Flash Stories

The Rosewater Vials

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:56 p.m.

Lila had always been enchanted by the delicate art of perfume making, learning from her master in the small, fragrant shop tucked away in the heart of the old bazaar. The air was always filled with the sweet, heady mix of jasmine, saffron, and rose. But it was a certain vial—a small, intricately carved bottle of rosewater—that had always caught her eye. It sat on a dusty shelf in the corner of the workshop, forgotten, its glass dull and its cap sealed with age-old wax.

Her master, Karim, had never spoken of it, and when she asked, his eyes would darken. “Some memories are best left in the past, Lila,” he would say, his voice softer than usual. But as the days passed, Lila couldn’t shake the pull of the vial. There was something about it—something she couldn’t resist.

One evening, as she was cleaning the shelves, her hand brushed …

The Song of the Simorgh

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:54 p.m.

When Kian inherited the tar, it came wrapped in a weathered velvet cloth, its strings worn and its wood gently polished by years of use. His grandfather, a reclusive musician known for playing under the shade of the ancient mulberry tree in their garden, had always told him stories of the mystical powers the tar held. "This instrument," his grandfather would say with a knowing smile, "was once played for the Simorgh, the great bird of wisdom, perched atop the mountains beyond the clouds."

Kian had never fully understood his grandfather's stories, dismissing them as fanciful tales meant to stir the imagination. But as he held the tar in his hands, he felt something stir within him—a presence, ancient and timeless, pressing against his soul, urging him to play.

That evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills of Tehran, casting the sky in hues of pink and gold, Kian …

The Book Beneath the Pomegranate Tree

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:52 p.m.

Lila had always loved the smell of old books. It was a scent she grew up with, the ink, the leather, and the parchment, all blending into something magical. Her father, the town librarian, would tell her stories about the books in the back of the library—the ones that weren’t checked out, the ones too fragile to touch. He always warned her not to go near them, but curiosity was in Lila’s blood, and it wasn’t long before she discovered the hidden section of the library where the rarest books were kept.

One evening, as the sky turned a dusky orange and the air was thick with summer heat, Lila sat under the pomegranate tree in her backyard, flipping through a leather-bound book she had found that afternoon. The pages were old and yellow, and the ink was fading, but the tales within were like nothing she had ever read. …

The Feast of the Div

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:50 p.m.

Amir’s bike hummed against the late-night air, the city’s lights flickering like fireflies as he navigated through the quiet streets. His shift as a food delivery worker had started hours ago, and the streets had grown emptier with each passing minute. But then, a new order popped up—a delivery to a mansion at the edge of the city, one he’d never seen before.

The address was strange, hidden in the folds of the mountain ridge. But Amir, desperate for the extra tip, accepted. His phone flashed the message: A large feast. The div will be waiting.

He frowned. Div? Was this a themed party or some weird joke? Shrugging it off, he followed the route on his phone, pushing past the outskirts of the city. As he neared the mansion, the road seemed to narrow, the streetlights growing dimmer. By the time he reached the gates, the place looked almost …

The Garden at Dusk

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:48 p.m.

Every evening, as the sun began to dip behind Tehran’s skyline, Layla sat by the window of her small florist shop, watching the world bustle outside. The city was noisy, filled with cars, honking horns, and people rushing from one place to the next. But inside, surrounded by the scent of roses, jasmine, and carnations, Layla found solace in her solitude. The flowers never judged her, never made her feel lonely.

One evening, as she watered a potted orchid, she noticed a street cat sitting on the sidewalk outside her shop. Its fur was patchy, and its eyes gleamed with a knowing, almost human quality. Layla had seen this cat around for weeks, but it always kept to itself. Tonight, however, it did something peculiar.

It stared directly at her through the window, and as the sun touched the horizon, the cat spoke.

"You’re not meant to be alone, you …

The Carpet of Whispers

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:46 p.m.

Lila had always admired the faded beauty of her grandmother’s antique carpet, a sprawling Persian masterpiece that covered the floor of the living room like a forgotten treasure. She had never thought much of it beyond its intricate patterns and the warmth it brought to the otherwise sterile space. But when her grandmother passed, leaving the carpet to her, Lila couldn’t help but feel a strange pull toward it.

The first night she brought the carpet home, the atmosphere in her apartment felt different—heavier somehow, as if something ancient and hidden was watching from the corners of the room. Lila chalked it up to the change in scenery, adjusting to her grandmother’s heirloom and the weight of loss.

But then, the notifications started.

It began innocuously. A simple ping on her phone as she sat at her desk, typing lines of code for a new app she was developing. She …

The Algorithm of the Soul

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:43 p.m.

Leila sat at her desk in the quiet hum of the data center, eyes flickering between lines of code and the endless stream of numbers on her screen. As a senior data analyst at a cutting-edge tech company, her job was to sift through vast amounts of raw data, applying pattern recognition software to find meaningful correlations. It was a task she had mastered over the years—seeing hidden connections, threading together information that seemed disjointed to the untrained eye.

But lately, something strange had been happening.

At first, it was just a hint, a faint shape buried deep in the noise of a complex dataset. A familiar symmetry—circles within squares, triangles within circles. At first, she dismissed it. Maybe it was just a glitch, an anomaly in the software. But when it appeared again, and again, in unrelated sets of numbers, she couldn’t ignore it.

One afternoon, while reviewing a …

The Music of Potential

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:41 p.m.

Ramin sat cross-legged on the corner of the crowded Tehran street, his fingers brushing gently over the strings of his grandfather’s old tar. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the pavement, and the evening crowd ebbed and flowed around him. His usual spot had become a haven for those looking for something to momentarily escape the rush of their lives: a place to breathe, to listen, to think. The old tar had been his companion for years, passed down through generations, its polished wood worn smooth by time and stories.

But tonight, something was different.

As his fingers touched the strings, a soft, haunting melody filled the air—a familiar tune passed down through his family. The sound was simple, almost fragile, but as it floated through the streets, it carried a strange weight. The notes seemed to linger in the air, rippling like waves on a pond, …

The Silent Elevator

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:39 p.m.

The lights flickered and then died, plunging the elevator into darkness. A sudden, collective intake of breath echoed in the small space. The hum of the machinery, once a soft background noise, had gone silent. The faint glow from the emergency button cast eerie shadows on the walls, but nothing else moved.

For a moment, there was only the sound of everyone’s breathing, unsure whether to panic or remain still. Then, a voice broke the silence.

“Well,” a woman’s voice said, steady despite the situation. “This is certainly not how I planned to spend my afternoon.”

She chuckled lightly, and after a beat, a few others joined in. Slowly, the tension began to lift, replaced by the quiet, lingering discomfort of being stuck with strangers.

“Do you think they’ll fix it soon?” another voice asked, a young man with a tired tone.

“Maybe it’s a power outage,” the woman replied. …

Entangled

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:38 p.m.

Dr. Kian Vaziri stood before the quantum field generator, his fingers trembling as they hovered above the controls. The lab hummed with the low vibration of machinery, a comforting reminder of the world he understood. But in this moment, it was the unknown that pulsed through his veins—an elusive, intangible frontier.

The experiment had begun with a question—could entangled particles, once separated, influence each other instantaneously across vast distances? Could they, in some way, bypass the normal constraints of time and space? His research had been thorough, his methods precise. But there was always that whisper of uncertainty at the edge of discovery, like a shadow flickering in the corner of his mind.

He initiated the experiment.

The quantum field generator came to life, flickering with light, the particles in the lab dancing to a rhythm only the most sophisticated instruments could measure. Kian’s eyes narrowed, focusing on the data …