Short Story
Nvidia is Now Worth More Than… Well, Basically Everyone Else
In the world of finance and technology, there are rare moments that make jaws drop. Apple hitting a $1 trillion valuation in 2018 was one. Microsoft overtaking Apple in 2021 was another. But nothing — and I mean nothing — quite compares to what Nvidia has pulled off in 2025.
By lony banzaabout a year ago in Fiction
Hand-me-down Girl
Mom drops a full garbage bag at the foot of my bed. "Alice. Here are your new clothes," she says, voice sharp and brisk. I stifle a groan. New clothes. In a garbage bag. They're hand me downs. New to me, but old to someone else. Tossed out because they don't want them. Then passed to me. And I'm expected to be grateful.
By K. R. Youngabout a year ago in Fiction
Cuck-oo. Top Story - July 2025.
I think, on reflection, that it would have been better if Isaiah had been a chauvinist. If he'd made some vulgar remarks about my breasts, swelling and leaking under my loose blouse. He could have grinned at me rakishly. Wolfishly even. He could've leered. I'd have pulled back, of course. Alarmed that a man acted this way (but not really). I'd have frowned. Sniffed. Slapped him, oh yes. Flounced. Ordered him the hell out of my house. The problem was, he had clear olive skin and a charming smile. Good hygiene. He smelled nice. There was a faint whiff of something like lavender around him, only more masculine. He was well-groomed, without ever seeming vain. Softly spoken. Polite. The problem was, he didn't make my skin crawl. Didn't set off my women's intuition. Not even a tingle. At least, not that sort. He paid his rent on time. Kept his room neat. Not just his room, either. He helped out. He projected an aura of confidence and capability, but it was more than that. He got shit done. He saw what needed doing, and he did it. I never nagged him. I never even asked. He never put me in the undesirable position of asking. He just... did what needed doing. (Be still my heart!) More: he did it well enough we didn't need to pay another man to do it properly afterwards. In short, here is a man, you find yourself thinking, who has his shit together. Isaiah is pleasant. He compliments you, but never, at least at first, in a way he couldn't repeat in front of your husband. He makes you feel seen. Valued. This is an awful thing to do to a mother, who feels invisible, and consumed by her own self. Especially awful to do to one who has been at the grindstone of motherhood for several years already, and a new baby has recently done a number on a body which is already a little worn from Time and Gravity and three other children testing it like a hotel and then busting out of it. This breed of woman is peculiarly vulnerable to such tactics, and a man like Isaiah smiles, knowing it. Flirts a little harder. Watches her reaction. Pushes a little, just a little. To find where the boundary is. Pushes a little more. There are moments when his gaze lingers a little too long, just a fraction of a heartbeat. Or perhaps he stands a little close, and he lets you see his breath catch. He pulls away abruptly, but with a deferential dip of his head, and then he hurries away, as if he can hardly contain himself, but knows he must. Here is a man, you find yourself thinking, who is steeped in passion, and yet always does the right thing. My girls think he is wonderful, of course. Liza, my eldest, flirts openly and clumsily with him. Tosses her long hair, smirks at him sidewise. Or else pins it up on her head, to expose the back of her neck and make her look taller. He never reciprocates, yet he never makes her feel stupid or rejected either. I could have loved him for that. For the way he protected her tart of a heart. One evening, he was clearing away the dishes after dinner. Not the way Ivor does, either: dumping them on the nearest kitchen surface, or in the sink (still covered in leftovers and food wrappings). I apologised for the way Liza had tried to sit in his lap, and for the cut of her blouse, which, to my eyes, was practically to her navel. I can't remember his response, precisely. It was along the lines of, She's going to practise on someone. Isn't it better she does it under your nose? He gave the impression of a man impervious. She's a child, he said, with not quite scorn. I could no more find her attractive than little Bobby, there, (here he nodded at the youngest, who was gurgling on his mat and wrestling with his own feet). I was left feeling that, if Loretta should throw herself naked at Isaiah while I wasn't home, he would disentangle himself with tact. Really, Isaiah was a man who made you feel safe, and there is perhaps no more dangerous creature in all the seven continents. + Loretta snuggles up to him if ever Isaiah sits with us in the evenings. Thumb in her mouth, or else chattering away about ponies. He never chides her that she is too old for thumb-sucking, and he never shoots judgemental looks at me, either, for not curbing the habit successfully. He accepts her the way an easy-going person might an affectionate dog. Her hair is shorter than Liza's. We keep it in a sleek black bob, because she hates having it brushed. But one morning, when we were all in a terrible hurry, Isaiah offered to do it for her and she sat as neat and quiet as you like. He was gentle, which surprised her, and also efficient, which made her pout. Ellison's mouth is always stretched in a grin when Isaiah is around. My son thinks our lodger is quite, quite wonderful. He wants his opinion on everything. He calls him sir. The raucous energy that powers him everywhere else is tamed. He wants Isaiah to think him older than he is, as much as Liza does, though for different reasons. Isaiah was a little too good looking for Ivor to warm to straight away, but so skilled was Isaiah in his craft that even Ivor got to like him eventually. Isaiah projected nothing but respectful harmlessness. He was so unassuming when he replaced bulbs, and tightened hinges, and repainted what needed repainting, that Ivor came to take these things for granted. As if this were part of the deal: room and board in return for maintenance work and handymanning. + He did it so smoothly that not one of us saw it coming. Nor did our neighbours. Before I knew which way was up, I had a hopeless crush on him, and he played on it. Wound it tighter every day, with every glance, and with every glance avoided. Ellison preferred Isaiah's opinion to his own father's. I couldn't bear to have Ivor touch me after a long day of being pawed at by Bobby. In fairness, Ivor didn't always feel so inclined after a long day in the clinic. Still, I fantasised about firm, tanned hands, and intense darks eyes. Liza didn't let up for a single day, and Loretta started growing her hair out. Even Bobby joined the little fan club. + His initials appeared next to ours on the mailbox. I.N. Nobody else round here has one, but Ivor likes it, because it reminds him of home. He didn't notice the extra letters initially, and then it was like they'd always been there. + Isaiah was determined to edge out his rival, I see that now. By any means necessary. First, Ivor injured his knee out running. Ivor never went running, but maybe he was shamed into it by the lean young man smiling at his wife. Barely had he recovered from that, he sprained his arm when he fell from the ladder while fixing the guttering. Neither injury was life-threatening, though, so Isaiah upped his game. At least, that's what I think now. I never thought such a thing back then. Like I said, we never saw it coming.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
The rain soaked summer yielded a valuable lesson
"The Summer That Wasn’t" The summer of 1989 was supposed to be a season of positive change for twelve-year-old Elijah Brown. Instead, it became a huge disappointment that later led to much reflection. Elijah had circled June 10th on his calendar back in March, when snow still blanketed the ground in his town.
By Cheryl E Prestonabout a year ago in Fiction
I Was Reborn in Flames but Never Left the Fire
Let Me Tell You a Story You’ll Never Forget I was born for the third time on a night of red skies and black screams. In my village, we do not fear death. We expect it. Welcome it, even. Because here, death is never the end. We are reborn through fire every hundred years. It's our curse. Or blessing. It depends on who you ask.
By Isabella Woodabout a year ago in Fiction
The House That Moved at Midnight. AI-Generated.
In a quiet village called Elmridge, there was an old house at the edge of the forest. Everyone in the village knew about it, but no one dared to go near it. The house looked normal during the day, with stone walls, a wooden door, and a small chimney. But at midnight, something strange happened — the house moved.
By Hamza Tahirabout a year ago in Fiction
The Memory Seller
The Memory Seller In the neon haze of Sector 12, memories weren’t sacred anymore. They were currency. Sixteen-year-old Kael had never considered selling one—until the clinic’s final call came in. His little sister, Aria, needed an emergency transplant. The cost? Unreachable.
By Musawir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
Echoes of a Life Not Lived
When Olivia Harper opened her eyes, everything felt wrong. The ceiling was not hers. It was smooth and white instead of the familiar cracked plaster of her tiny apartment. The morning light that spilled in was too soft, filtered through elegant linen curtains—not the threadbare shades she remembered. And the bed… was enormous. King-sized. Crisp linen sheets. Too clean.
By Shakespeare Jrabout a year ago in Fiction
A Love Rewritten
In the summer of 2025, in a world tethered to screens and algorithms, Emma Grayson found herself untethered from love. At 32, she was a Seattle-based graphic designer, her days filled with pixel-perfect designs and her nights with the hum of notifications. Her last relationship had ended in a flurry of miscommunication, leaving her skeptical of romance in an era where hearts were swiped left or right. Yet, Vocal Media’s trending stories of raw, authentic love—tales of second chances and soul-deep connections—stirred something in her. They whispered that love could still be real, even in a digital age.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
