of sunlight on my skin. In the bluebirds that visit the feeder he hung. I say, "That’s you, isn’t it? That’s you saying I’m still here with you."

People offer help. Meals, hugs, casseroles wrapped in foil like hope. They say, "You’re so strong." But I’m not. I’m hanging by a thread. Every morning, I wake up and make a choice: I will breathe today. I will walk outside. I will speak to someone. I will not call the crisis line—today.

Because from sun up to sun down is all I can promise. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Just today.

I used to think love was something you gave. Now I know—it’s something you receive. And he gave me love like a gift I never knew how to unwrap until it was too late. And now, the greatest act of love I can offer is to stay. To keep walking. To whisper "thank you" through tears when the sunrise blazes anyway.

I miss him in every bone. I miss him in the quiet. I miss him in the way my coffee tastes bitter now, like nothing has flavor without his laughter filling the room.

But I am still here.

And if being here is the only thing I have to give—if showing up each morning, even when my soul feels flayed open, is my offering—then I will give that.

From sun up to sun down.

That’s all I’ve got.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s enough.

Not for the world.

But for him.

And for God.

And for me.

The Chains That Bloomed (Short story )

The Chains That Bloomed

In the village of Neverseen, nestled between misty hills and ancient woods, there stood a crooked house at the edge of the northern moor. It was a house of silence—where laughter never echoed, where meals were eaten in shadows, and where the youngest daughter, Vanish, had learned very young that her presence was an afterthought.

Vanish was born under a waning moon, they said in the village—a sign, some muttered, of misfortune. Her father, a stern man with hands hardened by years of mining deep in the mountain, had no patience for "softness." Her mother, worn thin by years of swallowing silence, only ever whispered, “Be small. Be quiet. Don’t wake the storm.”

Vanish learned to be small.

She learned to fold herself into corners, to apologize for her breath, for her shadow, for the way her hair caught the light like fire when it should have been as dull as the rest of them. She learned to feed the fire, mend her brother's torn coat, pour her father’s ale—never looking up, never speaking unless spoken to.

And when the boys from the tavern or the mines began to come around, drawn to her quiet eyes and gentle hands, she thought: Maybe now I will be loved.

But love, she quickly learned, was not what they offered.

The first boy slapped her when she asked if he’d come to the harvest fair. The second stole her mother’s brooch and blamed it on her. The third called her “useless,” then “weak,” then “mine,” as though her soul were something to be claimed and cracked open.

She stayed.

Not because she wanted to, but because she believed—deep in the marrow of her bones—that this was what she deserved. That if she could just fix them, if she could just care harder, love louder, be quieter, smaller, more—then maybe, one day, they’d see her. Maybe then she’d be worth something.

She became the caretaker of broken men—feeding them soup when they were sick, mending their wounds when they came home bleeding from scuffles, whispering apologies when they raged.

And all the while, she withered.

She forgot what her favorite flower was. She stopped humming songs. She could not remember the last time she had chosen something for herself—a dress, a meal, a dream.

She was a ghost in her own life.

Until the winter the river froze over and the old chapel on the hill lit its lantern for the first time in decades.

Vanish went not to pray, but to escape.

Her latest lover—another echo of her father—had thrown her shawl into the hearth and told her, “You’re nothing without me.” She’d found herself walking through the snow, barefoot at first, then dragging her boots behind her, as if shedding the weight of her life with every step.

The chapel was cold, its stone walls cracked, its roof patched with moss and regret. But at the far end, atop a crumbling altar, stood a statue—half-draped in cloth, half-burned by time. It was a figure with outstretched arms, not in judgment, but in welcome.

And beneath it, a candle glowed. One small flame, refusing to be snuffed by the wind.

Vanish fell to her knees.

She didn’t know how to pray. She had never been taught. But she whispered, “I’m so tired.”

And in the silence, a voice—not loud, not thunderous, but tender—answered.

You are seen.

She gasped. Looked around. No one was there.

But the candle flickered, and warmth crept into her frozen fingers.

You are not nothing. You are not broken. You are Mine.

Tears came—hot, messy, unbidden. She sobbed like a child, like the little girl who had never been allowed to cry. She wept for the years she’d spent shrinking, for the love she’d chased like a starving thing, for the voice inside her that had long ago stopped saying, I matter.

And then—softly, surely—she heard it again.

My daughter.

From that night, Vanish began to change.

She did not leave Neverseen right away. But she began to speak—first to the priest who found her weeping in the chapel, then to the old woman who sold honey cakes in the square, then, one trembling evening, to her mother.

“I don’t want to be small anymore,” she whispered.

Her mother stared, then, for the first time, reached out and touched her face. “Oh, my girl,” she breathed. “You never had to be.”

Vanish began to walk differently. To look people in the eye. To say no.

When her former lover came back, drunk and demanding, she stood in her doorway and said, “You may not enter.”

When her brother mocked her for visiting the chapel, she replied, “I go to remember who I am.”

She studied the words carved into the chapel walls—words of mercy, of worth, of a love that did not demand, but gave. She read about a Carpenter from a distant land who lifted the outcast, who touched the untouchable, who said to the woman caught in shame, “Neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more.”

And she realized: this was not a God who needed her to be small. This was a Love that wanted her whole.

She began to dream again.

She planted marigolds outside her window—bright and bold, unafraid of the sun. She learned to sing, even when her voice cracked. She wrote letters to herself: You are enough. You are free. You are loved.

The chains did not break all at once.

There were nights she woke trembling, convinced she was worthless. Days when she wanted to run back to the familiar pain, because known suffering felt safer than unknown healing.

But each time, she returned to the chapel. Each time, she lit a candle and whispered, “I am Yours.”

And each time, the Light answered.

Years passed.

Vanish did not marry. She did not become a queen or a warrior or a famed healer. But she became herself.

She opened a small house on the edge of the village—not the crooked one, but a bright cottage with wide windows and a garden that spilled over with color. And she welcomed the lost ones—the girls with hollow eyes, the women with bent backs from carrying too much, the children who had learned too young to be small.

She taught them to say no.

She taught them to name their pain.

She taught them to light candles in the dark and whisper, “I am seen.”

And on quiet evenings, when the wind sighed through the moor and the stars blinked awake, Vanish would walk to the chapel on the hill, light a candle, and smile.

“Thank You,” she’d say. “For rescuing me. For breaking the chains. For loving me before I was worth anything at all.”

And in the stillness, the wind would carry the answer—gentle, eternal, true:

My daughter, you always were.

The Ember in the Furnace (Short story )

The Ember in the Furnace

lexit had always liked to think of his faith as a furnace—steady, bright, and unshakable. As a youth pastor in a small town nestled between rolling hills and a river that sang its way through the valley, his days were a rhythm of songs, sermons, and late‑night counseling sessions. For years he moved through each sunrise with a fire that seemed to burn from within, a confidence that the wind would never blow it out.

One October afternoon, after a particularly grueling school board meeting, he sat on the cracked concrete steps of the church’s back entrance, his notebook open but his pen still. The sky had turned a bruised gray, and a thin drizzle threatened to soak the world. He stared at the empty street, feeling the weight of a question he had never allowed himself to voice: What if my flame is dying?

He remembered a line his grandmother used to whisper when she smelled smoke in the kitchen: “When the fire’s low, you don’t add more wood—you tend the coals.” He opened his Bible, thumbed to Isaiah 43:2, and read aloud, “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow you.” The words pressed against his chest like a warm hand, yet the fire inside still felt faint.

Lexit closed his eyes, not to quiet the world but to hear the still, small voice inside. I’m here, it seemed to say, even when the flames flicker. He whispered a prayer he'd never spoken before: “Lord, I’m honest with You. My ember is dim. I’m not trying to reignite it on my own; I’m asking You to set it alight again.”

Day One: The Simple Step

The next morning, Lexit rose before dawn, not for the usual marathon of emails and lesson plans, but for a single, simple habit—five minutes of stillness. He sat on the wooden pews, the church empty, and let his breath sync with the rhythm of the sanctuary’s old organ pipes. He didn’t pray for grand visions or miracles; he thanked God for the breath that kept him alive, for the cup of coffee that warmed his hands, for the laugh of a child on Sunday.

He opened his journal and wrote, “I am a vessel, not the fire.” The sentence felt like a stone placed in the river, steadying his thoughts.

Day Two: The Consistent Word

Lexit knew that sporadic bursts of spiritual activity could never replace a sustained flame. He set a timer on his phone for fifteen minutes, a period he could keep daily, no matter how busy the schedule. He chose a single verse to meditate on: Psalm 119:105—“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light for my path.” He read it slowly, let its truth settle, and then turned each word over in his heart, asking, “What is this light revealing about my journey today?”

He discovered something unexpected: the verse was not just a promise but a call to walk—slowly, deliberately—through the valleys of his own doubts. The flame, though still small, began to take on a steadier glow.

Day Three: The Honest Confession

Later that week, Lexit gathered his small group of believers for a “raw hour”—a time set aside for honest confession, not of sins, but of struggles. He stood, hands trembling, and said, “I’m walking through a season where my spiritual fire feels low. I’m not sure if I’m still called, or if I’m just a tired shepherd. Yet I know the God who promised to be with me in the waters is still there.”

Tumi, a college student with a fierce love for hymns, replied, “God isn’t a distant furnace; He’s the coal that never burns out. When we’re honest, He fans the embers.” The room rang with gentle nods, and Lexit felt a communal heat spread—a shared recognition that faith, too, is a collective fire.

Day Four: The Act of Service

The next Sunday, instead of his usual sermon, Lexit invited the congregation to step out into the community. They painted a mural on the side of the old bakery, writing, “Hope is a Light in the Dark.” As hands splashed color onto brick, Lexit saw the words of Isaiah 43:2 reflected not just in scripture but in the very act of serving—passing through waters together, knowing He was beside them.

When they stepped back and admired their work, Lexit felt a subtle yet undeniable surge. The ember had caught a breeze, and a thin, bright spark danced across his palm.

Day Five: The Ongoing Race

Winter crept in, the river froze, and the days grew shorter. Lexit’s fire never burst into a roaring blaze, but it no longer flickered out. Each morning he tended his simple habits—prayer, a handful of verses, an honest heart, and a purposeful step outward. He reminded himself that “the race” was not a sprint but a pilgrimage, a marathon of moments stitched together by God’s steady hand.

One night, as he sat alone in the empty sanctuary, a candle on the altar caught his eye. Its flame, modest yet unwavering, cast a warm glow across the polished wood. He whispered, “You are not going anywhere, Lord. You are the fire that never dies.” The candle’s wick burned a little longer, a silent affirmation that the fire was indeed being reignited—not by his own force, but by a God who knows exactly how to spark flame in the darkest of seasons.

Epilogue: The Call

Lexit’s story became a quiet testament whispered among the pews: “When your spirit feels dim, lean into God’s presence. Remember Isaiah 43:2—He’s with you in the flood. Keep the simple habits: prayer, Scripture, honest confession, and service. Ask Him to reignite your passion. It’s not a one‑time event; it’s a daily walk. Trust Him to lead you through the season, and watch the ember become a flame that lights the world.”

And so, the furnace in Lexit's heart never truly went out. It merely rested, ready for the next breath of divine wind. The fire was not his to generate alone; it was a gift, a promise, a call to rise each day, to run the race with perseverance, and to spread the light of the Gospel while God, ever faithful, tended the coals. The fire burned—steady, purposeful, and ever‑brightening.

The Empty Pages Filled" Short Story

The Empty Pages Filled"

I never thought I’d live to see 43.

For so long, survival wasn’t a promise—it was a gasp, a breath held too long, a silent prayer muttered between sobs on bathroom floors. Life, after my mother kicked me out at sixteen, became a series of storms with no horizon. One trial after another. One winter after another. No light. Just shadows that stretched so long they felt like they were carved into my bones.

I carried grief like a second skin. I wore anger like armor. And somewhere along the way, I lost myself—buried beneath years of “Why me?” and “Who will love me now?”

I thought I was going to lose this fight—the fight against depression that whispered lies in my ear like a twisted lullaby. The anxiety that coiled around my chest like a python every time I tried to hope. The shame of feeling broken when everyone else seemed whole. For decades, I smiled through the pain, laughed through the loneliness, and screamed into the silence when no one was listening.

But 2025… 2025 was different.

It started quiet—just a whisper in the dark: “I’m still here.” Then a flicker: “Maybe I matter.” Then, slowly, like the sun breaking through after years of storm clouds, healing began.

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t dramatic. It was prayer after prayer, tear after tear, step after trembling step back to God. I stopped smoking—after 25 years, I laid those cigarettes down like stones I no longer needed to carry. I started eating food that loved me back. I walked in the mornings, watching the sunrise with eyes that no longer flinched at the light.

I learned to hold every thought captive. Not with force, but with grace. When the old voices came—You're not enough. She was right to leave you. You'll never make it—I didn’t answer them. I lifted my hands and said, “God, this isn’t from You. Take it.” And He did. Over and over, He did.

I started writing again—something I hadn’t done since high school, when dreams were still soft and unbroken. I created a blog, timid at first, as if my words might shatter the silence. But then the emails started coming. Strangers saying, “This was my story too.” Others saying, “I read your words and finally felt seen.” And I realized—my pain had a purpose. My survival wasn’t just for me. It was for you.

I became a better mom. Not perfect—God knows I still lose my temper or forget lunch money—but more present. More patient. I hug my kids longer. I tell them I love them more. And when I look in the mirror, I’m learning to whisper it to myself too: “I love you. You’re worth it.”

My husband, gone too soon, would be proud. I feel him sometimes—on quiet evenings, when the wind rustles the trees just right, or when I accomplish something I once thought impossible. I miss him every day. The grief is softer now, like a scar instead of a wound. And I like to think he’s cheering me on from heaven, smiling that crooked smile of his.

Even my mom… I miss her too. I don’t understand why she did what she did. Maybe I never will. But I’ve learned compassion—for her, for me, for the broken people we both were. I pray she’s at peace. And I like to believe she’d be proud of the woman I’ve become.

2025 was deliverance.

It was healing that didn’t come with fireworks but with quiet mornings, Bible in hand, journal open, heart finally willing to believe.

I’m not “fixed.” I don’t think we’re meant to be. But I am whole—not because I’ve arrived, but because I’m walking forward. I am becoming. I am here.

And I have so much more to live for.

I pray I see my kids graduate college. I pray I dance at their weddings. I pray I grow old, gray-haired and laughing, with God’s hand still guiding mine.

Because my walk with Him? It won’t end—not until He calls me home. And when that day comes, I’ll go with gratitude on my lips and stories in my heart.

But for now, I write.

I write for the girl who once thought she’d never make it.

I write for the mother trying to hold it all together.

I write for the man sitting in his car, crying after a long day, wondering if God sees him.

I write because my life—every scar, every tear, every triumph—is a testimony.

And these empty pages?

They’re not empty anymore.

They’re filled with grace.

They’re filled with hope.

They’re filled with Him.

So here I am.

Still standing.

Still fighting.

Still believing.

And still writing…

Because God isn’t done with me yet.

And honestly?

Thank you GOD for being my Dad.

—Amen.

Short Story )_The word hangs in the silence of the room, heavy and sharp

The word hangs in the silence of the room, heavy and sharp, like a glass pendulum poised to swing.

L O V E.

It is a four-letter venom that has bought me more pain than any honest enemy ever could. I have carried its definition like a burning coal, searching for a place to put it down, yet as a human, I continue this cursed, clumsy search.

Where did I even learn this word? I must have learned it like I learned to walk—by imitation, by stumbling into a pattern that was fundamentally broken. I was taught that love was conditional, a prize for quiet compliance, a thing that could be withheld as punishment. My parents’ house was not built on affection; it was a cold, echoing vault of duty. They didn’t hate me, perhaps, but they did not see me. And in that absence, I internalized the lie: There is something wrong with me that no one loves.

So, I chased the blueprint society handed me, the one etched across every billboard, every rom-com script, every pastel-colored wedding invitation: get married, have kids, live happy.

Yeah, right.

It did not even come close. It was a charade built on desperation and faulty architecture. The marriage imploded, taking with it the last remnants of my soft interior. I was left not just divorced, but hollowed out—dead inside, coated in a protective, miserable layer of black-hearted anger that curdled every kindness offered to me.

I became the living embodiment of the wound I carried. If my own parents could not love me, the ones biologically sworn to protect and cherish, then who in this chaotic, indifferent world ever could? The answer, I screamed silently into the void, was simple: No one.

And yet, my body betrayed my intellect. The primal, relentless human wiring kicked in, reminding me of the cold, hard facts:

Humans yearn for love because it is a fundamental need for survival and well-being, driven by biological, psychological, and social factors. Biologically, love ensures cooperation and the raising of offspring, while psychologically, it provides a sense of security, validation, and identity. Socially, a desire for intimacy, companionship, and belonging motivates us to form relationships and overcome the inherent costs of group living.

Survival. That’s what it was. An incessant need for warmth in the face of inevitable cold. And the only place I ever found that warmth, the only man who ever truly loved the wounded, bitter wreck that I was, is dead.

God, do you see me trying )Short story

The grey predawn light offered no comfort, only a humid, suffocating stillness. Zekeil ran, his lungs burning with the effort of a man trying to outpace his own shadow. He wasn't on a track built for victory; he was on the cracked asphalt of a forgotten city park, and every stride was a declaration of war against the inertia of despair.

He stumbled on a root, his hands slamming down onto his knees, breath hitching in a harsh, ragged gasp. He wasn't running just for fitness; he was running the race the preachers talked about, and his muscles had failed him just as his willpower had failed him yesterday, and the day before.

He sank onto a concrete bench, the cool dampness seeping through his sweat-soaked clothes, and the silent, desperate monologue that was his constant companion finally broke the barrier of his throat, emerging as a raw whisper aimed at the bruised sky.

"God, do you see me trying?"

The words were not accusatory, only pleading. They were the sound of a committed soldier who keeps dropping his rifle.

"I am trying to stay and not fade away. The world is a whirlpool of noise, and every time I get a grip on the side, some tide pulls me back into the muck. I am trying to stay committed and I fail. I plan the quiet time, the steadfastness, the consistency—and the day ends, and I realize I’ve prioritized everything but the one thing that matters."

He wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes. His commitment felt like a wet sheet of paper—strong enough to write on, until the moment pressure was applied.

"I want to be truly close to you always. Not just Sunday closeness, not just crisis closeness. A constant, breathing proximity. This feeling of distance is a torture I inflict on myself, I know, but I don’t know how to stop building the walls."

The deepest ache surfaced then, the reason the spiritual struggle felt so physical, so foundational. It wasn't just theology; it was primal yearning.

"I want to finish this race. I want to stand at that final line without shame. I want to be in your arms. You are my father. I never had one before. I never knew what it was like to rely on a solid, unbreakable presence. I never knew stability. I never understood love, but I want it so bad. The messy, human kind, yes, but mostly the steady, eternal kind I hear about."

He looked at the sky, where the first hint of gold was finally wrestling free from the horizon.

"God, do you see me trying? I am trying to have all your characteristics, the patience, the kindness, the peace—but I fail daily. Every interaction is a test, and I lose my temper, I judge, I worry. I feel like I'm constantly fighting to stay afloat in this world that you created—this beautiful, terrifying place that seems designed to distract me from the true destination."

He pushed himself up, leaning against the back of the bench, heart still hammering a furious rhythm. He knew the goal. He knew the prize.

"God, do you see me trying to make it back home to you? I don't want a trophy or applause from men. I want you to say, 'Well done.' I want to know, unequivocally, that my name is written in the book. That’s the only validation that counts."

The thought of failing, of falling short forever, sent a cold spike of panic through his chest. He took a shaky, deep breath, tasting the dust and the dew.

"GOD, oh GOD, do you see me trying? I love you so much. I love the idea of you, the reality of you. I love the hope you offer. Please never give up on me. Please never let me go."

He stood there, exhausted, defeated by the morning, yet impossibly still standing. He hadn't finished the run yet, but he hadn't quit either. He opened his clenched hands, offering the exhaustion, the failures, the raw, demanding love, up to the rising light.

The world offered no thunderous response, no miraculous vision. But in the quiet aftermath of his plea, as the sunlight finally broke over the tree line and warmed the back of his neck, Elias felt a profound stillness. It wasn't the peace of victory; it was the quiet, steady assurance of acknowledged weakness.

It was the feeling of a heavy hand resting gently on his tired shoulder—a silent, non-verbal message cutting through the noise of his failure.

I know.

"God, I am really trying. Can you see?"

And in the sudden, golden warmth, Zekeil ran again. Slowly, awkwardly, but forward. He felt seen. And being seen was enough to take the next step.

I am screaming (-Short story )

The sound was a phantom, a shriek without a throat, yet it tore through her. It resonated not in the air, but in the hollow chambers of her bones, in the echoing canyons of her mind. I am screaming.

She sat on the park bench, the autumn sun a cruel mockery of warmth on her face, the laughter of children a distant, piercing chime. A hundred, a thousand invisible knives twisted in her gut, each one a memory, a betrayal, a loss. The pain wasn't new; it was an old friend, a constant companion, but today it wore a new, sharper edge. Today, it demanded release.

“Can anyone hear me?” The silent question was hurled at the indifferent sky, at the crisp, rustling leaves, at the passersby who walked their dogs and pushed their strollers, their lives unfolding in a vibrant, carefree she could only observe from the desolate fringe. Their smiles, their easy conversations, were pinpricks of light in her ever-deepening gloom.

Her hands, clasped tightly in her lap, trembled. Her jaw ached from clenching, her eyes burned, not with tears, but with a dry, searing anguish. “I am screaming, do you even care?” The accusation was aimed higher, beyond the earthly realm, to the silent, watching cosmos, to the Architect of this agonizing play. Every breath was a struggle against the weight of it all, a battle against the crushing despair that threatened to flatten her into the very soil beneath her feet.

“I am screaming tired of all this pain.” The words were a mantra, a plea, a breaking point. How long could a soul endure such a relentless assault? How many sunrises could she greet with this leaden heart, this spirit flayed bare? She felt like a frayed wire, sparking and spitting, on the verge of snapping. The thought of another day, another hour, another minute, felt like an impossible burden.

“Wondering when GOD is going to come and get me.” It wasn't a wish for death, not precisely, but a profound yearning for an end to the torment. A longing for gentle hands to lift her from the mire, to cradle her, to tell her it was over. To be taken somewhere soft, somewhere quiet, where the screaming finally ceased.

“I am screaming, screaming from all this pain. When will this end, oh God?” Her inner voice was hoarse now, raw. The "oh God" wasn't a prayer of reverence, but a guttural cry of desperation, a primal wail flung into the void. She had tried, she had fought, she had endured, but the reservoir of her strength was dry, the well of her hope poisoned.

And then, the most profound ache of all. A whisper, more fragile than the rest, yet heavy with the weight of a universe. “I love everyone, but no one loves me.” It was a truth that settled in her bones, cold and absolute. She offered her empathy, her kindness, her understanding to the world, only to find herself an echo in a room full of noise, unseen, unvalued, fundamentally alone.

“When will this end, God, I am tired now. Please take me home.” Take me home. Not to a house, not to a place on a map, but to a state of being she dimly remembered, or perhaps only dreamed of—a place of peace, of belonging, of unburdened spirit.

“I am screaming, screaming to get away. Can I take a vacation from this earthly experiment, please?” The idea was almost comical in its desperation. To simply step away, to hit pause, to breathe without the suffocating weight of existence. To be an observer, not a participant, in this cruel, demanding experiment called life.

“I am screaming, God, why me? Please help me.” The universal question, stripped bare of philosophy, raw with personal agony. What had she done to deserve this endless trial? What lesson was she meant to learn that required such an excruciating price?

The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, a beautiful, indifferent masterpiece. She rose, her movements slow, mechanical, as if her limbs were made of lead. The phantom scream, relentless, continued its assault.

“I am screaming all the way home, God. Please, when will I awake with you in my zone?” The journey back was a blur, each step a further descent into the internal maelstrom. She longed for that ultimate awakening, that final, serene moment of union, where the screaming would finally be silenced, not by effort or endurance, but by absolute, encompassing peace. To finally be home, truly home, in a place where love was not conditional, where pain was an echo of a forgotten dream, and where her soul, at last, could rest. Until then, the silent scream would rage on, a lonely testament to a heart that would not break, even as it yearned to be set free.

The world, for Fontessa, was a chilling, unwelcoming place (Short Story)

The world, for Fontessa, was a chilling, unwelcoming place. From her earliest memories, a gnawing emptiness resided where love should have been, a cold void echoing between her and the two people who called themselves her parents. She hated her mother with a quiet, burning intensity, a feeling born not of malice, but of profound confusion and despair. Why? she’d ask the silent walls of her mind, Why don’t they love me? Why was I born into a family of people who never loved her? What kind of person is she that she did not deserve love as a child?

Her small, good heart, desperate for warmth, concocted a desperate plan. If being a quiet, obedient child earned her only indifference, perhaps being bad would at least make them see her. "If they did not love me when I was good," a tiny rebel whispered inside her, "maybe they will love me while I am bad." And so, Fontessa began to act out. She talked back, her voice startlingly sharp for her age. She refused to listen to anything her parents said, her small acts of defiance a desperate plea for recognition. It worked, a little. She got attention, yes, but it was not the attention she wanted. It came in the form of raised voices, harsh words, and, inevitably, the sting of a belt.

Tired of the beatings, but still starved for affection, she started rebelling even more. The cycle escalated: her desperation, their anger, her pain. "No love, all this hate," she’d whisper to herself, nursing fresh bruises in the dark. "Why were they so mad?" A new thought flickered, a desperate hope to mend the fractured pieces of their lives for them. "What can I do to make their life better?" She knew. She would run away. That always seemed to get her a fleeting moment of connection. Her mom, eyes wide with a temporary, performative panic, would pull her into a tight hug, whispering, “I love you, my baby.”

But like a cruel mirage, the love evaporated as soon as Fontessa was safely back inside. It was always back to no love. Her father, a ghost of a man, was often lost in the haze of his crack addiction, his presence a dark cloud that drifted in and out of their lives. Her mother, a storm of her own, only seemed to exist for him, her world revolving around his unpredictable orbit, never her children. "My GOD," Fontessa would think, "what is going on?"

The household was a volatile place. Her mother was a different person depending on her father's state. When he was gone, or lost in his addiction, her mother turned mean, her words sharp, her patience nonexistent, lashing out at her children. But when her husband was home, acting up, demanding attention, her mother would switch, becoming unnervingly nice to her kids, a fragile shield against his chaos. Yet, in all of this, Fontessa was still ignored, an invisible child navigating a landscape of shifting parental moods.

Emotions were a luxury Fontessa was not allowed. "Don't you dare cry," her mother's cold voice would echo, and so, Fontessa never did. Not even when she got a beating, her face set, her eyes dry, a silent testament to her resolve not to break. Her other brothers and sisters looked at her strangely, their own tears a common sight, making Fontessa feel like an alien in her own family. They thought she was weird, but they couldn't see what she saw.

From an early age, Fontessa would talk, not to her siblings or her parents, but to the shadowy figures that danced at the edges of her vision. Fantasies, she thought, or perhaps something more. She would talk to demons all day, their whispers and forms a terrifying, yet constant, company, a stark contrast to the human silence around her. She didn't understand why she saw demonic things, things no one else could see, why she was privy to a hidden, often horrifying, reality.

Years later, as an adult, Fontessa found solace in a different kind of presence. She drew close to God, and through that spiritual awakening, she began to understand. She was different. The visions, the acute sensitivity to the darkness around her – it wasn't a curse, but a different way of seeing, a spiritual gift woven into her being, sharpened by the raw neglect of her childhood.

Her mother was dead now, her father in a nursing home, a shell of the man he once was. The chaos of her youth had subsided into a quiet, almost serene existence. Yet, despite the peace, despite the understanding, the deep-seated yearning remained. Even now, a grown woman, having navigated the treacherous waters of her past, Fontessa still found herself wanting the one thing she never had: the simple, unconditional love from the parents she never truly knew. The emptiness had shrunk, but it was still there, a phantom limb aching for a connection that would never be.

Short story !! Can I quit

The grey dawn seeped through the windowpane

like a memory ghost, painting the worn room in

shades of ash and resignation. Zestful sat, wrapped

in a threadbare blanket, the cold seeping into her bones,

mirroring the chill in her soul. For weeks, months, perhaps

even years, she had felt it, a gnawing exhaustion that

went beyond sleep, beyond rest. It was a weariness of existence itself.

Her gaze drifted to the fragile, wilting plant on the sill, a gift long forgotten, now struggling against the inevitable. A sigh, heavy with the weight of unseen burdens, escaped her lips.

"Forget this life," she whispered into the silence, the words feeling ancient, worn smooth by repetition in her mind. "I am ready to go home with GOD."

The thought was not a fleeting impulse, but a deep, resonant hum within her, a siren call to ultimate peace. She had tried, truly, she had. She had sought purpose in work, in relationships, in the fleeting joys that flickered and faded like distant stars. But each attempt felt like picking up a puzzle piece that stubbornly refused to fit, or worse, belonged to an entirely different picture.

"What do I have to be here?" The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswered. What grand design required her continued, aching presence? What lesson was she meant to learn, or teach, or endure? Her life felt less like a journey and more like a protracted, bewildering test.

"Can I quit this experiment?"

The word "experiment" resonated with a particular bitterness. It implied a design, a designer, a hypothesis, and an outcome. But to Zestful, it felt like she was merely a specimen, observed and prodded, left to flounder in a petri dish of pain and confusion, with no clear objective or discernible meaning. She imagined a vast, celestial laboratory, where divine beings watched her struggles with detached interest, logging her tears, noting her despair.

Her eyes closed, and for a long moment, she simply existed in the quiet despair. But then, as if from nowhere, a memory stirred. Not a grand revelation, but a small, persistent flicker from her childhood.

She was five, sitting in her grandmother’s garden. A ladybug had landed on her finger, its tiny legs tickling her skin. She remembered the pure, unadulterated wonder of that moment, the intricate beauty of the creature, the vibrant green of the leaves, the warmth of the sun on her face. Her grandmother, a woman whose faith felt as natural as breathing, had smiled and said, "Look, Zestful. God’s little masterpiece. Even the smallest life has its purpose, its own perfect design."

The memory was fleeting, but it left a faint afterglow. A tiny crack in the thick wall of her weariness.

Then, through the window, she saw it. A single robin, perched on a bare branch, its breast a defiant splash of red against the grey. It chirped, a clear, insistent note, then flew off, leaving behind a ripple in the stillness.

Zestful opened her eyes. The robin hadn't answered her questions. The ladybug hadn't provided a grand meaning. Yet, in that brief, unbidden memory and the fleeting sight of the bird, a different kind of thought began to form.

What if the "experiment" wasn't about her proving something, or enduring something for an external judge? What if the "experiment" was the unfolding of life itself, a complex tapestry woven with threads of joy and sorrow, connection and loss, and the very act of being was the purpose, the participation, the sacred dance?

What if "home with God" wasn't just a destination beyond this life, a final escape from the trial, but a state of being found within the experiment? A connection, a resonance, a quiet knowing that even amidst the chaos, there was a deeper harmony, a divine breath sustaining all things, even her. Even the wilting plant on the sill, even the struggling little bird.

She looked at her hands, gnarled and tired. They had held so much pain, so much disappointment. But they had also held others, created small things, felt the warmth of a mug, stroked the soft fur of a pet.

The weariness hadn't vanished. The desire for peace was as strong as ever. But now, it was accompanied by a new, fragile question: What if "quitting" wasn't the only way to find "home"? What if "home" was here, in the quiet, aching heart, waiting to be recognized? What if the "experiment" wasn't a punishment, but an invitation to look closer, to feel deeper, to find God not just at the end, but in the unfolding, bewildering, beautiful mess of it all?

Zestful picked up the wilting plant. Its leaves were still green, despite everything. She reached for the small watering can beside it. Perhaps, for now, the experiment wasn't over. Perhaps, for now, there was still a small, quiet act of tending to be done. And in that act, perhaps a whisper of home could be found, even in the heart of the experiment.

Fontessa's Journey Home

Fontessa sat in the corner of the dimly lit café, cradling her lukewarm cup of coffee.

The rain tapped lightly on the windowpane, its rhythm mirroring the storm that raged inside her heart.

Once again, she found herself lost in thought, her mind wandering through

the abyrinth of her past—a past tinged with heartache, abandonment, and the hollow echoes

of love that never truly existed.

As a girl, Fontessa had been a dreamer, believing in fairy tales and knights in shining armor. She longed for love, for that perfect connection that would fill the void she felt deep within. With each new relationship, she hoped that this time would be different, that this time a man would see her worth. But one by one, they faded like autumn leaves, leaving her with nothing but bruises—both visible and invisible.

Her heart had been broken more times than she could count. Each disappointment chipped away at her spirit, convincing her that perhaps love was never meant for someone like her. The last relationship had been the hardest to bear, a whirlwind of passion that turned toxic in an instant. He had promised her the world, only to dismantle her piece by piece. The nights he drowned her in guilt and words wrapped in anger echoed in her mind like a haunting refrain.

Fontessa recalled the moment she hit rock bottom. It was a dreary Saturday afternoon. She found herself sitting on the floor of her empty apartment, tears cascading down her cheeks, the world outside shrouded in gray. It was then that she whispered a prayer, her voice trembling, “God, if you’re there, please help me. I can’t do this anymore.”

As the days turned into weeks, she began to rebuild the fragile shards of her life. She attended a local church, where she listened to the stories of redemption and renewal. In those sacred halls, she discovered hope—the kind of hope that her past had attempted to extinguish. She sat in the back pew, leaning into the words of grace that flowed from the pastor’s lips. With every sermon, she felt the weight of her burdens begin to lift, like a fog dissipating under the warm embrace of the sun.

Fontessa started to understand that her journey was not about finding love in the arms of another but about embracing the love that already existed within her—a divine love that was waiting to fill the void she had tried so desperately to fill with fleeting affections. Slowly, she surrendered her past to God, relinquishing her search for validation from men who only sought to hurt her. Instead, she poured her heart into her faith, learning to see herself through the eyes of her Creator.

Days turned into months, and the ache of her past began to soften. Fontessa rediscovered joys long forgotten—she painted, filling canvas after canvas with vibrant colors that danced like her newfound spirit. She volunteered at a local shelter, offering her hand to those who felt just as lost as she once had.

The more she filled her life with the goodness of God, the more she felt His love wrap around her like a warm embrace. Each time the memories of sorrow threatened to drown her, she would remind herself of the truth: that she was not defined by her past, but by the strength she had gained from it. With every day that passed, the shadow of abandonment lessened, giving way to light.

One evening, while worshiping in the quiet of her room, Fontessa felt a profound sense of peace wash over her. It was in that moment she understood that love—true love—was never meant to be found in others but in a relationship with God. She lifted her hands in surrender, tears streaming down her face, releasing the burdens she had carried for so long.

“Thank you, God,” she whispered, her heart full of gratitude. “For loving me when I felt unlovable. For filling the void that I tried to fill on my own.”

As she drifted into a restful sleep that night, she knew that while the scars of her past would always remain, they no longer held the power to define her. Fontessa had found the love she had been searching for all along. And in that realization, she could finally begin to heal.

There was a vibrant dawn awaiting her, a life renewed. Fontessa stepped out into the world with a heart brimming with hope, ready to embrace whatever came next, knowing she was deeply and irrevocably loved.