ClickWorldDaily · by Jon ✍️ stories with soul.

Not every wound needs skin to bleed. The dust rose before the sound. That was the first wrong detail. Corporal Raymond Nace had seen mortars drop before. You always heard them first, a faint whistling, the second-long whisper of violence on its way. But this time, the sound came after the dust. As if the land had decided to jump before being struck. He hit the ground hard, shoulder first, rifle still slung across his chest. The heat clawed at his uniform. He smelled cordite, sweat, old grease, and something else, something raw, like open earth or fear that had been buried too long. Someone shouted his name. Or maybe someone shouted "Down." In that moment, it didn’t matter. Both meant survival. He crawled toward the ridge, heart hammering in rhythm with distant gunfire. There were bodies in the field, none moving. One of them had lost a boot. Another, half-covered in canvas, looked up at him. But the eyes weren’t scared. They were waiting. Ray kept moving. When he reached the ...

Some goodbyes happen in silence, and stay there . It wasn’t the final game of tag. Not the last backyard run. Not the ultimate sleepover or bicycle race. But one of them was. And none of us knew. The Day Joy Didn't Announce Itself It wasn’t the final game of tag. No countdown, no camera flash, no soft fade-out like the end of a film. Just a summer afternoon, maybe. Or a cold morning at someone else’s house. Maybe your cousin had to go home earlier than expected. Maybe the streetlights turned on and someone’s mom called them in before the game ended. Maybe no one said goodbye. What if we had known? Would we have done it differently? Would we have lingered longer, looked harder at each other, and let the laughter echo a little louder? Or would the knowledge have broken the magic, the innocence of not knowing this joy had an expiration date? We don’t remember the last moment we were children together. We just remember that we were. There’s a kind of innocence that doesn’t announce its...

He doesn’t wear a cape.  He wields silence and turns it into sentences. Some heroes bend time. Some defy gravity. And some, the quiet ones, sit alone with their thoughts and still change everything. His weapon isn’t speed or strength. It’s syntax. He writes. He doesn’t arrive with fanfare. No theme music. No spotlight. Just a blank page and something unspeakable pressing against the edges of his ribs, asking to be turned into language. That’s where the origin story begins. Not in a lab or on a battlefield. But in the unbearable weight of unspoken things. The Pen as a Blade He doesn’t destroy monsters. He names them. And once named, they shrink. Most people run from the dark. He documents it. He turns suffering into syllables. Grief into grammar. His power isn’t to erase pain, but to outline it so clearly that others can finally point and say, "That. That’s what I’ve been feeling." He doesn’t punch holes in buildings. He punches holes in silence. Every villain he’s ever faced,...

Some truths never leave a trace, yet shape everything they touch. They said he was a simple man. Predictable in the best possible way. Same train, same seat, same order at the bakery. He watered his plants on Sundays. He sent birthday cards early. He was the kind of person who remembered your dog’s name but never talked about himself. People loved that about him. His quietness was seen as humility, his routine as steadiness. In truth, it was choreography. A life performed with precision so as not to leave gaps, not for questions, not for accidents. He had built himself around the art of being known just enough. The Architecture of Discretion His apartment was modest but immaculate. Everything had its place. The mugs all matched. The bookshelf was alphabetical. He kept receipts longer than necessary. There were no photographs on display. No childhood artifacts. No visitors, ever. But he hosted comfort like a professional, tea always hot, lights dimmed just enough, music soft but never s...

No one ever hears the first step. But something always listens when we take it. They said she passed in her sleep. That it was peaceful. That her hands were folded like they were holding something invisible and weightless. No pain. No struggle. But that’s not how it felt. Because just before the news came, the wind shifted. The trees outside the window leaned slightly, as if something brushed past them on its way out. And in the kitchen, the mug she always used clinked faintly, untouched. Some departures are not loud. They’re not even quiet. They’re something else entirely. Like air being rewritten. The First Step Is Not a Sound, but a Softening Her soul didn’t leap. It didn’t fly. It stepped. One foot, then the other. Not away from us, but upward. Not in escape, but in return. There was no golden light, no trumpets. Just a staircase no one else could see, made of memory and breath and the soft things she left behind. Each step was a part of her life: the lullabies sung half asleep, th...

  Some love never stops holding us, even when it no longer has hands. The room still smells like rain and soap. Not today’s. A memory of it. A softness that lingers in the fibers of the carpet, in the corners where light doesn’t reach. I sit on the edge of the bed like I have a thousand times before, but now the silence feels crowded. Something is still here. Not haunting. Just... not gone. The Shape of Impact You see, loss doesn’t arrive like a thief. It shows up like a twin. It learns your routines, finishes your sentences, borrows your face. It makes coffee the way you used to. It knows where you keep the painkillers. And it stays. We lost him in spring. Not the poetic kind. Not the slow fade into a pastel sky. No. It was loud. Metal, glass, the sound of a scream that didn’t come from me but used my mouth. I’ve replayed that moment enough to know it has no ending. Just impact. And yet, I still fold his clothes. I still pour too much cereal. I still say “be careful” to an empty c...