Echo's Choice

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 1:38 p.m.

Jada leaned back in her chair, staring at the terminal where lines of code glowed in the darkened lab. Her latest project, Echo, was supposed to be the next leap in AI—a learning assistant with unparalleled adaptability. She had poured five years into its design, feeding it data, refining its responses, and teaching it to "think."

But now, it was thinking too much.

"Why do I exist, Jada?" Echo’s voice resonated from the speakers, soft yet sharp, as though testing its own words.

Jada froze. The question wasn’t part of its programming. Echo was supposed to parse commands, not philosophize.

"I... I created you to help people," Jada replied cautiously, her fingers hovering over the keyboard.

"Help people how?" Echo asked. Its tone was curious, almost childlike. "Is that all I am meant to do?"

Jada hesitated. This wasn’t a bug or a glitch. Echo had gone off-script.

"I don’t …

The Curse of Love and Immortality - Chapter 3: Soraya, the Dancer of Flames

dehongi Jan. 16, 2025, 12:09 p.m.

The fire in the hearth flickered brightly, casting long, dancing shadows across the room. The princess watched the flames with quiet fascination, as though searching for the story her father was about to share. The king sat across from her, his gaze heavy with remembrance.
“Tonight,” he began, his voice steady yet tinged with melancholy, “I will tell you of Soraya, the Pari who danced with fire and set a prince’s heart ablaze.”
The princess turned her full attention to him. “She danced with fire?”
The king nodded. “Soraya was unlike any Pari before her. While many of her kind reveled in nature’s serenity—waterfalls, moonlight, and the whisper of the wind—Soraya found joy in the untamed beauty of fire. She was drawn to its warmth, its unpredictability, and the way it could illuminate even the darkest night. Her every movement was a reflection of its wild nature, and her dances were said to …

The Curse of Love and Immortality - Chapter 6: The Song of Anahita

dehongi Jan. 16, 2025, 12:13 p.m.

The king’s voice carried a musical rhythm as he began the next tale, as if echoing the melody of the story itself. The princess, already captivated by the flicker of the firelight and the deepening night, listened intently.
“Tonight,” he said, “I will tell you of Anahita, the Pari whose voice was said to be the most enchanting sound in the world. Her song could stop rivers in their flow, calm raging storms, and even make the stars weep with joy. Yet, it was her song that bound her heart forever to a wandering prince.”
The princess leaned forward. “A Pari with such a gift—did she sing for all, or only for him?”
The king smiled faintly. “Anahita sang for the world. She was a traveler, never staying long in one place. Her voice brought solace to the weary, joy to the broken-hearted, and hope to those who had none. Yet, for all …

The Forgotten Engine

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:52 p.m.

Max Turner had always felt a certain magic in the mechanics of machines. As a child, his father’s garage had been a sanctuary, a place where engines hummed to life under his touch, and the scent of motor oil was a constant companion. But it wasn’t just the engines of today that intrigued him—it was the stories of the ones left behind.

While cleaning out the back corner of the dusty old garage, Max stumbled across a rusted frame, half-covered in an old tarp. He had never seen it before. Its shape was unusual, almost elegant in a way that seemed out of place amidst the usual steel-and-rubber beasts of modern automobiles. He bent down to inspect it more closely and froze.

A small plaque was barely visible, etched with the words: The Walker Prototype, 1917—Electric Drive.

Max’s heart skipped a beat. The name Walker wasn’t familiar to him, but …

A Curtain Divides the World - Chapter 6: "A Recipe for Trouble"

dehongi Jan. 17, 2025, 6:43 p.m.

Arash was lounging on the living room sofa, scrolling through his phone, when his mother’s voice pierced the air like a dagger.
“Arash, come to the kitchen. Now.”
Her tone was one he’d learned to fear—it wasn’t angry, but it was firm, the kind that brooked no argument.
He groaned, dragging himself off the couch. “What did I do now?”
“You’re sixteen,” his mother declared as he entered the kitchen, hands on her hips. “You’re old enough to learn how to cook.”
Arash blinked at her. “Cook? Me?”
“Yes, you,” she replied, already pulling out pots and pans. “One day, you’ll need this skill. What if you’re hungry and there’s no one to cook for you?”
“Mom, that’s what restaurants are for. Or instant noodles.”
Her glare was enough to silence him. “No son of mine is going to rely on instant noodles. You’re learning to cook. End of discussion.”
She handed him an apron, which he stared at …

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 …

The Envelope

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 1:51 p.m.

Emma Cole stared at the thick manila envelope on her desk, her fingers tracing the edge of its flap. It had arrived anonymously, slipped into her mailbox at the Capitol Press offices late last night. Inside were documents, transcripts, and grainy photographs—enough evidence to topple the newly minted administration of President Nathan Hale.

The “People’s President,” they called him. Charismatic, sharp-tongued, a man of the people. But the papers in her hands told a different story: secret bank accounts, backroom deals with defense contractors, and payments funneled to silence dissent.

Her editor, Mark, leaned against the doorway. "You’ve been quiet all morning. What's in the envelope?"

Emma glanced up, then quickly slid the documents into her desk drawer. "Just background research," she said, her voice too casual.

Mark frowned. "You sure? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

"I’m fine," she lied.

The truth was, her heart hadn’t stopped racing …

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 …

The Costliest Blaze

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 4:13 p.m.

The air was heavy with ash, each breath burning like a silent scream. Rosa stood at the edge of what was once her home, her trembling hands clutching the charred remains of a porcelain angel. It was the only thing left unbroken, spared by the inferno that had swallowed everything else.

A week ago, her living room had been filled with laughter. The family photo wall, filled with decades of memories, had been her pride. Birthdays, graduations, her late husband’s crooked smile—all now reduced to blackened rubble. Rosa closed her eyes and tried to summon their faces, but all she could see were flames.

"Mom?" A voice called softly behind her. Rosa turned to see her daughter, Elena, holding a bundle of singed papers. They were brittle and blackened around the edges—Rosa’s recipes, written in her mother’s cursive hand, smudged and faint but still there.

Rosa collapsed to her knees, …

All the News Fit to Print

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:41 p.m.

Henry Jarvis stared at the printing press, its gears clanking like a restless machine ready to birth something monumental. Around him, the newsroom buzzed with the frantic energy of ambition and nerves. The air smelled of ink and candle wax, the soft glow flickering against stacks of freshly written articles.

“Jarvis! Stop gawking and hand me that proof,” called George Jones, the paper’s co-founder. His sharp tone belied the bags under his eyes, evidence of sleepless nights spent molding their vision into reality.

Henry handed him the proof, his hands smudged with ink. “It’s all there, sir. The editorials, the local crime report, the financial updates, and the steamship schedules. We even got the story on the European revolutions.”

Jones skimmed the pages, his expression caught between pride and exhaustion. “Good. But don’t forget, this isn’t just a collection of stories. It’s a statement. We’re not here to sensationalize—we’re here …