Flash Stories

Crossing Borders

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 5:46 p.m.

The air smelled of wet earth and desperation. Layla adjusted the straps of her backpack, her fingers numb in the icy night. Ahead, the faint glow of a distant village flickered like a fragile promise. Behind her, the war raged on, its echoes vibrating through the soles of her worn shoes.

She was alone now. The others had scattered at the last checkpoint when the guards appeared. Some were caught; others ran deeper into the woods. Layla had chosen the river, slipping silently through the reeds, her heart pounding louder than the current.

Her mother’s voice haunted her: “Keep moving, Layla. Never stop, not until you’re free.”

By dawn, she stumbled into the outskirts of a farming village. A boy, no older than ten, watched her from the steps of a weathered barn. He didn’t speak, just ran inside and returned with a loaf of bread.

“Eat,” he said simply, …

The Last Trade

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 5:44 p.m.

The bell over the door jingled one final time. Sofia looked up, her fingers idly tracing the floral patterns carved into the counter. It was a relic from her father’s era, the oak stained with decades of varnish and sweat. In walked Mrs. Devlin, her scarf pulled tightly around her face against the January chill.

“You’re really closing, Sofia?” Mrs. Devlin’s voice was soft, almost mournful.

Sofia nodded, forcing a smile. “Last day. The shelves are nearly bare, anyway.”

She glanced around the store. The jars of Italian olives, the French soaps, and the Turkish tea sets had been replaced with emptiness. The new tariffs had priced her loyal customers out, and soon even her suppliers had stopped calling.

“I thought I’d at least make it to spring,” Sofia said, her voice cracking despite herself. She cleared her throat. “Guess not.”

Mrs. Devlin set a tin of local honey on …

The Memory Collector

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 5:36 p.m.

Daniel's grandmother left him an old smartphone when she died. Not money, not jewelry, not her cherished recipe book – just an iPhone 6 with a cracked screen and a Post-it note that read: "One photo every day. You'll understand."

At first, he thought dementia had finally won. His grandmother had never owned a smartphone; she could barely operate the TV remote. Yet here was this device, its battery somehow still holding a charge, filled with 4,380 photos – exactly one per day for the past twelve years.

The first photo was of a half-eaten toast on a blue plate. The second, a pigeon on a windowsill. The third, his grandfather's reading glasses left on yesterday's newspaper. Mundane moments, captured with trembling hands and poor framing.

He almost deleted them all until he noticed the pattern. Every photo had a story, written in the Notes app with surprising technological proficiency:

Writing Love

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 5:33 p.m.

Thomas Blake stared at the blinking cursor on his screen, watching it mock him with each flash. Sixteen bestselling romance novels, and now... nothing. His editor's calls went unanswered, his agent's emails unread. How could he write about love when every story felt like a lie, every scene a recycled cliché?

The coffee shop beneath his apartment became his refuge. Not to write – he'd given up carrying his laptop – but to escape the accusing silence of his study. He ordered the same thing every morning: a large Americano, black, like his mood.

That's where he first saw her, arguing with the barista about the superiority of physical books over e-readers. Her wire-rimmed glasses kept sliding down her nose as she gesticulated, her messenger bag overflowing with worn paperbacks. When she turned to leave, he noticed she was carrying his first novel, its spine cracked from multiple readings.

"That's …

The Price of Peace

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 5:29 p.m.

James Morgan wiped the sweat from his brow as he looked at the faded sign of Morgan & Sons Hardware. For twenty-four years, he'd been the first to arrive and the last to leave, just as his father had taught him. Through recessions, big-box store competition, and personal hardships, he'd kept the family business alive, ensuring his younger siblings Michael and Sarah had college educations and comfortable lives.

The betrayal came during a routine family meeting. Michael, now a lawyer, had drawn up new ownership papers. Sarah, with her MBA, had spreadsheets showing how "restructuring" would benefit everyone. They spoke of modernization, efficiency, and market realities. The fine print told a different story – one that would leave James with nothing but memories.

"It's just business," Michael had said, not meeting his eyes.

"The market doesn't care about sentiment," Sarah had added, her voice rehearsed.

After the dust settled and …

The Scent of Home

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 5:17 p.m.

Maria's corner office on the thirty-fifth floor overlooked Manhattan's skyline, a view that still amazed her twenty years after arriving with nothing but a single suitcase and her mother's recipe book. The leather chair, the awards on the wall, the framed MBA from Columbia – all testified to the American Dream fulfilled. Yet every evening, as the city lights began to twinkle, her thoughts drifted back to the dusty streets of her childhood village.

She thought of mangoes ripening on the tree outside her grandmother's kitchen window, their sweet perfume floating through the afternoon air. No matter how many times she bought mangoes from Whole Foods, they never smelled quite the same. They were like photographs of the fruit she remembered – perfect on the surface but missing something essential.

Her assistant knocked, bringing papers to sign. "Another record quarter, Ms. Rodriguez. The board is thrilled."

Maria nodded, signing automatically …

From the Ranks

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 5:10 p.m.

Prince Alexander was the fourth son, a position that earned him little more than dismissive glances at court. While his elder brothers learned statecraft and swordplay with the finest tutors, Alexander was left to his own devices. Too far down the line of succession to matter, yet too highborn to be ignored completely.

The whispers followed him through the palace corridors: "The wastrel prince," they called him. "Good for nothing but drinking and dice." Even his father, King Edmund, barely acknowledged him at formal functions, his eyes sliding past Alexander to rest proudly on his older brothers.

On his eighteenth birthday, instead of requesting the customary grant of lands, Alexander asked for something unprecedented – permission to join the army as a common soldier. The court erupted in scandalized murmurs, but King Edmund, perhaps eager to be rid of his embarrassment, granted the request with a dismissive wave.

Alexander traded …

The Long Wait

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 5 p.m.

Emma scrolled through her phone, deleting photos of yet another failed relationship. Six years of dating apps, blind dates, and "promising" connections had left her with nothing but a collection of stories that made her friends cringe. At thirty-four, she was beginning to wonder if her standards were too high, or if true love was just a myth invented by romance novelists.
The invitation to her fifteen-year high school reunion sat unopened on her kitchen counter. She almost tossed it, but something made her pause. Maybe it was time to revisit the past before attempting another future.
The school gymnasium hadn't changed – same squeaky floors, same faded banners. As Emma nursed her punch, watching former cheerleaders compare wedding rings, a quiet voice behind her said, "Still hiding in the corner with the red punch, huh?"
She turned to find David Chen, who'd sat behind her in AP Literature. He still had those …

The Last Heir

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 4:55 p.m.

Sarah Blackwood traced her fingers over the family portraits lining the mahogany-paneled hallway. First went little Tommy, found frozen in the greenhouse despite the summer heat. Then Mother, discovered at the bottom of the stairs with a broken neck – though Sarah couldn't remember those stairs ever creaking before. Father lasted longer, until the hunting accident that everyone called suspicious but couldn't prove otherwise.
At seventeen, she was the last Blackwood standing.
Mr. Peterson, their family lawyer since before her birth, had been a constant presence through each tragedy. He arranged the funerals, managed the estate, and became her legal guardian. His cold efficiency in handling their affairs had been a comfort, until she found the old photograph while cleaning out Mother's dresser.
It showed a younger Peterson at a garden party, his eyes fixed on her mother with an intensity that made Sarah's skin crawl. In every frame, he lurked in the …

The Last Sunset

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 4:44 p.m.

Marcus stood at his bedroom window, watching the Hollywood Hills shimmer in the distance. The "For Sale" contract lay unsigned on his desk, its presence a quiet reproach. After fifteen years, he couldn't bring himself to sign away his dream house without one last sunset from the infinity pool.
"Just one more day," he told his realtor over the phone. "The market's hot. What difference could it make?"
The Santa Ana winds picked up that evening, howling through the canyons like hungry wolves. Marcus watched uneasily as the palm trees thrashed against an orange sky. The news warned of extreme fire danger, but he'd heard it all before. This was LA; drama was in the city's DNA.
At 3 AM, his phone's emergency alert jerked him awake. The hills were ablaze, a savage wall of flames advancing faster than anyone had predicted. Marcus grabbed his go-bag and laptop, hands trembling as he rushed …