The Price of Peace

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:48 p.m.

The train rumbled to a stop, its whistle piercing the stillness of the autumn air. Samuel Jenkins stepped off, the familiar creak of the platform beneath his boots sounding foreign now. He stood for a moment, scanning the town—his town.

It looked unchanged. The same cobbled streets, the same towering oak in the town square. But beneath the surface, everything was different. There was no flag in the town square this morning, no welcoming committee. Just the quiet hum of a place that had moved on without him.

He had come home to peace. A peace bought by the ink of treaties and the promises of politicians. The Treaty of Versailles had signed away the last hope of any real victory, leaving nothing but a hollow sense of finality. The war was over, but the scars it left behind would last a lifetime.

Samuel adjusted the weight of his pack, …

The Final Blade

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:46 p.m.

Rain tapped against the narrow cell window, a rhythmic reminder of time slipping away. Marcel Chevalier sat on the hard cot, his fingers tracing the edges of a worn photograph. It showed a young woman with a bright smile, her hand resting protectively on a boy’s shoulder. His son. A family now reduced to a memory.

The execution was set for dawn. The guillotine, an ancient relic in a modern age, waited in the courtyard. Marcel had heard the guards whisper earlier, their voices laced with unease. “The last one,” they said. “France doesn’t do this anymore.”

He thought about that. Being the last. A final punctuation mark in the story of a justice system that had severed countless lives. Would his death mean anything?

A knock broke his reverie. The chaplain entered, his face somber but kind. “Marcel,” he began gently, “have you considered what we spoke of yesterday? …

The Crossroads

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:26 p.m.

The morning sun streamed through the lace curtains, casting patterns on the kitchen table. Ruth Simmons sat with her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, the aroma doing little to calm the storm in her chest. On the table beside her, two letters lay side by side like rivals in a duel.

One was the flyer for tonight’s meeting at the church—a gathering of organizers planning the next steps for the Montgomery Bus Boycott. The other was a note slipped under her door last night, its scrawled warning still fresh in her mind: “Stay quiet, or your family pays.”

From the other room came the sound of her daughter, Clara, humming a tune as she braided her hair. Ruth’s husband, Marcus, had already left for the factory, unaware of the note or the weight it carried.

Ruth closed her eyes. She could see the faces of those who had …

The Foundation Stone

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:24 p.m.

Nathaniel Ward’s hands trembled as he unrolled the parchment. The stakes were higher than any column or arch he’d ever designed. This wasn’t just a monument—it was to be the monument. A symbol for a fledgling nation clawing its way through political strife and fragile alliances.

President Washington’s words echoed in his mind: “We need more than marble and mortar, Mr. Ward. We need something that will outlast the squabbles of men.”

It had been weeks since that meeting. Nathaniel had locked himself in his workshop, ignoring the jeers of rival architects who called him too young, too inexperienced. His neighbors in the muddy streets of the District muttered that he was chasing an impossible dream.

But Nathaniel couldn’t let their doubts weigh him down. He knew what this monument had to be. It had to whisper to the future, Remember what we built here, even if we falter.

He …

White Silence

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:15 p.m.

The wind howled like a wolf circling its prey, rattling the windows of the small farmhouse. Snow piled higher by the hour, burying the fences and erasing the world beyond the walls. Inside, the Murphy family huddled close to the crackling fire.

Pa paced the room, his shadow flickering on the log walls. "If this keeps up, the barn’ll collapse under the weight," he muttered, pulling on his coat.

"You’re not going out there," Ma snapped, clutching her shawl. "You’ll freeze before you get halfway."

"I won’t lose the animals, Margaret."

"You’ll lose yourself. Then what’ll we do?"

Their eldest, Sarah, watched in silence, her little brother Timmy tucked under her arm. The boy’s face was pale, his breath shallow—he’d been coughing for days, and the cold made it worse.

"We could dig a tunnel," Sarah said suddenly.

Pa stopped pacing. "What?"

"A tunnel. To the barn. We could make …

A Rocket of Her Own

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:12 p.m.

Tasha sat cross-legged on the cracked pavement, staring at the grainy image on her tablet. The launch replayed again and again—Dr. Jeanette Epps, face calm and resolute beneath her helmet, ascending into the heavens. The first Black woman to live and work aboard the International Space Station.

“Why do you keep watching that?” her brother teased, bouncing a basketball on the uneven ground.

Tasha didn’t answer. She couldn’t pull her eyes away from the rocket, the plume of fire and smoke, the boundless sky swallowing the craft whole.

At school, they laughed when she said she wanted to be an astronaut. "You? In space? Dream smaller," the boys had jeered. Even her teacher had hesitated, then offered a patronizing, "Well, that’s ambitious, Tasha."

But watching Dr. Epps, she saw something else—proof.

That night, she pulled out the notebook she hid under her mattress. Across its pages, she’d drawn rockets, spacesuits, …

The Last Truth

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:09 p.m.

The newsroom was silent, a graveyard of empty desks and dormant monitors. Taylor sat alone under the flickering glow of a desk lamp, headphones on, replaying the anonymous audio file for the tenth time.

“Project Echo is real. The broadcasts are scripted. Follow the money. You’ll find the puppeteers.”

The voice was scrambled, untraceable, but the weight of its claim was suffocating. Taylor, a once-respected journalist now reduced to running an independent stream, had spent weeks chasing dead ends.

Tonight, the puzzle pieces finally fit.

A spreadsheet leaked by the same source revealed corporate ties between the top five networks and a shadowy conglomerate, Solaris Holdings. They controlled airtime, ad revenue, and—Taylor now realized—content itself. Every headline, every breaking story, carefully crafted to serve their agenda.

Taylor leaned back in their chair, staring at the screen. Exposing this would destroy the last shreds of trust in media. But what would …

Ticket to Tomorrow

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:03 p.m.

The announcement crackled through the town square speakers, distorted but unmistakable: "The final departure is in 72 hours. Lottery winners must report to the launch site immediately. No exceptions."

Mara gripped her son Leo’s hand tighter, feeling his small fingers trembling in hers. She tried to keep her expression neutral, but the fear was a beast clawing at her chest. They hadn’t won the lottery. She’d checked the numbers three times.

The line to the town’s lottery office stretched around the block, desperate faces all seeking miracles. Mara didn’t bother joining it. There were no miracles left. Only moves to make.

She slipped into an alley, pulling out the card she’d stolen from her employer two weeks ago: an access badge to the facility where lottery entries were processed. She hadn’t planned on using it—she told herself she’d find another way—but time was out, and so were her choices.

"Stay …

Firewall

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2 p.m.

Kai’s fingers flew across the keyboard, the glow of the screen painting their face in pale blue light. The breach had been catastrophic—millions of names, locations, and personal histories leaked from VaultCore, the company that promised unbreakable security for the digital age. Among the stolen data: Kai’s mother’s bank details and her online medical records, now plastered across the dark web.

The official statement blamed "sophisticated cybercriminals," but Kai didn’t buy it. Not after finding the encrypted files buried in VaultCore’s server logs, files that didn’t belong in any legitimate operation.

"Someone left the back door open," Kai muttered, decrypting another file. And it wasn’t hackers. It was VaultCore itself.

The file revealed chilling plans: selling anonymized—yet traceable—user data to private contractors. The breach wasn’t a crime. It was a smokescreen.

A faint sound broke Kai’s concentration—a creak on the stairs.

They froze, ears straining. At this hour, it should’ve …

Code Gray

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 1:58 p.m.

The hospital hallways hummed with chaos—overcrowded ER bays, patients on gurneys lining the walls, and the faint smell of antiseptic failing to mask desperation. Nurse Clara Morales darted from one room to the next, her clipboard tucked under her arm, exhaustion etched into her face.

The memo had arrived that morning. A new “pilot policy” from the private equity firm that now owned the hospital. “Focus resources on high-value patients,” it read. In other words, prioritize those with the best insurance or the deepest pockets.

Clara had stared at the memo for a full minute before crumpling it in her fist.

Now, as she checked on Mr. Bennett, an elderly man with no insurance and a failing heart, the injustice gnawed at her. “They’ll move him out,” the charge nurse had warned her earlier. “Can’t afford to keep him here.”

Clara adjusted his oxygen mask. "How are you feeling, Mr. …