Jhon smith

Joined November 2025

116 stories

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Welcome to my little corner of the internet, where words come alive

Stories (116)

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Socks of the Sun
The first light of morning always found Nani before anyone else in the house did. Not because the sun favored her — though some would swear it did — but because she rose quietly, as if waking a sleeping world required gentleness. She would sit by the window, knitting needles tapping in a rhythm older than any clock, her yarn glowing gold even before the sky agreed to brighten.
By Jhon smith4 months ago in Poets
Barista’s Echo
Morning always begins before the sun in our café. The world outside is still blue-gray and quiet, but inside, the lights warm the walls like an early sunrise. I’ve always liked that—the idea that a place can create its own dawn.
By Jhon smith4 months ago in Fiction
Golden-Hour Post-It
The first time it happened, no one believed the story. Not even me. I was walking to the bus stop just before sunrise, the air still holding that bluish quiet that belongs to people who wake up early. That’s when I saw it—a yellow sticky note pressed against the corner of a bakery window. The word warmth was written on it in a child’s handwriting, all uneven letters and soft pressure, as if the writer wasn’t sure they were allowed to write it.
By Jhon smith4 months ago in Fiction
Ink-Spilled Secrets
I never meant to collect anyone’s secrets. I was just a street artist with a folding stool, a battered sketchbook, and a habit of watching people the way some people watch the weather—quietly, trying to understand what storms they carried.
By Jhon smith4 months ago in Motivation
My Heart Exhaled
There are days in a life when nothing extraordinary happens, yet something quietly shifts inside you as if the universe reached out, pressed its hand to your chest, and whispered, “Now.” The day my heart exhaled began like that—soft, unannounced, and almost unbearably ordinary.
By Jhon smith4 months ago in Poets
The Quiet That Finally Held Me Right
There are kinds of quiet that feel like endings, and kinds that feel like beginnings. For most of my life, I only knew the first kind. The kind that settles after an argument or lingers in a house where people love each other but don’t always know how to say it. The kind that follows me into rooms even when I’m smiling. I grew used to filling it with noise, with movement, with pretending I wasn’t afraid of it.
By Jhon smith4 months ago in Poets
When Tomorrow Arrived Too Soon
I woke to the sound of my phone buzzing, a shrill interruption I hadn’t expected. It was too early, and the sunlight hadn’t yet spilled across my room. The message was from my brother: Call me. Now. My heart thumped, a hollow echo that ran down my spine. He never texted like that.
By Jhon smith4 months ago in Fiction
Whispers in the Windmill
I never believed in village folklore. Not when I was a child running through the wheat fields, not when I left for the city at eighteen, and certainly not when I returned years later with more mistakes than belongings. But folklore has a strange way of waiting for you, especially in small places where stories cling to the air like dust.
By Jhon smith4 months ago in Fiction
Neon-Lit Diary
The city at night was a restless creature—half neon, half heartbeat. It murmured in alleyways, whispered across rooftops, and sighed through the vents of old apartments. Most people hurried past these quiet places, but Luca didn’t. Street-artists rarely did. They listened for what others missed.
By Jhon smith5 months ago in Fiction
Paper Wings
Elena Moreau had always believed that a courier saw more of a city than anyone else. Not the postcard version, but the real one—the quiet corners where people whispered their hopes into sealed envelopes, the stairwells that smelled of old wood and loneliness, the rooftops where freshly written dreams dried in the sun like pressed flowers.
By Jhon smith5 months ago in Fiction
Caffeine-Stained Pages
The coffee was too hot when I spilled it, the first time, the second time—so many times, it seemed like the universe was sending me a message: slow down, stop rushing. But I never did, not really. There was always something else, some pressing need to fill the silence with words that didn’t always mean much. The coffee stains, dark and stubborn on my desk, became symbols of a process I couldn’t quite understand—writing, creating, living. It was all a mess, but I couldn’t find it in myself to care.
By Jhon smith5 months ago in Writers
What the Moon Told My Brokenness
There was a night when I could no longer hold the weight of my own silence. It was the kind of stillness that presses against your chest, where even breathing feels like confession. I sat by my window, the world outside washed in silver, and the moon hung there — round, distant, and unbothered by all the things that had unraveled inside me.
By Jhon smith5 months ago in Poets