The Flood Line

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:30 p.m.

Mara stood in her front yard, staring at the faint watermarks etched into the side of her house like scars. The last flood had reached higher than ever before, swallowing the porch and leaving behind a film of mud and despair. She had scrubbed for days, but the stains refused to fade.

The insurance renewal notice sat crumpled in her pocket. The premium had tripled this year.

“It’s the risk,” the agent had said over the phone, his tone clinical. “Your area is now classified as a high-risk flood zone.”

“But I’ve lived here my whole life,” Mara had argued. “We’ve never had this many floods before.”

The agent sighed. “That’s just the reality now.”

Reality. Mara’s reality was a small, creaky house passed down from her grandparents, nestled in a neighborhood that had always been safe. Until it wasn’t.

Her neighbors were leaving one by one, their windows boarded …

The Gift

maryam Jan. 15, 2024, 4:40 p.m.

Emma had always wanted a dog. Ever since she was a little girl, she had dreamed of having a furry friend to play with, cuddle with, and love. She had begged her parents for a dog, but they had always said no. They said that dogs were too expensive, too messy, too noisy, too much work.

Emma was heartbroken, but she never gave up hope. She read books about dogs, watched movies about dogs, drew pictures of dogs. She even made a list of names for her future dog, hoping that one day, her wish would come true.

On her tenth birthday, Emma woke up with a smile. She had a feeling that this was going to be a special day, a day that would change her life. She ran downstairs, eager to see what her parents had prepared for her.

She was greeted by a festive scene. The living …

The Catalyst

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:16 p.m.

The lab was quiet, save for the low hum of the quantum battery prototype in its containment chamber. Dr. Lin Wei adjusted her glasses, her eyes fixed on the monitor. The numbers were perfect—energy output beyond anything humanity had ever achieved. A single charge could power a city for a month.

“We’re ready,” she whispered into her headset.

In Brussels, Dr. Elena Marceau watched the same data stream on her screen. Her jaw tightened. “They’re ahead of us,” she said to her assistant, her French accent sharp with frustration. “We need that catalyst formula.”

Across the globe, in a high-rise in Seattle, Dr. Adam Carter leaned back in his chair, a smug grin spreading across his face as he scrolled through intercepted emails from Lin Wei’s team. His tech was close but not close enough. Not until now.

Lin’s lab was impenetrable, or so she thought. …

The Interview

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:40 p.m.

Hadi straightened his tie in the shattered mirror shard hanging in his bedroom. The graduation photo on his desk mocked him, the cap tilted proudly, the grin wide. "Top of your class," his professor had said. "A bright future ahead." A future that had become a parade of rejection emails, unpaid internships, and “better luck next time.”

The sun was already scorching the streets of Dehong as he walked to yet another interview. His shoes, soles thinning, slapped against the cracked pavement. This one was at a warehouse—manual labor, no questions asked. It wasn’t what he'd spent four years studying finance for, but his mother’s hollow cheeks and the unpaid rent had drowned his pride.

“Next!” barked the foreman, a burly man with oil-streaked hands.

Hadi stepped forward, clutching his tattered résumé. The foreman glanced at it and laughed, the sound like gravel in his throat. “University, huh? This ain’t …

The Curse of Love and Immortality - Chapter 5: Yasmin and the Prince of Winter

dehongi Jan. 16, 2025, 12:11 p.m.

The king’s voice carried a chill that matched the story he was about to tell. The flickering flames in the hearth seemed to dance slower as he began, their warmth struggling against the weight of the tale.
“Tonight,” he said, “we speak of Yasmin, the Pari who gave her heart to a prince cursed by winter—a man whose life was bound to frost and snow, who could never feel the warmth of spring.”
The princess tilted her head. “A curse? Was it magic?”
The king nodded. “It was. The prince, Darian, had once been beloved by the gods of the seasons, but his pride earned him their wrath. He dared to say he needed no one—not even the gods themselves. For his arrogance, he was cursed to live in perpetual winter. Snow followed him wherever he went, and ice bloomed under his touch. No fire could warm him, and no sun could thaw …

Voices in the Wind

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:56 p.m.

Lina sat at her desk, staring at the empty notebook in front of her. The words wouldn’t come. She had watched Greta Thunberg speak on TV for the hundredth time, the young activist’s determined face burned into her mind. Greta’s voice echoed in her ears: “You are never too small to make a difference.”

Lina had always been passionate about the environment. Growing up in a small coastal town, she had seen the tides rise and the weather patterns shift. The storms were getting fiercer. The summers, unbearably hot. It wasn’t just the news anymore; it was personal. She had watched the mangroves near her home erode away, the saltwater creeping closer to the heart of their town.

But how could one person make a difference?

She flipped open her phone, scrolling through social media, seeing the protests, the marches, the powerful words of activists in big cities. “I want …

World Continues Going On

khayam Jan. 25, 2024, 11:30 a.m.

چون عمر به سر رسد چه شیرین و چه تلخ
پیمانه که پر شود چه بغداد و چه بلخ

می نوش که بعد از من و تو ماه بسی
از سلخ به غرّه آید از غرّه به سلخ

When life ends, whether sweet or bitter,
When the cup is full, whether in Baghdad or Balkh.

Drink a lot of wine since after me and you,
The moon repeats the cycle of birth and decay numerously.

Story:

He was a man who had no passion. He wasted his life, from 20 to 40, doing nothing meaningful, nothing fulfilling, nothing rewarding. He had no ambition, no motivation, no purpose.

He spent his days, his nights, his years, doing the same things, over and over. He worked at a boring job, that he hated. He watched TV, that he did not care. He drank beer, that he did not enjoy.

He ignored every opportunity, every chance, every …

Misereable Proud

hamed Jan. 9, 2024, 5:05 p.m.

He was a devout man, who followed his religion with zeal and fervor. He believed that his faith was the only true one, and that everyone else was either misguided or evil. He hated those who did not share his beliefs, and he shunned them from his life.

He thought he was doing God's will, but he was actually isolating himself from the world. He had no friends, no love, no joy. He only had his dogma, his rituals, his rules. He lived in fear and anger, and he spread them to others.

He never realized how much he was missing out on. He never experienced the beauty of diversity, the richness of culture, the warmth of compassion. He never learned from other perspectives, other experiences, other values. He never grew as a person, as a human being.

He died alone, bitter, and unhappy. He had lived a miserable life, …

something to fight for. someone to live for.

ziamaiko Feb. 10, 2024, 9:33 a.m.

ما تنهایی می‌رقصیم. فقط تنهایی یک پسر، مرد می‌شود. از فقدان‌هایش عبور می‌کند و آن‌ها را ناچیز می‌شمارد.
اگر فقط مردم نگاه‌شان را از زندگی مردم برمی‌داشتند، آن‌گاه همه چیز آسان‌تر می‌شد.
کسی که عروج می‌کند انسان است. کسی که سقوط می‌کند نیز انسان است!
«تو، معذرت‌خواهی کن.»
در برابر تمام گناهان و کارهای اشتباهی که انجام داده بود، معذرت‌خواهی زیاد از حد ناچیز بود.
«جور دیگه مجازاتم کنید.»
فکر می‌کرد یک‌نوع حقارت است که بخواهد از دشمنش معذرت بخواهد.
«شخصی که جرات معذرت‌‌خواهی نداره، حق اشتباه کردن هم نداره. این چیزیه که باید یاد بگیری.»
گاهی اوقات لجاجت چیزی جز حقارت نبود.
پا فشاری بر چیزی که از هر طرف اشتباه است بی‌نهایت احمقانه است. آدم‌های لجباز از دیدگاه من، قوی و محکم نیستند. در صورتی که بر چیز نادرستی لجبازی می‌کنند، فقط احمق‌های حقیر هستند.
«توجه کن، تو نمی‌تونی همه رو نجات بدی.»
«اینکه می‌تونم یا نه رو وقتی می‌فهمیم که تلاشم رو بکنم. حتی اگه آسمان‌ها بگن …

The Art of Choosing

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:23 p.m.

Sarah's mother always said grace before dinner, even when Sarah stopped bowing her head. Her father always asked about her grades, even when she'd long graduated. Her brother always made the same jokes about her being single, even when they stopped being funny years ago.

That Thursday evening, like every Thursday for the past decade, she sat at Luna's cramped kitchen table instead of her family's formal dining room. Luna handed her a steaming mug of chai, made exactly how Sarah liked it—more cardamom, less sugar.

"Rough day?" Luna asked, noticing Sarah's wrinkled blazer and untamed hair.

"Mom called again. Asked when I'm going to 'settle down' and 'give her grandchildren.'" Sarah wrapped her hands around the warm mug. "Said I'm wasting my life running an art gallery."

"Ah yes, how dare you follow your passion and become successful?" Luna rolled her eyes, pulling out leftover lasagna from her fridge—Sarah's …