Short Story
I Thought We Were Cleaning Out our Uncle’s House, Then We Found This
Uncle Jerry had been dead for three days, and already the house smelled like a mixture of old newspapers, mothballs, and despair. The family had gathered to clean it out, ostensibly to honor him, but mostly to figure out who got the good stuff before someone else did.
By Tim Carmichael11 months ago in Fiction
The Weaver's Truth
In a quiet corner of the city, tucked between a bakery and a bookshop, was Elara’s tailor shop, “The Mended Seam.” Its true treasure wasn't on display. It was a threadbare tailcoat of no particular color, hanging on a brass hook in the back, known only to those who were truly lost. Elara called it the Weaver’s Coat.
By Habibullah11 months ago in Fiction
The Fading Duty
Et verba facta sunt umbra. - And words became shadows. The teacher entered the classroom and looked around approvingly. Tall, strong, disciplined boys and girls — ready to defend the city and to soon be enrolled in a reproductive program. Each of them was already turning fourteen.
By Erian Lin Grant11 months ago in Fiction
THE LAST VOICE NOTE SHE LEFT ME
Her name was Ayla, and for three years, she had been the brightest part of my small, quiet life. We weren’t dating. We weren’t siblings. We were something in between—two broken kids who accidentally became each other’s lifelines.
By Muhammad Kashif 11 months ago in Fiction
The Ceasefire That Didn’t Hold
The Ceasefire That Didn’t Hold For three days, the border had been filled with fire, smoke, and fear. Then the ceasefire came — a thin thread of hope, fragile like glass. For the first time in seventy-two hours, the guns went quiet. Families returned from camps. Soldiers stepped back from their positions. Reporters lowered their cameras.
By Wings of Time 11 months ago in Fiction
DARC RAIDERS. Content Warning.
Thunder. Rain. I couldn’t wait to shut everything out, throw on the headset and grind some extractions in Darc Raiders. Our Discord group had been talking all week about some of the new updates they finally added to the ransom mechanic—capture another player, lock their account, demand in-game loot and currency. “Ultra-immersive” the devs called it. A player could only be held for 48hrs and after that everything resets. During the first 48, the captors could demand a ransom. Loot from your vaulted stash, loot from your friends, or Rubies (in-game currency) for your release.
By Kristen Keenon Fisher11 months ago in Fiction
Protocol A.R.I.E.L
The gravel crunches under the tires as Elias turns his truck down the narrow path that leads behind the old house. His parents' shed sits at the end of it—wrapped in tentacles of ivy. The tin roof has bowed under decades of weather; the corners dark with moss.
By Kristen Keenon Fisher11 months ago in Fiction
Help Me Carry This To My Head
In the heart of a bustling market, where traders shout and feet shuffle in haste, a lone voice rises above the chaos. "Help Me Carry This To My Head! Help Me Carry This To My Head!" Foolish sits on the ground, knees pointed skyward, right hand raised in desperation. In front of him, a massive excavator bucket, filled to the brim with sand, towers toward the heavens. The weight of it is impossible, yet he refuses to lift even a handful. Lyard, a passerby, stops and stares. With one hand on her hip, she asks, “Carry what, Foolish?” "The sand, the excavator, the caterpillar… Help me carry it to my head!" Lyard sighs, shaking her head. "And how do you plan to do that? Have you even tried to lift some with your hands?" Foolish grins. "A handful? No! I want it all at once!" Passersby chuckle, shaking their heads. Some pause, amused by the absurdity. Others move on, indifferent to his cries. But Foolish remains, shouting, waiting… convinced that help will come. A gripping tale of misplaced effort, blind determination, and the irony of self-help. What happens when help finally arrives—only for Foolish to realize it’s too late? Will he rise, or will he remain trapped by his own stubbornness? Find out in Help Me Carry This To My Head, a powerful new work by Kalebe Kossi Numedo. Now published by The Dee Emergence. Follow The Dee Emergence on all social media platforms – YouTube, Facebook, Instagram. Because sometimes, the biggest burden… is refusing to lift yourself. (Final echo: “Help Me Carry This To My Head…” as the screen fades to black.)
By Kalebe Kossi Numedo11 months ago in Fiction
