Emily's Publishing

Jenna Matthews stared at the blank canvas in front of her, her paintbrush dancing in the air with indecision. The smell of oils and turpentine wafted through her tiny studio apartment-a scent that should have been comforting by now, but for the first time in years, was not. She let her breath out in a sad sigh as she lowered the brush without having made a mark. At 32, Jenna was once touted as a rising star in Seattle's art world. Her dynamic, emotionally-charged paintings received critical acclaim and got her a hallelujah chorus of their own fans. But that was before... everything. Her phone buzzed. Another well-meaning text from Alison: "Hey sis, just checking in, how's the new piece coming?" Jenna's fingers hovered over the keys. She could lie, say it was going great. Instead she simply replied: "Still working on it." It had been eight months since the accident. Eight months since a patch of black ice sent her car spinning off the road leaving her wit...

Dr. Zara Malik, 38, sat mesmerized by the lines of code scrolling down each of her various monitors, the soft blue glow of the screens illuminating her face in the dimly lit lab. Outside, the fog rolled in off the San Francisco streets, obscuring the twinkling city lights. "Come on, ARIA," Zara whispered, flying fingers across the keyboard. "Show me what you've got." ARIA was the brainchild of Zara, an AI meant to break grounds in personalized medicine. After years of development, they were at the threshold of a discovery that could change millions of lives. But great power comes with great responsibility, something which bothered Zara's mind as she worked late into the night. A soft ding on her smartwatch broke her concentration. A reminder: "Dad's birthday – call!" Zara sighed, guilt gnawing at her. She'd forgotten. Again. Pushing back from her desk, she grabbed her phone and dialed. " Beta!", her father boomed from the line. ...

The rigid fluorescent lights above hummed in the prison visiting room where Olivia Chen, 35, sat up straight, her hands clasped firmly in her lap. Across the metal table-marred from all the use - sat Marcus Delgado, 40 - a separation between them, a chasm of pain and regret. "I didn't think you'd come," Marcus said softly, his eyes cast down to the surface of the table. Olivia's jaw clenched. "I almost didn't." It was five years since the night that turned Olivia's world upside down; the night when drunken Marcus ran a red light and took the life of Olivia's fiancé, David. The accident had left so much more than physical scars; it seemed to have carved a void in her life that hate and bitterness had hastened to fill. Olivia had clung to her anger for years, a lifeline in the dark sea she'd swum. Fantasies of confrontation, of making him feel even a fraction of that pain she carries. But now, face-to-face with the man who'd taken every...

Maya Hernandez, 42, glared at the phone in her hand, her thumb stilled over the "Send" icon. The draft email to her boss felt like a ticking bomb in her hands. Outside her apartment window, sheets of rain pounded against the glass, reflecting the stormy emotions swirling inside her. For months, Maya had watched her colleague, Ethan manipulate data and forge signatures in order to inflate his sales numbers. At first, she'd convinced herself it wasn't her problem. But as Ethan's lies grew bolder and the company's reputation teetered on the edge, the weight of her silence became unbearable. "You okay, mom?" Zoe's voice startled Maya. Her 15-year-old daughter stood in the doorway, concern etched on her face. Maya forced a smile. "Just work stuff, honey. Nothing to worry about." Zoe rolled her eyes the way only teenagers can. "You've been staring at your phone for like, an hour. Either send the text or don't." As Zoe retrea...

Her office walls had held thank-you cards for seventeen years, but it was the empty space that caught her eye that morning-the gap where Travis Morrison's graduation photo should have been. Some spaces, she'd learned, spoke louder than words. Her phone buzzed-another text from Diana. "Did you see the news? He's getting early release. Good behavior." Her sister's digital eye-roll was almost visible between the lines. Outside, the rain pattered softly against the spring rains' tapping upon her window-a soft counterpoint to her quickening pulse. Travis Morrison. The student who'd near enough ended her career with his false accusations, just because she'd caught him dealing in pills. Now he'd be out, three years early. A knock broke into her reverie. Michael Torres stood in her doorway, hands shoved deep in his pockets. New student, troubled record – the kind of kid she usually knew how to help. But lately, every troubled teen reminded her of Travi...

Sarah's new apartment felt like a cardboard box - empty, brown, and depressingly temporary. She stood in the middle of the barren living room, surrounded by towers of moving boxes labeled in her characteristic messy-yet-somehow-organized way, armed with nothing but a pizza cutter and an overwhelming urge to cry. (She'd packed her knife set somewhere in one of these identical boxes, naturally.) The pizza wasn't even here yet. She'd ordered it forty-five minutes ago, and her phone battery was at 12% because obviously she'd packed her charger in one of the boxes too. Somewhere. The sun was setting, casting long shadows through naked windows - she'd have to figure out curtains at some point - and her body ached from carrying boxes up three flights of stairs because the elevator was "temporarily out of service." (She was beginning to suspect "temporarily" might be a rather flexible concept in this building.) Her phone buzzed. Finally, the pizza. B...

Amelia stared at her reflection in the break room mirror, adjusting her nurse's badge for the third time. First night shift. Solo. No preceptor watching over her shoulder. The fluorescent lights made her complexion look almost as pale as her scrubs, and the coffee in her thermos (her fourth cup today) wasn't helping the slight tremor in her hands. Her phone buzzed - her mother, again. The text read: "It's not too late to transfer to day shift. Night shift is dangerous for young women. Dad knows someone who can help." Amelia closed her eyes, counted to three, and didn't respond. Her parents meant well, but they'd been "meaning well" for twenty-six years, orchestrating everything from her choice of college to her apartment location. Taking the night shift position had been her first real act of rebellion - if you could call career advancement rebellion. "Hey, new girl!" Nurse Rodriguez popped his head in. "Ready? We've got incomi...

Marcus watched the rain drumming against his food truck's serving window, each drop another reminder of the day's nonexistent sales. His phone screen lit up with yet another notification: "Prime location available - Downtown Food Hall - Modern Facilities - Apply Now!" He swiped it away, just like he had the previous dozen offers. Behind him, his grandmother's ancient rice cooker bubbled away, the same one that had helped launch Wong's Korean-Soul fusion thirty years ago. Back then, it had been just a cart operated by his grandmother and his father. Now it was his responsibility - his inheritance, in more ways than one. "You're being stupid, you know." Olivia, his sister, stood in the doorway of the truck, designer umbrella dripping. "The food hall people called me again. They want Wong's there. They'll even let you keep the original name." Marcus wiped down the already-clean counter. "With their recipes? Their ingredients? ...

The community garden notice board had become a battlefield, and Deepa stood before it, wondering how a simple vegetable plot could cause so much discord. The latest salvo was a typed note complaining about Mr. O'Brien's towering sunflowers blocking the sun from surrounding plots. Below it, someone had scrawled a complaint about Mrs. Patel's wind chimes being "culturally inappropriate." Three separate notes argued about the proper way to compost. As garden coordinator (a role she'd inherited when no one else volunteered), Deepa had spent more time mediating disputes than actually gardening this season. Her own plot of traditional Indian vegetables was suffering from neglect, much to her mother's dismay. "Those American tomatoes," her mother had sniffed during her last visit. "They're taking over your karelas. You're letting them crowd out your heritage." Deepa hadn't bothered explaining that the tomato plants had actually bee...

Maya's thumb hovered over the delete button, trembling slightly in the blue light of her phone screen. (The thing about forgiveness is that it often requires more courage in the digital age, when evidence of hurt can be archived indefinitely.) Thirty-seven unread messages from her sister Rachel sat in her inbox, their subject lines a timeline of evolving emotions: "Please read this," "We need to talk," "I'm sorry," and finally, simply, "Miss you." The last one had arrived exactly three months, two weeks, and four days ago. Not that Maya was counting. She glanced at her laptop, where her latest food blog post sat half-finished. The irony wasn't lost on her – here she was, a successful culinary influencer who specialized in family recipes and dinner table conversations, while her own family story had a gaping hole in it the size of her sister's absence. "You okay there, boss?" Jerome, her assistant, peered over his vintage...

Morning light caught the edge of Marcus Chen's third "30 Under 30" award and cast a familiar golden glow across his office. He'd moved it twice that week, searching for the perfect angle. Outside his window, fog rolled across the San Francisco skyline-the same fog his father had once watched while prepping vegetables in his restaurant kitchen at dawn. Marcus minimized the code review on his screen, trying to avoid the red comments Sarah Martinez had left there. She may have been his mentor three years ago, but things were different now. He was different. The venture capital firms circling his AI startup proved that much. "Your algorithm has a blind spot," Sarah had written. "The bias in your training data could cause serious real-world consequences." Marcus's jaw tightened. Sarah was steeped in traditional thought. His invention was going to change the face of decision-making for healthcare-he knew it would. Certainty was a comfortable coat he ...

The morning alarm buzzed at 4:45 AM, and Sarah Chen didn't hit snooze. Not because she was one of those mythical morning people – she definitely wasn't – but because the manila envelope on her dresser wouldn't let her. The one with the rejection letter from last year's Chicago Marathon lottery, now serving as her makeshift vision board. (Some people used Pinterest for inspiration. Sarah used spite.) Her knees creaked as she rolled out of bed, prompting an involuntary groan. At forty-three, every morning reminded her that she wasn't getting any younger. The bathroom mirror revealed yesterday's ponytail had staged a rebellion overnight, and her weather app cheerfully announced it was a brisk 38 degrees outside. Perfect. "You're ridiculous," her teenage son had declared when she'd started this journey six months ago. He wasn't entirely wrong. She hadn't run since high school track, unless you counted chasing toddlers around the park fiftee...