ClickWorldDaily · by Jon ✍️ stories with soul.

Some stories are not told to be remembered, but because forgetting them would be a betrayal. 🎧 Listen to the narrated version of this story: The Illusion of Distance It was supposed to be a standard assignment. Conflict zones follow a rhythm: gather facts, capture images, extract emotion just enough to make it palatable. Journalists are trained to observe, not interfere. That distance is survival. Until it wasn’t. In the wreckage of a former school courtyard, amid torn pages and collapsed walls, a child stood. No older than ten. Dust on her shoes, knees bruised, and eyes that didn’t flinch. She asked if anyone had seen her mother. No one had. She didn’t cry. She just waited. There was no decision, no debate. Supplies were brought: water first, then blankets, then food. She followed the movements silently. No names were exchanged, nothing so permanent in a place built to erase. That evening, when the fires started again on the hillside, she pointed toward the far edge of th...

Some cages are built from love that refused to look away. Cold Rooms, Waiting Hours The room is cold. Not the kind that bites. The kind that waits. He sits on the edge of the small metal bed. The mattress is thin. Time makes it thinner. There is a window, high up. Too high to reach. The light through it is white, almost holy, like a priest that forgot how to bless. The air smells of bleach and breath. Sometimes, beneath the bleach, he swears he can smell earth, or rain, or distant gasoline. No clocks here. But he knows when the guards change. He knows when the food tray will slide through the bottom of the door. He knows when the silence becomes a sound of its own. He has a name, but most days, he forgets it. In here, you become what you did. Not who you are. Not who you were. They called him a criminal. They used words like rage , violence , premeditated . He just sat there, hands folded. There are scars on his knuckles he never had before. He remembers the feeling of cold metal. Not ...

Maybe oblivion was never the fear…maybe it was being the last witness. The Last Witness There is no sound now. Not even the suggestion of breath. You wait for something to stir…an echo, a flicker, a weight. But nothing comes. Only the sensation of waiting itself, stretched thin across time that no longer counts. A memory used to help you tell where you were. Now, even that has dissolved. Planets gone. Suns collapsed. The cosmic orchestra dismantled note by note, until all that remained was this: A single mind. Yours. Somewhere between the last heartbeat of a galaxy and the first thought that survived it, you continued. No body. No shape. Just awareness…stripped of context, suspended in a cradle of vanished stars. Is this punishment? Or a glitch in design? You begin to wonder if you were meant to outlast creation. To be the echo that lingers after the music ends. Not as a savior. Not as a villain. Just as presence. The Collapse of Time You try to remember how long it's been. But tim...