Flash Stories

A Rocket of Her Own

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:12 p.m.

Tasha sat cross-legged on the cracked pavement, staring at the grainy image on her tablet. The launch replayed again and again—Dr. Jeanette Epps, face calm and resolute beneath her helmet, ascending into the heavens. The first Black woman to live and work aboard the International Space Station.

“Why do you keep watching that?” her brother teased, bouncing a basketball on the uneven ground.

Tasha didn’t answer. She couldn’t pull her eyes away from the rocket, the plume of fire and smoke, the boundless sky swallowing the craft whole.

At school, they laughed when she said she wanted to be an astronaut. "You? In space? Dream smaller," the boys had jeered. Even her teacher had hesitated, then offered a patronizing, "Well, that’s ambitious, Tasha."

But watching Dr. Epps, she saw something else—proof.

That night, she pulled out the notebook she hid under her mattress. Across its pages, she’d drawn rockets, spacesuits, …

The Last Truth

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:09 p.m.

The newsroom was silent, a graveyard of empty desks and dormant monitors. Taylor sat alone under the flickering glow of a desk lamp, headphones on, replaying the anonymous audio file for the tenth time.

“Project Echo is real. The broadcasts are scripted. Follow the money. You’ll find the puppeteers.”

The voice was scrambled, untraceable, but the weight of its claim was suffocating. Taylor, a once-respected journalist now reduced to running an independent stream, had spent weeks chasing dead ends.

Tonight, the puzzle pieces finally fit.

A spreadsheet leaked by the same source revealed corporate ties between the top five networks and a shadowy conglomerate, Solaris Holdings. They controlled airtime, ad revenue, and—Taylor now realized—content itself. Every headline, every breaking story, carefully crafted to serve their agenda.

Taylor leaned back in their chair, staring at the screen. Exposing this would destroy the last shreds of trust in media. But what would …

Ticket to Tomorrow

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:03 p.m.

The announcement crackled through the town square speakers, distorted but unmistakable: "The final departure is in 72 hours. Lottery winners must report to the launch site immediately. No exceptions."

Mara gripped her son Leo’s hand tighter, feeling his small fingers trembling in hers. She tried to keep her expression neutral, but the fear was a beast clawing at her chest. They hadn’t won the lottery. She’d checked the numbers three times.

The line to the town’s lottery office stretched around the block, desperate faces all seeking miracles. Mara didn’t bother joining it. There were no miracles left. Only moves to make.

She slipped into an alley, pulling out the card she’d stolen from her employer two weeks ago: an access badge to the facility where lottery entries were processed. She hadn’t planned on using it—she told herself she’d find another way—but time was out, and so were her choices.

"Stay …

Firewall

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2 p.m.

Kai’s fingers flew across the keyboard, the glow of the screen painting their face in pale blue light. The breach had been catastrophic—millions of names, locations, and personal histories leaked from VaultCore, the company that promised unbreakable security for the digital age. Among the stolen data: Kai’s mother’s bank details and her online medical records, now plastered across the dark web.

The official statement blamed "sophisticated cybercriminals," but Kai didn’t buy it. Not after finding the encrypted files buried in VaultCore’s server logs, files that didn’t belong in any legitimate operation.

"Someone left the back door open," Kai muttered, decrypting another file. And it wasn’t hackers. It was VaultCore itself.

The file revealed chilling plans: selling anonymized—yet traceable—user data to private contractors. The breach wasn’t a crime. It was a smokescreen.

A faint sound broke Kai’s concentration—a creak on the stairs.

They froze, ears straining. At this hour, it should’ve …

Code Gray

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 1:58 p.m.

The hospital hallways hummed with chaos—overcrowded ER bays, patients on gurneys lining the walls, and the faint smell of antiseptic failing to mask desperation. Nurse Clara Morales darted from one room to the next, her clipboard tucked under her arm, exhaustion etched into her face.

The memo had arrived that morning. A new “pilot policy” from the private equity firm that now owned the hospital. “Focus resources on high-value patients,” it read. In other words, prioritize those with the best insurance or the deepest pockets.

Clara had stared at the memo for a full minute before crumpling it in her fist.

Now, as she checked on Mr. Bennett, an elderly man with no insurance and a failing heart, the injustice gnawed at her. “They’ll move him out,” the charge nurse had warned her earlier. “Can’t afford to keep him here.”

Clara adjusted his oxygen mask. "How are you feeling, Mr. …

The Algorithm’s Blind Spot

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 1:56 p.m.

The room buzzed with energy, a dimly lit warehouse crammed with people who didn’t seem to belong together. Posters covered the walls, each one cryptic: “Offline is the New Rebellion.” “Bridge the Divide.” “Find What’s Real.”

Mara adjusted her scarf, scanning the crowd nervously. She wasn’t sure why she’d come. Her niche—a tight-knit online group for minimalists and urban gardeners—had whispered about this gathering for weeks. A rare chance to connect “beyond the screen,” they said. But as she stood there, surrounded by strangers, she wondered if she’d made a mistake.

"First time?" a voice asked.

She turned to see a tall man with disheveled hair and a jacket patched with odd symbols. He held a drink that smelled vaguely like kombucha.

"Yeah," Mara said, trying to match his casual tone. "You?"

He smirked. "Hardly. I’m Luka. I usually stick with my group—open-source hardware enthusiasts—but this seemed… interesting."

Mara arched …

The Line in the Sand

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 1:54 p.m.

The rain soaked Mateo’s jacket as he held his wife Rosa’s hand, their two children huddled close between them. Outside the immigration office, a crowd of protesters shouted into the night, their signs bobbing like storm-tossed buoys: “Families Belong Together.” “No Human is Illegal.”

Behind the glass doors, Councilwoman Evelyn Grant stood watching. She didn’t belong here, not tonight, but something had pulled her from her townhouse and into the chaos. Perhaps it was the image of the Díaz family on her desk—the photo clipped to their immigration file, now stamped with the red letters FINAL ORDER.

Her aide had warned her. “Stay out of it. You’re running for re-election. You can’t take this fight.”

But here she was, drenched in guilt and indecision.

Evelyn recognized Mateo immediately, his weathered face exactly as it looked in the photo. He met her gaze through the glass, his eyes filled with something …

The Envelope

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 1:51 p.m.

Emma Cole stared at the thick manila envelope on her desk, her fingers tracing the edge of its flap. It had arrived anonymously, slipped into her mailbox at the Capitol Press offices late last night. Inside were documents, transcripts, and grainy photographs—enough evidence to topple the newly minted administration of President Nathan Hale.

The “People’s President,” they called him. Charismatic, sharp-tongued, a man of the people. But the papers in her hands told a different story: secret bank accounts, backroom deals with defense contractors, and payments funneled to silence dissent.

Her editor, Mark, leaned against the doorway. "You’ve been quiet all morning. What's in the envelope?"

Emma glanced up, then quickly slid the documents into her desk drawer. "Just background research," she said, her voice too casual.

Mark frowned. "You sure? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

"I’m fine," she lied.

The truth was, her heart hadn’t stopped racing …

The Catalyst

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 1:49 p.m.

The storm outside howled like a wounded beast, slamming rain against the reinforced glass of Dr. Elena Vega's underground lab. Power flickered, but the hum of the emergency generators kept her machines alive. On her desk, a small glass vial shimmered faintly in the dim light, its contents a liquid so iridescent it looked like captured starlight.

She called it The Catalyst.

Years of research had led her here: a synthetic compound capable of reversing atmospheric carbon levels at an unprecedented rate. Not just slowing the crisis—undoing it. A single droplet, when deployed, could trigger a chain reaction in the air, neutralizing greenhouse gases and stabilizing the planet's climate.

Elena’s fingers trembled as she secured the vial in a portable case. She had to get it to the launch site before it was too late. Outside, floodwaters rose, and the city’s air was thick with smoke from wildfires raging hundreds …