Flash Stories

The Song of the Sea

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 8:37 p.m.

Tama stood at the edge of the beach, the cool morning breeze tugging at his hoodie. The waves crashed against the shore, their rhythm steady and ancient, like the heartbeat of the land itself. This was his place—the stretch of sand and sea where he’d learned to swim, where his grandfather had taught him to fish, and where he’d always felt most alive. But today, the horizon was marred by the silhouette of cranes and bulldozers, their growling engines drowning out the cries of the gulls.

The developers had arrived a week ago, their signs planted in the sand like flags claiming territory. "Luxury Oceanfront Resorts Coming Soon!" they proclaimed. Tama’s stomach churned every time he saw them. This beach wasn’t just a piece of land; it was a part of him, a part of his whakapapa—his lineage. His ancestors had walked these shores, and their stories were etched into …

From Shadows to Shine

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 8:34 p.m.

In the cramped, dimly lit apartment she shared with her younger brother, Mia scrolled through her phone, the glow illuminating her tired face. The walls were thin, and the sound of rain tapping against the window mixed with the hum of the neighbor’s TV. Her brother, Sam, slept on the couch, his schoolbag slumped on the floor beside him. At 22, Mia had become his guardian after their parents passed away, and life had been a relentless cycle of odd jobs and unpaid bills.

One night, while scrolling through Instagram, Mia stumbled upon a post from a girl in another city. She was raving about a cute, affordable handbag she’d bought from a seller who sourced products directly from China. The comments were flooded with questions: “Where did you get this?” “How much was it?” “Do they ship fast?” Mia’s eyes widened as she realized the potential. She had always …

The Last Note

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 8:30 p.m.

When the news broke, Reza felt the air shift in the small Italian café where he worked as a dishwasher. Trump had won again. The chatter of locals turned uneasy, blending with the clatter of espresso cups and muttered curses in a language Reza still struggled to understand.

He didn’t care about politics—not really. His life had been simple once, back in Iran. But sanctions and whispers of war had turned simple into impossible, and Reza, like so many, left to chase a dream that felt like smoke in his hands.

That night, walking home in the drizzle, he felt the stares burn hotter than usual. “Foreigner,” a man hissed, shoving past him on the cobblestone street.

Reza’s heart sank. He knew what came next. He’d seen it the first time Trump rose to power—a surge of hate that bled across borders like spilled ink. Back then, he had hope. …

Threads of Solidarity

hamed Jan. 21, 2025, 5:25 p.m.

Amara first noticed Kian when he retweeted her post about the winter coat drive.

"We could use more boots and blankets," he’d added, along with a photo of his tiny apartment filled with neatly stacked donation boxes. She messaged him immediately.

"You’re in Eastside? We should coordinate. I’m running a food distribution project there."

Kian replied within minutes: "Absolutely. Let’s build something big."

They started collaborating: Amara’s Google Sheets full of volunteer schedules and grocery runs meshed perfectly with Kian’s knack for finding free storage spaces and rallying donors. Their late-night planning sessions—first over DM, then Zoom—blurred the line between work and connection.

“Why do you do this?” Amara asked one night, after hours spent brainstorming for a mobile health clinic.

Kian hesitated, then smiled shyly. “I guess… I want to be the kind of person I needed when I was younger.”

Amara felt her chest tighten. “Same,” she said …

Across the Status Bar

hamed Jan. 21, 2025, 5:24 p.m.

It started with a typo.

Cara meant to reply to her manager in the #team-updates channel, but instead, her message pinged Jonah, a designer halfway across the globe.

"Wrong window," she typed quickly, cheeks burning.

He replied with a coffee emoji and a simple, "No worries. Happens to the best of us."

She laughed at the calm ease of his response and went back to work. But later that evening—his morning—Jonah sent her a direct message.

"How’s your day going? Or… night, I guess? Time zones are weird."

That was the start.

Their conversations began casually, trading small gripes about client feedback or praising each other’s clever solutions. But as weeks passed, their chats grew longer, spilling into late nights for Cara and early mornings for Jonah.

They started scheduling virtual coffee breaks—her with tea, him with black coffee—where they’d talk about more than work: favorite books, weird hobbies, the …

Roots and Resilience

hamed Jan. 21, 2025, 5:22 p.m.

Cassie first noticed Liam at a plant swap in the park. While most people grabbed hardy pothos or trendy monstera cuttings, Liam reached for the saddest, half-dead succulent on the table—a shriveled Echeveria with only two leaves left.

“You’re really going for that one?” she asked, unable to hide her skepticism.

He smiled, cradling the plant like it was a treasure. “Every plant deserves a second chance.”

It was the kind of answer that made her pause. By the end of the swap, she’d left with a jade plant and his number.

Their relationship blossomed quickly, fueled by trips to nurseries, swapping propagation tips, and late-night texts about overwatering disasters. On their third date, Liam gifted her a tiny Haworthia in a ceramic pot he’d painted himself.

“This one’s tough,” he said, grinning. “Like you.”

Cassie rolled her eyes but kept the plant on her windowsill, where it thrived.

Months …

Threads of Hope

hamed Jan. 21, 2025, 5:21 p.m.

The “Anxiety Allies” Discord server wasn’t flashy. Just a pale blue logo and a tagline that read: You’re not alone. Alex had joined on a bad night, when the walls of his studio apartment felt like they were closing in. He didn’t expect much—maybe some breathing tips, maybe someone to remind him it wouldn’t last forever.

He didn’t expect Maya.

Her username, StarrySoul, popped up in a thread about grounding techniques. Her reply was simple: “I count the objects in the room until my breathing slows. It doesn’t fix everything, but it helps.”

Alex tried it that night. It worked just enough to take the edge off. The next morning, he sent her a private message: “Thanks for the tip. I counted 23 things before I could fall asleep.”

She replied within minutes. “Glad it helped. My record is 58. Desperate times.”

Their conversation grew from there—first about anxiety, then …

Threads of Fate

hamed Jan. 21, 2025, 5:20 p.m.

The jacket was perfect: 70s leather, caramel-brown, with just the right amount of wear. Clara spotted it first on a tiny thrift store's Instagram page, its post tagged “DM to bid.” She immediately sent her offer.

Then came the notification: Sorry, another bidder just offered $80.

Clara scowled at her screen. This wasn’t her first thrift war, and she wasn’t about to lose now. $85, she typed, her fingers flying.

The reply was almost instant: $90 from the other bidder.

Her heart sank. It wasn’t just anyone—it had to be VintageVincent. His account was her biggest competition on campus. While Clara’s ThriftedByClara specialized in funky boho finds, his page leaned into edgy retro pieces that always seemed to outsell hers. Of course he wanted the jacket.

She gritted her teeth and raised the stakes. $100.

Minutes passed. Then a new reply: The other bidder is offering $110. Final offer?

Clara …

In Real Time

hamed Jan. 21, 2025, 5:19 p.m.

At first, it was nothing special—a stranger’s face in the background of Theo’s BeReal. Just another blurry figure in a café, hunched over a laptop. But the next day, she was there again. Same café, same seat by the window, this time holding a croissant mid-bite.

Her username popped up on his feed: SiennaMaybe.

Curious, Theo tapped to view her post. Hers mirrored his—a candid shot of herself and the café scene behind her. And there he was, accidentally captured, staring into his phone.

He chuckled and left a comment: Guess we share a caffeine addiction.

To his surprise, she replied within minutes: Guess we do. Same time tomorrow?

And so it began.

Every day, their BeReals aligned: Theo on his morning run, with Sienna blurred in the distance walking her dog. Sienna in a park, with Theo in the background reading on a bench. They joked about it at …

Pixels and Promises

hamed Jan. 21, 2025, 5:18 p.m.

Elliot had always been the quiet one. He liked his life small and contained—cozy coffee shops, late-night movie marathons, and the occasional hike where the only audience was the trees. But Mia? Mia was a storm of energy, her laughter echoing through every room she entered. She was the kind of person who could make friends with a stranger in line at the grocery store. And lately, she’d been obsessed with TikTok.

It started innocently enough. A clip of her dancing in their kitchen, a silly rant about pineapple on pizza. But then her follower count began to climb, and so did her ambition. One evening, as they sat on the couch, Mia turned to Elliot, her eyes sparkling. “Babe, what if we did a couples’ series? Like, ‘Day in the Life of Us’? People would eat it up!”

Elliot froze, his spoon hovering over his bowl of ice cream. …