Challenge
How AI Is Changing the Way We Design Our Homes
Interior design has traditionally been a process shaped by time, budget, and access to professional expertise. Whether rearranging a living room or rethinking an entire home layout, the journey often involved trial and error, mood boards, and sometimes costly consultations. In recent years, however, artificial intelligence has begun to reshape this experience in a noticeable way.
By Abbasi Publisher7 months ago in Writers
My Dear Henry
My Dear Henry, I write this heavy with the full weight of what we have become. You once thought of me as a liberation, a key opening the lock of your own restraint. I quickened your pulse, unshackled you from your conscience. And I will not pretend I did not revel in it–I reveled!
By Tina D. Lopez7 months ago in Writers
Holly Golightly
Dear Holly, You’re quite the girl, but how would you like it if began calling you Lula Mae? Isn’t that what Fred calls you? It seems only fitting that if you’re to call me Fred instead of Paul (especially creepy now that he’s dead), I should call you Lula Mae. Barnes, is it?
By Harper Lewis 7 months ago in Writers
The Furry Thief
That damn squirrel stole my sandwich again, leaving only crumbs and a note demanding “get better bread.” I tried reasoning with him, but he brought lawyers, three chipmunks in tiny suits. They won the case. Now I’m legally required to provide lunch, snacks, and emotional support nuts.
By Sara Wilson7 months ago in Writers
My Favorite Number, 47, Should Be Yours Too
I am NUMBER 47 - don’t ever forget. I want to be 48 too, and my team is working on that. 47’s not my age. Lord, I am almost twice that number, and healthier than any before me. The BEST. That’s me. Donald J. Trump. I’m Number 47.
By Andrea Corwin 7 months ago in Writers
The Last Bite
Dad brought home extra meat and said it was cheap. It tasted fine, just sweeter than usual. A week later, missing posters went up. Last night, I found a fingernail in my steak. I heard footsteps upstairs, and he whispered, “Did you finish everything on your plate?”
By Tim Carmichael7 months ago in Writers
Prodigal Daughter
Muscles tensed. Stomach clenched. An involuntary regurgitation sweetened and seared her mouth. Watery eyes blinked. She knocked, too softly. She could run. The intercom hissed. Pounding blood drowned the words. The door swung open. For the first time in years, she breathed the aroma of mother's cooking.
By Rebekah Conard7 months ago in Writers
