Flash Stories

The White Div's Daughter

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:44 p.m.

The cavern shimmered with frost, each crystal a fragile web of light. Shirin sat at the mouth of the cave, her pale hair spilling like moonlight down her back, her eyes fixed on the human camp far below. Smoke curled from their fires, faint against the starlit sky.

Her father’s voice boomed behind her, shaking the earth. “You’ve been staring at them again.”

Shirin didn’t flinch. “They’re fascinating,” she said softly, her voice like the wind threading through winter trees.

The White Div stepped into the moonlight, his massive frame cloaked in a mantle of snow and shadows. His eyes, as cold as glaciers, narrowed. “They are dangerous.”

“Perhaps,” Shirin replied, not looking away. “But they are also brave.”

“Bravery is the disguise of weakness,” her father growled. “Do not let their fires fool you. They will snuff out your light if you draw too close.”

Shirin said nothing, but …

The Forgotten Gate

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:41 p.m.

Dr. Parisa Shirazi stood in the biting wind, staring at the jagged ruin jutting out of the barren mountainside. The gray stones, weathered by centuries, bore intricate carvings—a language she didn’t recognize, yet somehow felt she had always known.

“It’s just a wall,” her assistant Navid muttered, kicking at a loose rock. “An old fort, maybe.”

Parisa shook her head, brushing dirt off one of the carvings with trembling hands. The swirling patterns were unmistakable. “This isn’t just a wall,” she whispered. “It’s the wall.”

Navid frowned. “You can’t mean—”

“Yes. Alexander’s Wall.” Her voice was reverent. “The barrier that held back Gog and Magog.”

The legend had been a fascination of hers since childhood: a gate forged by the Great Alexander to imprison ancient forces of chaos. It was dismissed as myth by scholars, but the unearthed carvings told a different story.

Parisa traced a line of script with …

One Thousand Demons

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:38 p.m.

In the dusty glow of the weaving room, Mina ran her fingers over the half-finished carpet. The air smelled of wool and dye, a familiar comfort in her family’s workshop. The intricate pattern shimmered under the light—a labyrinth of vines and symbols that had been passed down for generations.

Her grandfather’s voice echoed in her mind: “Each thread, each knot, has a purpose. The pattern isn’t just for beauty—it’s a story, a shield.” As a child, she’d thought it was just superstition, the way her family whispered prayers as they worked. Now, at 19, it felt like a relic of a past too distant to matter.

But that changed the night she found the letter.

Hidden inside an old wooden loom was a brittle parchment covered in delicate Persian script. Mina held it carefully, reading by the dim light of an oil lamp. The words spoke of King Solomon’s divs—demons …

The Water of Life

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:25 p.m.

The late shift at the hospice always brought quiet moments laced with a strange intensity, like waiting for something unseen to arrive. For Leila, it was the time she felt most connected to her patients, their whispered fears and confessions filling the void of the night.

Mr. Aram was her favorite. At 92, his body was frail, but his mind burned sharp, filled with stories of a life that spanned wars, revolutions, and empires. He often spoke of his youth in the Alborz Mountains, his voice soft and wistful, like a breeze brushing against worn pages.

That night, as Leila checked his vitals, he caught her wrist with surprising strength. "Sit," he said, his hazel eyes gleaming like polished amber.

She hesitated but pulled up a chair beside his bed. “What is it, Mr. Aram? Are you in pain?”

He shook his head. “No pain. Just time.” He glanced at …

The Simorgh’s Feather

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:23 p.m.

Arya sat in his cramped studio apartment, staring at the blank canvas that mocked him from across the room. A half-empty cup of cold tea sat beside crumpled sketches and a paintbrush caked with dried blue paint. For months, the ideas had stopped coming. He felt hollow, like a bird with clipped wings.

"Why bother?" he muttered, slumping back into his chair. He hadn’t sold a painting in over a year. His dreams of exhibitions and acclaim felt as distant as the stars he used to paint in his childhood landscapes.

That night, as he lay in bed tossing and turning, a sharp sound startled him awake. The clink of glass breaking. Arya sat up, heart pounding, and turned on the dim bedside lamp. The window was open, though he was sure he had closed it.

On the floor lay a feather.

It shimmered faintly in the light, shifting colors …

The Nightingale’s Last Song

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:14 p.m.

The old woman sat in her weathered armchair, its floral fabric faded by decades of sunlight streaming through the window. Her name was Shirin, but to her granddaughter Laleh, she was simply Maman Bozorg. The aroma of brewed saffron tea lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of rosewater from the sweets they had shared earlier.

Outside, the city of Tehran hummed with its usual nighttime symphony—distant car horns, the faint wail of a street vendor, and the wind whispering through the leaves of the sycamore trees lining their quiet lane. But inside, there was silence.

Laleh sat cross-legged on the rug by her grandmother’s feet, cradling a small ceramic nightingale in her hands. “Tell me again about Rostam,” she whispered.

Shirin smiled, her face a map of lines etched by time and sorrow. Her voice, though soft, carried the weight of generations. “Rostam,” she began, “was not …

The Bowl of Fate

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 7:03 p.m.

Eli had always been an unremarkable baker. His small shop in the heart of the city was known for its simple, warm loaves of bread, baked daily with care and consistency. He had never expected to be anything more than a humble man, content with his craft. But that was before the old woman came.

It happened one crisp autumn morning, just as the sun began to peek through the fog. The bell above the bakery door jingled, and in walked a woman so old she seemed to blur the line between the past and present. Her eyes were sharp, though, piercing as though she had seen every corner of time.

"I have something for you," she said, her voice rasping like dried leaves. From under her cloak, she revealed a copper bowl, its surface tarnished with age but still glinting faintly in the light.

Eli raised an eyebrow, unsure …

The Night of Yalda

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 7:02 p.m.

The air was thick with the warmth of spices, the crackling of the fireplace, and the soft glow of candles as the family gathered around the old Persian carpet in the dimly lit room. The night was long—Yalda, the longest night of the year—and the tradition was always the same: a night of stories. Her grandmother, a woman whose silver hair shimmered like moonlight, settled into her favorite armchair and pulled her granddaughter, Leila, close.

"Tonight, my dear," she began, her voice deep and soothing, "I will tell you the story of the Simorgh."

Leila loved these nights, loved how her grandmother’s stories felt like threads tying her to a world older than the stars, a world of magic and mystery. She nestled into the warmth of the rug, the smell of pomegranates and rosewater swirling in the air, and waited for the tale to unfold.

But as her grandmother …

The Moonlit Script

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 7 p.m.

Arash had spent years perfecting his craft. As a calligraphy artist in Tehran, he was well-known for his mastery of the ancient scripts, but something had always eluded him. No matter how carefully he followed the patterns of Persian poetry or history, his work felt incomplete. The ink, the brush, and the paper were all tools, but they lacked the soul he yearned for.

One evening, as the full moon rose high over the city, Arash sat by the window of his small studio, gazing out at the moonlit skyline. He had recently acquired a small vial of rosewater from his grandmother, a precious gift passed down through generations, and decided to use it in his latest project. There was a calmness to the scent of rosewater, a tranquility that seemed to calm his restless mind.

He mixed the rosewater with his traditional ink, filling the room with a soft …

The Shop of Bottled Dreams

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:58 p.m.

Raha had wandered through the labyrinthine lanes of the Tehran Grand Bazaar countless times, her feet brushing against the worn stones, her eyes absorbing the colors, sounds, and smells of a world older than her own. But today, as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows between the stalls, she noticed something strange—a small, unmarked door tucked in the farthest corner of the bazaar, hidden behind a tapestry of velvet fabrics and embroidered scarves. She hadn’t seen it before, though she’d passed this way hundreds of times.

Curiosity tugged at her, and she stepped closer, drawn to the soft golden light spilling out from beneath the door. With a hesitant breath, she pushed it open.

Inside was a small, quiet room, filled with the scent of jasmine and honey. On shelves, delicate glass bottles shimmered, each one holding a swirling mist of colors that seemed to shift and dance in …