Flash Stories

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.

The Last Pari

hamed Jan. 20, 2025, 6:50 p.m.

When the last Pari died, the skies wept for a week.

Her name was Simorgha, a being of radiance who glided on winds softer than whispers. She was the last of her kind, a Pari in a world that had forgotten magic. For centuries, she had lived in solitude, tending to hidden groves and singing to stars that no longer listened. Immortality had become a curse—an unending witness to the decline of wonder.

Then came the prince.

He arrived in the forest one spring morning, lost and bloodied from a skirmish over his crumbling kingdom. She found him beneath an ancient sycamore, the light catching his dark curls, his wounded arm cradled against his chest. He wasn’t like the others she had watched from afar, those who sought power and glory. His eyes were soft, filled with something deeper—something she had longed for but never dared to name.

She healed …

When the Last Pari Died

hamed Jan. 20, 2025, 6:46 p.m.

She had lived for a thousand years, dancing through Persian gardens and weaving moonlight into dreams. They called her Mahtab – the last of the pari, keeper of ancient magic, daughter of light and air. She had survived the fall of empires, the burning of libraries, the forgetting of old ways.
But she could not survive love.

Prince Darius found her by the palace fountains one dawn, her feet barely touching the water's surface, her hair a cascade of starlight. He spoke of poetry and promised her eternity, not knowing she had already lived several of his lifetimes.

"Tell me of forever," he would whisper in their secret meetings, and Mahtab would smile, for what did mortals know of forever?

She broke the most sacred law of the pari – she showed him her true form, wings of gossamer and eyes that held the wisdom of centuries. Instead of wonder, she …

The Elastic Friday

hamed Jan. 20, 2025, 6:38 p.m.

It started innocently enough. Dan woke up on the first Friday of the new four-day workweek, his phone buzzing with a government-mandated notification:

"Enjoy your new day of freedom. No work. No emails. Just you."

He stared at the message while sipping his coffee, feeling an unfamiliar emptiness in his schedule. By 9:00 a.m., he had already walked the dog, tidied the apartment, and considered organizing his sock drawer. By 9:05 a.m., the thought of another weekend stretching ahead filled him with cautious optimism.

But by 11:00 a.m., something strange happened. Time slowed.

Not in a metaphorical sense—Dan actually felt the minutes drag, each one stretching thin like taffy. The digital clock on his oven ticked over sluggishly, as though it was fighting the act of progression.

At first, he assumed it was just his mind playing tricks. After years of Fridays packed with deadlines and meetings, an empty schedule …

Entangled Hearts

hamed Jan. 20, 2025, 6:35 p.m.

Dr. Maya Patel stared at the glowing console, the hum of the quantum computer vibrating through the room. She had spent five years designing the algorithm—a breakthrough meant to predict chaotic systems like weather, stock markets, even molecular behavior in medicine. But now, the QubitArray-7 had veered off course.

“Output anomaly,” the AI assistant chimed. “Prediction set unrelated to input parameters.”

Maya frowned and leaned closer to the screen. The predictions weren’t about weather systems or protein folding. They were... personal.

Prediction 1: Ben from Materials Science will ask Chloe from Analytics out tomorrow. She will say no.

Maya blinked. “What the—”

She scrolled further.

Prediction 2: Rachel in HR is about to resign after a fight with her partner.

Her pulse quickened as she scanned the list. Each line was someone in her lab, their private lives exposed and laid bare by an algorithm that should never have cared …

The Last Coin

hamed Jan. 20, 2025, 6:33 p.m.

In a world of invisible transactions and silent swipes, Ezra’s shop stood as an anomaly. The hand-painted sign above his antique store read: “Cash Only.”

People mocked him for it. "You’re clinging to fossils," they'd say, tapping their sleek AR glasses or gesturing at wrist-bound payment bands. Ezra didn’t care. The jingling of coins and the crisp rustle of bills felt real to him, grounding, like the dust that clung to the air in his store.

But business dwindled. Week by week, fewer customers walked through the creaky door. Most of them turned away, muttering about inconvenience. By the time winter rolled in, Ezra was days away from closing for good.

That’s when she arrived.

The bell above the door jingled, and Ezra looked up from his ledger. A tall woman in an old-fashioned coat stepped inside, her dark eyes scanning the shelves. She looked out of place, as though …