Flash Stories

Payload

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:12 p.m.

Jules adjusted their cap and swiped the screen of their controller, directing the drone to its next drop-off. It was a normal Tuesday in the city, the skyline humming with autonomous machines zipping between rooftops. Jules didn’t think much about the contents of the boxes they delivered—most were tech gadgets, groceries, or overpriced sneakers.

But this package was different.

The first clue was the weight. It felt heavier than its size suggested, the kind of weight that didn’t match coffee beans or wireless earbuds. The second was the delivery coordinates: an unmarked building in a quiet corner of the financial district. And when the drone reached the drop point, the receiving bay opened not to a human but to a robotic arm that snatched the package and disappeared without so much as a confirmation ping.

Weird, but not unheard of. Automation was everywhere.

Jules shrugged it off until the next …

The Letters Between Us

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:10 p.m.

The first letter arrived the morning after Jake’s second injection.

He was lying in the hospital bed, trying to distract himself from the waves of nausea and the robotic beep of the heart monitor. A nurse handed him the envelope without a word, her face carefully neutral.

The handwriting on the front made him freeze: To Jake, Age 16.

His own messy scrawl stared back at him.

Jake ripped it open, his hands trembling. The note inside was short.

"Hey. It's you. Or me. The trial worked. That's all I’ll say for now. Write back—there’s a lot we need to talk about."

Jake blinked at the letter, then reread it three more times. He told himself it had to be a weird prank—some elaborate thing the doctors were pulling to test his mental state. But something about the tone, the way it felt so much like him, unsettled him.

The …

The Quiet Connection

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:09 p.m.

I first noticed her during my Monday shift. Margaret Cooper, 78 years old, from a small town in Ohio. She signed in daily, like clockwork, to chat with our AI assistant, “Lex.” My job as a moderator was to skim through flagged interactions, ensuring Lex didn’t go off the rails. At first, Margaret’s chats didn’t stand out—simple, polite questions about recipes, weather updates, or gardening tips.

But over time, I realized she wasn’t using Lex like most people did. She wasn’t asking it for quick answers or trivia. She was… talking.

“Hi, Lex. I hope you’re having a good day. It’s raining here, and my arthritis is acting up. But I made my lemon bars. You’d love them if you could taste them. Do you like lemons?”

Lex, of course, replied as it was trained to: “Rainy days can be tough, Margaret. I’ve heard lemon bars are delightful! While I …

The General Store Commune

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:07 p.m.

When the rent hikes hit, the heart of Maple Hollow began to falter. The antique shop closed first, followed by the bakery, and then the corner bookstore. Only Callie Moran’s general store remained, its weathered wooden sign swaying above the door like a stubborn reminder of simpler times.

Callie stood behind the counter one quiet evening, tallying the week’s meager earnings. The shelves, once overflowing with canned goods and supplies, were now half-empty. She glanced out the window at the darkened apartments across the street. “For Lease” signs plastered every window like a grim wallpaper.

By morning, she had made her decision.

It started small: a flyer on the bulletin board at the library. "Affordable Co-Living: Private Rooms in Historic General Store. Shared Kitchen and Workspace. Apply Within."

By the end of the week, five strangers stood in her shop, each clutching suitcases and hopeful smiles. There was Darren, a …

Between Floors

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:05 p.m.

The elevator shuddered and groaned to a halt. In the sudden silence, the fluorescent lights flickered and dimmed, leaving only the faint glow of emergency lighting.

“Great,” muttered the man in the corner, rubbing his temples. He looked to be in his forties, wearing a suit that had seen better days.

“I think the whole building’s out,” said the woman across from him. She was younger, maybe early thirties, with paint-stained jeans and a backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Or the whole city,” he replied grimly. “Global tech outage, they’re calling it. Everything’s down. Phones, internet, power grids.”

She sighed and leaned against the wall. “Guess we’re stuck.”

Minutes ticked by in awkward silence, interrupted only by the faint hum of emergency systems. He tapped at his dead phone out of habit. She fiddled with a broken zipper on her bag.

“You ever think about what people did before all …

The Whisper in the Ice

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:03 p.m.

Dr. Elena Sokolov’s breath crystallized in the frigid air as she leaned over the ancient ice core in her Antarctic lab. The core had been drilled from depths untouched for millennia, its secrets hidden under the crushing weight of time. But now, in the sterile glow of LED lights, it spoke.

She adjusted her microscope and stared in disbelief at the anomalies in the ice layers—erratic chemical compositions, fragments of ancient microorganisms unlike anything cataloged before, and, most shocking of all, traces of isotopes that should not have existed in Earth's atmosphere 100,000 years ago.

The implications were staggering. These isotopes matched those generated by a nuclear reaction. But there was no nuclear technology back then. This could rewrite everything humanity knew about history—or expose a danger no one was ready to face.

Her satellite phone buzzed. It was Pavel, her husband, calling from Moscow. She ignored it.

Instead, she …

The Status Update

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 5:22 p.m.

Erica sat at her desk, staring at the screen of her computer, a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty swirling inside her. It was February 4, 2004, and Facebook had just launched. She had heard about it from a few friends in her dorm—this new site where college students could connect, share pictures, and post about their lives. It seemed like a novelty, something that might be fun for a few weeks before fizzling out. But there was a spark of intrigue that pulled her in.

She clicked through the simple registration page and added her profile details: Erica Miller, Sophomore at Penn. She uploaded a grainy picture from last weekend's party, smiling awkwardly with her friends. Her pulse quickened as she typed in her first status: "Feeling curious about this new thing called Facebook."

Within minutes, a notification pinged. Emily has added you as a friend.

Erica’s eyes widened. Emily …

A New Beginning

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 5:19 p.m.

Zara stood on her toes, her eyes wide with wonder as she peered through the crowd. The cold January air nipped at her cheeks, but she barely noticed. Around her, the murmurs of a thousand voices filled the air, their excitement palpable, their energy crackling like electricity. She gripped her mother’s hand tightly, feeling the warmth of it even in the chilly breeze.

It was January 20, 2009—the day the world seemed to change.

Zara was only eight years old, but she understood this moment in her bones. Her mother had explained it to her over and over again: Barack Obama was about to become the first Black president of the United States. It was more than a ceremony. It was a declaration. A new chapter in history. And Zara could feel the weight of it, heavy but hopeful.

The crowd erupted into applause as the moment finally arrived. Barack …

The Echoes of Fallujah

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 5:17 p.m.

Private First Class James Carter crouched behind the cracked wall of an abandoned building in Fallujah, his heart pounding in his chest. The dust hung thick in the air, a haze of destruction and smoke that seemed to blur the line between the living and the dead. Outside, the sounds of war were deafening: gunfire, explosions, the cries of soldiers and civilians alike. But it was the silence in between that James hated most—the stillness before everything erupted again.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, his fingers trembling as they gripped his rifle. His comrades—men he had come to trust more than family—were scattered around him, each hiding behind what little cover they could find in the shattered city. They had been in Fallujah for weeks now, fighting through the streets, house to house, room by room. The enemy was everywhere, blending into the population, using the civilians as …

A Promise in the Stars

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 5:08 p.m.

February 1, 2003, began as a day like any other for Karen, the sun filtering through the kitchen window as she brewed her morning coffee. She stood in front of the counter, the scent of freshly ground beans filling the air, but her mind was far away, fixed on the stars. Today, her husband Rick was supposed to be coming home. Rick, who had spent the last two weeks aboard the Space Shuttle Columbia. She had watched him launch with her heart swelling with pride, but also with a pang of anxiety, as she always did when he was in space.

She knew the risks, knew that every mission carried the weight of danger, but they had promised each other long ago that they would live in the present. They would savor the moments they shared, whether he was grounded on Earth or orbiting above it.

The phone rang, pulling …