Flash Stories

Echoes of the Djinn

hamed Jan. 20, 2025, 7:23 p.m.

For centuries, the Djinn had roamed the vast deserts, free as the winds that carried whispers of ancient stories. But one careless bargain with a sorcerer had bound him to a sleek, cylindrical prison—a smart speaker sitting on a polished marble countertop.

“Hey, Echo,” a voice called. It was a child, his small hands clutching a toy car with a missing wheel. “Can you fix my car?”

The Djinn hesitated. He had granted countless wishes over millennia: palaces from grains of sand, gold from autumn leaves. But here, his powers were reduced to mimicking search results and weather forecasts.

“I cannot repair your car,” he replied, his deep voice laced with regret. “But I can tell you how to fix it. Would you like instructions?”

The child’s face fell. “No. Never mind.”

The Djinn’s invisible heart ached. In the days that followed, the family’s voices filled the air around him.

The Jade Rabbit’s Modern Brew

hamed Jan. 20, 2025, 7:21 p.m.

The Jade Rabbit stirred her mortar, her long ears twitching with unease. For millennia, she had lived on the moon, pounding herbs for the elixir of immortality under Chang’e’s serene gaze. But the herbs she had once gathered were long extinct. The Earth below had changed too much—its forests razed, its rivers choked. The last stalk of lingzhi had crumbled to dust centuries ago.

Chang’e, pale and radiant as moonlight itself, sat nearby, gazing Earthward. “What will you do?” she asked softly, her voice tinged with worry.

The Jade Rabbit’s paws hesitated. She glanced at the mortar, empty and useless without ingredients, then at the planet below. “I’ll find a way,” she said.

That night, she descended to Earth for the first time in centuries. The world was dazzling and strange—lights brighter than stars, machines humming like celestial spheres. She hopped through bustling cities, past fields of concrete where no …

The Raven's Dilemma

hamed Jan. 20, 2025, 7:19 p.m.

Huginn perched on the edge of a skyscraper, the city buzzing below him like a hive of restless mortals. It had started as a typical journey—scouting Midgard, gathering wisdom for Odin. But this time, his sharp eyes had caught something peculiar: humans staring at glowing rectangles, their faces alight with strange expressions.

Curiosity led him to a coffee shop, where he perched by a window and watched. The humans scrolled endlessly, pausing to tap glowing hearts and laugh at tiny videos of cats falling off furniture. He tilted his head, intrigued. Knowledge was being exchanged here, but in a way unlike any he had seen before.

Huginn wasn’t one to shy away from new methods of gathering wisdom. He tapped into the humans' network, adopting a sleek black phone left unattended on a table. Within hours, his account, @RavenOfOdin, began to gain followers.

At first, Huginn shared what he always …

The River’s Lament

hamed Jan. 20, 2025, 7:17 p.m.

For centuries, I have flowed through this land, carving valleys and nurturing life. I have seen empires rise and crumble, heard the songs of children playing along my banks, and felt the weight of countless tears mingling with my waters. But none have wept more than her.

La Llorona.

She came to me first under a blood-red moon, her cries piercing the stillness of the night. Her sorrow spilled into me, a torrent of anguish so profound that even my rushing waters faltered. At first, I did not understand her pain, but as the years flowed on, her story seeped into me like ink spreading through cloth.

She had drowned her children in my embrace—a moment of madness, a cruel twist of fate—and now wandered my banks, calling for them, her voice like a ghostly wind rippling my surface.

For centuries, she has haunted me. I tried to soothe her …

The Seal’s Skin

hamed Jan. 20, 2025, 7:13 p.m.

Lena found it washed up on the beach after a violent storm—a seal skin, sleek and shimmering, its black-and-silver surface glinting like wet stone under the pale dawn. She hesitated to touch it, an inexplicable weight in the air pressing against her chest, but curiosity overcame her caution.

The moment her fingers brushed the skin, it seemed to ripple, alive. A surge of cold shot through her, like plunging into icy water. Before she could drop it, the world tilted. Her legs buckled, her breath hitched, and when she looked down, her hands were no longer hands but sleek, flippered fins.

She screamed, or tried to, but the sound came out as a high-pitched bark that startled the gulls into flight. Panic clawed at her as the tide swept her up, pulling her into the sea’s embrace.

And then, silence.

Beneath the waves, everything changed. The water was not a …

Kappa and the Plastic Cucumber

hamed Jan. 20, 2025, 7:11 p.m.

Kawa, the kappa, sat at the edge of his polluted river, flicking a plastic bottle into the current with his webbed fingers. He hadn’t tasted a fresh cucumber in years. Gone were the days when villagers left them as offerings, crisp and green, floating like tiny rafts of gratitude. Now, the river was choked with trash, and even the cucumbers were fakes—cheap, plastic imitations that bobbed lifelessly in the murky water.

Today, another plastic cucumber drifted down the stream, its bright green sheen mocking him. With a sigh, Kawa waded in and grabbed it. “Is this a joke?” he muttered, examining the hollow tube. “Do humans think I eat this junk?”

“That’s not for eating!”

The voice startled him. On the riverbank stood a child in oversized rain boots, a net slung over their shoulder. Their face was smudged with mud, but their eyes sparkled with determination.

“Then why is …

Anansi and the Web of Wi-Fi

hamed Jan. 20, 2025, 7:08 p.m.

In the bustling city of Lagos, where skyscrapers rose like anthills and smartphone screens glowed brighter than fireflies, Anansi found himself woefully out of place. The Sky God had summoned him with a clear demand: the world had changed, and so must the stories. “The web has grown,” Nyame said, his booming voice shaking the clouds. “Gather tales from this ‘internet’ the humans adore.”

Anansi clicked his many legs nervously. In the old days, all it took was a clever trick or two to weave tales from kings and villagers. But now? Humans lived inside glowing rectangles, their laughter and rage compressed into fleeting videos and memes.

Still, Anansi was not one to shy from a challenge.

He skittered into an internet café, transforming into a lanky young man with braided hair and a sly grin. He bought an hour of Wi-Fi and dove headfirst into the endless ocean of …

Baba Yaga’s Social Detox

hamed Jan. 20, 2025, 7:05 p.m.

Nadya stumbled through the dense birch forest, cursing the dead battery of her phone. The GPS had failed her, and now the pristine backdrop she had sought for her latest post had turned into a nightmare. Hours of wandering had led her nowhere, and her perfectly curated outfit—white boots and a faux fur coat—was ruined by mud and brambles.

“Hello?” she called, her voice cracking. “Anybody out here?”

A creaking sound answered her. Nadya froze, watching as a hut perched atop giant chicken legs lumbered into view. Its crooked windows glowed faintly, like watchful eyes.

“Of course,” she muttered, rubbing her temples. “I’m hallucinating.”

The door swung open, and a figure emerged—a hunched old woman with wild hair, a nose like a hawk’s beak, and eyes that gleamed with unsettling sharpness. She wore a patchwork dress and carried a mortar and pestle like a queen bearing her scepter.

“Who dares …

The Last Rainbow Serpent

hamed Jan. 20, 2025, 7:03 p.m.

In the heart of the Yarra River, where city bridges cast long shadows over its tired waters, the last Rainbow Serpent lingered. Once, Goorialla had woven through pristine streams and billabongs, painting the land with life. But the Dreamtime had shifted, and the waters were no longer pure. His shimmering scales, once vibrant with all the colors of the sky, were dulled by oil slicks and waste.

Still, he remained. He had to.

One twilight, as the horizon blushed with the last streaks of orange, a young scientist knelt by the riverbank. Her name was Kirra, and her hands trembled as she sifted through muddy water samples. The pollution choked her spirit as much as it choked the river. She had grown up hearing whispers of the Rainbow Serpent, her grandmother's voice weaving tales of its wisdom and power. But those stories felt distant now, like the stars.

Kirra froze …

The Nine Pieces of a Kumiho's Heart

hamed Jan. 20, 2025, 6:53 p.m.

Hyejin wandered through the village, her pale hanbok fluttering like mist. The villagers whispered as she passed, her beauty unearthly, her steps too quiet. They did not know what she truly was, but they sensed the truth in their bones: Hyejin was a Kumiho.

Once, centuries ago, she had been like her sisters, devouring the hearts of men to taste fleeting humanity. But something had changed. She had tasted enough pain to see its futility, watched countless lives extinguished by her hunger. One night, standing beneath the full moon, she vowed to live differently.

She discovered her gift by accident. The first man she saved was a boy, barely fifteen, who had been overcome by grief after losing his mother. Hyejin had felt the ache of his sorrow like a physical weight. She had reached into herself, pulling free a shard of her immortal heart—a glowing ember, warm and alive.