Flash Stories

Five Floors Up

hamed Jan. 9, 2025, 5:58 p.m.

Every morning at 8:15, Elena and James rode the elevator together. Five floors of exquisite torture, sharing space with a stranger who felt anything but strange.
She noticed how he always pressed the button for her floor first. He noticed how she hummed Beatles songs under her breath.
Neither noticed they both wrote about each other in their journals each night.
Today was different. The elevator lurched, stopped between floors. Emergency lights cast shadows that made hiding glances impossible.
"I'm James," he said finally.
"I know," she replied. "Your coffee cup says it every morning."
"You're Elena. Your packages at the front desk."
"We're terrible at this, aren't we?"
An hour passed. They shared a protein bar from her purse, swapped stories about terrible first dates.
When maintenance finally arrived, they had dinner plans.
As they stepped out, Elena smiled. "You know, I've been taking the stairs down every evening."
"Funny," James grinned. "I just moved in last month. My apartment's …

The Auto-Reply

hamed Jan. 9, 2025, 5:56 p.m.

Dave set his out-of-office email to: "Currently hiking Mount Everest. No access to civilization. Back in two weeks."
He was actually binge-watching Netflix in his apartment.
His boss replied: "Amazing! My brother's leading an expedition there right now. I'll tell him to look for you!"
Dave panicked and updated his auto-reply: "Update: Had to turn back. Yeti attack. Very common this season."
His boss: "Fascinating! National Geographic is there filming a Yeti documentary. They'd love to interview you!"
New update: "False alarm. Wasn't a Yeti. Just a very angry goat."
Boss: "Even better! My sister runs a viral goat video channel. She's at base camp!"
Final desperate update: "Plot twist: I'm still at my desk. The Himalayas screensaver fooled me."
Boss's reply: "I know. I'm watching you through the office window. Nice pajamas. PS: None of my siblings exist. But your creativity deserves a raise."

The Followers

hamed Jan. 9, 2025, 5:54 p.m.

Her Instagram following jumped from 651 to 100,000 overnight. Sarah stared at her phone, puzzled. Every new follower's profile picture showed the same thing: her sleeping face, photographed from above her bed.
Each account had posted a single photo – different angles of her bedroom, all timestamped from last night. In some, a dark figure stood in the corner, growing clearer with each post.
She scrolled frantically. The figure moved closer to her bed in each subsequent photo.
Her phone pinged: "Going viral! 250,000 followers!"
The latest photos showed the figure leaning over her sleeping form, its face a blur of static.
Another ping: "500,000 followers!"
Sarah looked up at her bedroom ceiling. The hidden camera she'd installed last week blinked steadily. But she hadn't installed it.
Her phone buzzed one final time: "Live stream starting in 3...2...1..."
The lights went out. In the darkness, thousands of tiny red recording lights blinked from every corner of her room.

The Last Text

hamed Jan. 9, 2025, 5:51 p.m.

The text from Jessica came at 3:33 AM: "I know what you did."
Marcus nearly dropped his phone. The timestamp was impossible – Jessica had died two hours ago in what the police called a "tragic accident."
His phone buzzed again: "Did you think deleting our conversation would hide it? Technology never forgets, Marcus."
The screen flickered, showing their last chat. The one he'd deleted. The one where she threatened to expose his embezzlement scheme.
Another buzz: "I backed everything up to the cloud before you pushed me."
His security cameras triggered. On the feed, he saw Jessica's contact photo floating in his living room, pixelating, expanding, forming a shape.
The lights went out.
In the darkness, his phone illuminated a face – Jessica's, but wrong. Her features were composed of binary code, her eyes mere windows to endless scrolling text messages.
"Let me show you what digital revenge looks like."
His phone began to glow white-hot in his …

The Last Dance

hamed Jan. 9, 2025, 5:50 p.m.

The dance studio mirrors multiplied my humiliation by infinity. There was my best friend Mia, teaching my fiancé Tom the wedding dance I'd asked her to choreograph for us. Their bodies moved in perfect sync – too perfect for a first lesson.
I watched from the doorway as he dipped her, their faces inches apart, both laughing. The same laugh they'd shared at dinner parties, at game nights, at every moment I'd dismissed as friendly.
My phone still held the video I'd planned to share on social media: "First dance lessons with my amazing bestie and future husband! #WeddingPrep"
Instead, I pressed record on their private performance and typed: "Last dance lessons with my ex-bestie and ex-fiancé. #PlotTwist"
The sound of my phone's shutter echo made them freeze mid-turn. Their faces paled as I hit 'post.'
"Consider this my RSVP," I said, turning away. "I won't be attending."
Behind me, the mirrors captured their desperate scramble …

The Invitation

hamed Jan. 9, 2025, 5:48 p.m.

The wedding invitation arrived on a Tuesday. Emma's name was embossed in gold, right next to David's. My David. My ex-fiancé.
The note inside read: "I know this is awkward, but you're still my best friend. Please come."
I remembered the night Emma consoled me after David and I fought, how she insisted on taking him to get coffee and "talk sense into him." They never came back.
Three months later, here was their invitation. I picked up my fountain pen – the one David had given me for our engagement – and wrote my RSVP:
"Dear Emma, Thank you for the invitation. I've already booked the perfect gift: the complete text messages between you and David from the night you 'helped' us. Your other guests will love the dramatic reading I've planned for my toast. Best wishes, Sarah."
My phone rang within minutes. The wedding was suddenly postponed. Indefinitely.

The Birthday Card

hamed Jan. 9, 2025, 5:30 p.m.

The birthday card arrived three months late, postmarked from Paris. Rachel's hands trembled as she recognized Lisa's looping handwriting – the same handwriting that had signed witness statements in the fraud investigation that had cost Rachel her company.
Inside was a single line: "I never meant to hurt you."
Below it lay a check for $2.3 million – exactly what Lisa had helped herself to while serving as Rachel's CFO and supposed best friend since college.
Rachel picked up her phone and typed: "Money doesn't fix betrayal. But thanks for funding my new startup's investigation into corporate fraud. You'll be our first case study."
She smiled as she watched the message status change to "Read" and then, moments later, saw Lisa's social media accounts vanish one by one.
Sometimes the best revenge wasn't getting even – it was getting ahead.

The Mirror Breaks

hamed Jan. 9, 2025, 5:29 p.m.

I first saw them in the reflection of a storefront window – my best friend Anna and my husband Mike, their fingers intertwined as they walked down Madison Avenue. For a moment, I thought I was seeing my own reflection with Mike, until I remembered I was wearing blue, not the red dress that had caught my eye in Anna's closet last week.
"It's just a sample sale," she'd said when I asked why she was headed downtown. "Nothing exciting."
The same lie Mike had told me this morning.
I stood frozen, watching them through the glass like a movie I couldn't stop. Fifteen years of friendship reflected back at me, distorted now. Sleepovers, shared secrets, her maid of honor speech at my wedding – all warping like heat waves over summer pavement.
They stopped at the corner, and Mike brushed a strand of hair from her face – the same gesture he'd used …

The Text Message Mix-up

hamed Jan. 9, 2025, 5:26 p.m.

Sarah stared at her phone in horror. The message she'd meant to send to her best friend about her boyfriend's terrible cooking had just gone to... her boyfriend.
"OMG, he made dinner again. Pretty sure this chicken is still clucking. Send help! 🤢"
Within seconds, her phone buzzed with his reply: "I can hear it too! That's why I ordered pizza. Check the kitchen counter. 😘"
Confused, Sarah walked to the kitchen. There sat two large pizza boxes and a rubber chicken toy making clucking sounds when squeezed. A note read: "Thought we could both use a laugh after my last cooking attempt. PS: The rubber chicken is probably more edible than what I made."
She found him in the living room, grinning. "You knew I'd text Jenny about your cooking?"
"Honey, everyone texts their best friend about my cooking. I just beat you to the punchline this time."
Sarah picked up the rubber chicken and …

Three Years, One Hundred Leaps

hamed Jan. 8, 2025, 7:52 p.m.

When Harold finally opened his eyes, he was expecting to see the familiar, slightly outdated hospital room where he last remembered dozing off. Instead, he was greeted by walls that seemed to breathe with life, changing colors like a chameleon at a disco. The bed was no longer a bed but more of a floating cloud of comfort, and there was no nurse in sight—just a shiny, hovering orb with a cheerful voice.

"Welcome back, Harold!" the orb chirped. "You've been out for precisely three years, but don't worry, you've missed about a century's worth of advancements!"

Harold blinked, trying to process this. "Three years? A century? What kind of math is that?"

The orb, which introduced itself as NurseBot 3000, explained with a giggle, "Oh, that's just AI acceleration for you! We've had some... let's say, 'creative' updates."

First, Harold noticed his new attire. Instead of hospital gowns, he …