Short Story
Dodge and the Elemental Fire Ale
With an audible ‘Snap-Crackle-Ouch!’, Dodge’s worn boots skidded across the scorched rock beneath him, leaving behind the distinct scent of singed leather and nearly sending him sliding into the worst bath of his life in a pool of lava. He landed in a crouch, panting, the merciless heat of the cavern clawing at his lungs like an overeager blacksmith testing his forge.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
WORLD WAR 3
In recent days, the term “World War III imminent” has resurfaced across media platforms, prompting serious concerns among political analysts, defence scholars, and global strategists. While such warnings may initially evoke dramatic online headlines, today's discourse reflects underlying real-world risks, including nuclear brinkmanship, alliance fractures, and the rise of hybrid warfare. This comprehensive overview examines why top experts are sounding the alarm—and what it could mean for global stability.
By Mehtab Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
One Heart
It was supposed to be a quiet summer. June rolled in with a golden softness that melted over the sleepy town of Ashfield. The air smelled of honeysuckle and freshly cut grass, and every street felt like a memory waiting to happen. But for Lena, the season had no scent, no color, no sound. Her world was a quiet echo of hospital monitors and whispered prayers. Her son, Elijah, had just turned ten when the doctors told her that his heart was failing. A rare genetic condition—one they never saw coming. He went from playing soccer in the backyard to lying still in a hospital bed within a matter of weeks. Every beep of the machine monitoring his heart was a countdown, a cruel reminder that time was slipping through her fingers. She stayed by his bedside every day, reading him stories he used to love, brushing the hair from his too-pale forehead, pretending she didn’t see the shadow of fear in his eyes. The doctors spoke of transplant lists and odds and miracles, and Lena nodded, hollow and numb, because what else could she do? “Mom,” Elijah said one night, voice as faint as the moonlight through the blinds, “does a heart still love when it leaves someone?” She choked on her breath. “What do you mean, baby?” “If someone gives me their heart… will they still be able to love people? Even if they're not here anymore?” Lena tried to steady her voice, blinking back tears. “Yes. Because love doesn’t live in just your heart—it lives in your soul. And souls… souls don’t die.” A week later, a call came at 3:17 a.m. A donor had been found. A match. Lena fell to her knees right there in the hospital hallway, clutching the payphone like it was the last thread holding her to the earth. Relief crashed into her like a wave—but it was laced with grief, too. Somewhere, another mother had lost her child. Somewhere, another heart had stopped so that Elijah’s could begin again. The surgery was long. Agonizing. Lena sat in the waiting room with Elijah’s stuffed bear clutched to her chest, whispering prayers to a God she wasn’t sure she believed in anymore. When the surgeon finally emerged with tired eyes and a weary smile, Lena collapsed into sobs. “He’s strong,” the surgeon said. “That heart… it fits him. It’s beating like it was made for him.” Days passed. Elijah woke up. Color returned to his cheeks. His laugh—small, but real—echoed through the sterile room like sunlight. The first time Lena heard it, she cried so hard she couldn’t breathe. Months went by. Life crept back in. The boy who once stared death in the face was chasing birds again, drawing superheroes with thick markers, and asking for second helpings of dessert. One fall afternoon, Lena received a letter. It was from the donor's mother. "Her name was Aria," it began. "She was seventeen. A dancer. Brave, wild, full of light. We lost her in a car accident. But she wanted to be a donor. It was the only comfort we had—that part of her could live on, could save someone." The letter ended with a line Lena would never forget: “Tell him that the heart he carries is full of rhythm and joy. Aria would have loved him.” Lena read it aloud to Elijah as he sat cross-legged in the grass, watching clouds. He was quiet for a long time. Then, softly: “I’ll take care of her heart, Mom. I promise. I’ll live for both of us.” And he did. He danced in the rain. He learned to play piano, said he could feel the music in his chest. He made people laugh, and he always hugged a little tighter, smiled a little wider. Because one heart—Aria’s heart—had become the rhythm that kept him alive. And it never stopped loving.
By Dr Gabriel about a year ago in Fiction
The Unexpected Journey That Helped Me Find a Cheateye AI Replacement in 2025
It was 2:17 AM when I heard the front door creak open again. My husband, James, had been coming home late for months, always with the same excuses: "Had to work late," "Traffic was bad," "Lost track of time." But that night, when he thought I was asleep, I saw him quickly lock his phone screen—a flash of a pink app disappearing before I could see it clearly.
By Liora Fenwynabout a year ago in Fiction
Theriocentricity
“Ahh Rupert, welcome! Welcome! Come in. Set that down.” Rupert did as he was commanded and set down the saucer adorned with a single glass of Port. He should have known–Lord Hood only ordered Port when he wanted to play the game. The study was stuffy, a poor imitation of a bygone era. Mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, almost certainly never opened, intermixed with mounted heads of wild lions and zebras, almost certainly killed by someone else.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction
Rope of Life
In among all the bustle of the crowded, polluted, yet alive capital of a country somewhere in the world was a man who was struggling every moment of every day in his life, he was in a rich country though. He was one of the millions alike him sweating and bleeding from hard work not to have a normal life like many people around the world, but to just earn enough money to buy a loaf of bread and some vegetables to make something like food to fill his stomach. To put it simply, he was dying every day to survive his life-like misery. But what was the source of this misery for millions of poor souls rushing and sweating to survive in a rich land. You may think of a cruel king or a corrupted system. You are right; there was a cruel person on top evil desires to be powerful, rich and to face the world to prove their mightiness like all other stories. However, the people, those millions of miserable were guilty, too. Their sin was ignorance and blindness. They all were blind as if they have never seen the world. And they were ignorant to the power hidden within their very body capable of casting light to the world and there were millions of them. There was something missing, or someone. We call them heroes or superheroes, but are they real?
By Pezhman Shahidabout a year ago in Fiction
