Short Story
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
Moving On. Content Warning.
I feel like my world is on the verge of collapsing. My own husband, the man I pledged my life to, is cheating on me. I am standing outside a restaurant on the outskirts of town, watching Richard on a date with some blonde bimbo. As I continue watching them, I notice my husband does not seem completely present. I can’t help but wonder and hope he is at least feeling guilty for betraying me.
By Konstandina Batsakis11 months ago in Fiction
Fishing at the Edge of the World
I was disappointed when I caught a star-tinged guppy at the edge of the Earth. A space whale, or at least something bigger than my hand, would have been nice to show my village. But that’s not how the day went, and looking back, I should have been thankful I didn’t die out there. I was young and naïve, thought I could do it all alone. Boy, was I wrong.
By Melodramatic Maladies of the Mystical Mind11 months ago in Fiction
The Library Of My Mind
The library Of My Mind In my mind there was a library of memories, and that’s where my book of love was. Along with all my memories, stored on a shelf, in the back, covered in dust, broken. There were books scattered all around the room that was my mind, open to various things, fear, hate, horror and loneliness.
By Henry Watson11 months ago in Fiction
The majesty . Content Warning.
The Majesty In a small, rich city called Baybal, there lived a very old woman. It was announced to the people of the city that the woman had to announce the new king who was going to take over. This came as a surprise to the bitter and wicked Kai, the first son of the woman, Sally.
By Uhone Matshele 11 months ago in Fiction
DAY SIX: Six Geese a-Laying
The first sign was the smell. A sharp, swampy odour crept up the porch before the doorbell even rang. It smelled of ponds, panic, and something that might once have been straw. Stephen had been mid–Teams call, trying to look competent while nudging a partridge away from his keyboard, when Jane called from the hallway:
By Stephen Stanley11 months ago in Fiction
The Maple Key
It began with a perfect day. The kind of autumn day that exists mostly in memory: the air was crisp, the sun was a gentle gold, and the maple trees in the park were a blazing cathedral of scarlet and orange. For Leo, a man whose life had become a grey blur of commutes and deadlines, it was a glimpse of heaven. As he sat on his favorite bench, a single, perfect, crimson maple key spiraled down and landed in his palm. He felt a jolt, a strange, static charge, and then… the world dissolved.
By Habibullah11 months ago in Fiction
The Twelve-Mile Home
For a decade, Leo’s life had been a study in motion. His identity was “super-commuter.” He lived in a neighbourhood called Oakwood, but his life was in the gleaming city center, twelve miles and two train rides away. His days were a blur of platforms, noise-canceling headphones, and the hypnotic rhythm of tracks. Oakwood was just the place where his apartment stored his stuff while he was gone.
By Habibullah11 months ago in Fiction
