Welcome to Still With Her

Still With Her is a space for short-form biblical storytelling shaped by attentiveness, restraint, and presence.

These flash fiction pieces do not seek to explain or resolve. They observe. They linger. They allow meaning to emerge quietly through atmosphere and detail. Each story stands alone, inviting the reader to notice rather than conclude.

This space is for those who value narrative as a form of reflection rather than instruction.

Popular posts from this blog

Flash Fiction - “Beneath the Crossing, the Lord Is Near”

Tokyo wakes before it speaks. Light reaches the city first—thin and pale, sliding between buildings like a courtesy rather than a claim. The streets below wait in disciplined quiet. Vending machines hum. Trains inhale and release. Somewhere above the city, clouds loosen their grip on the night. She stands near Shibuya Crossing, not yet among it, watching from the margin. There is comfort in the pause before movement, in the moment when everything is held back. The crowd gathers in clusters, faces turned toward signals that decide when the world may proceed. She has learned to love margins. In Tokyo, no one looks at her long enough to decide who she is. This is a kindness. The city is practiced at holding multitudes without asking them to explain themselves. She feels less visible here, and more real. The pedestrian light blinks red. She waits. Her reflection stares back from the glass of a nearby storefront—neither accusation nor invitation, just presence. She notes how she stands now:...
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Flash Fiction - “Where the Water Holds”

Late afternoon settles gently over the canals. The light is neither bright nor dim, but softened—filtered through cloud and reflection, as if the sky itself has learned restraint. The water holds everything without comment: bridges, buildings, passing clouds, the slow drift of leaves. Nothing here rushes. Nothing demands to be seen. She walks alongside the canal at an unhurried pace, coat buttoned, hands relaxed at her sides. The city moves around her with quiet competence—bicycles passing in steady lines, footsteps measured, conversations kept low. The Netherlands has a way of honoring proximity without intrusion. People share space without claiming it. She breathes in, then out. There was a time when her body did not trust afternoons. When light felt exposing rather than kind. But today, the light does not ask her to explain herself. It simply rests on the surface of things and moves on. She stops at a bridge and leans lightly against the railing. Below, the canal carries small rippl...
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Flash Fiction - “Under the Watch of a Better Father”

London carries history in its bones. Stone remembers here. Walls have watched generations pass beneath them—men in haste, women in waiting, children learning early how to read a room. The city does not forget easily, but it does not accuse either. It stands. It observes. Evening settles over the Thames, the sky layered in gray and gold. Streetlights flicker on one by one, orderly and patient. She walks along the embankment, coat drawn close, the river moving beside her with a steadiness that feels almost deliberate. The water does not rush. It knows where it is going. She has learned to notice such things. London is full of fathers—statues of them, portraits of them, names carved into stone. Kings. Leaders. Thinkers. Men who shaped nations and left impressions deep enough to last centuries. Yet she walks knowing that presence is not the same as covering . A lack can be loud without making a sound. She pauses near a bridge, watching the lights ripple across the Thames. Reflecti...
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