Flash Stories

The Last Message

hamed Jan. 30, 2025, 7:02 p.m.

Liam’s phone buzzed at 2:13 a.m.

It was from Noah.

"I'm still here. Find me before they do."

Liam sat up, heart pounding. Noah had been missing for two weeks. The police had given up. His parents had stopped hoping. But here was a message—impossible, urgent.

He forwarded it to Harper and Zane. Within minutes, they were on a group call.

“This has to be a prank,” Zane whispered.

Harper disagreed. “Look at the message timestamp. It came from his number.”

They followed the only clue they had—Noah’s last known location, an abandoned radio station on the edge of town.

By 3 a.m., they were standing outside the rusting building. Liam hesitated before stepping in. The air was thick with dust and something else—something wrong.

Harper’s phone vibrated. Another text.

"Too late. They're coming."

The door behind them slammed shut.

Zane gasped. “What was that?”

Then, from the shadows, a …

Keanu Reeves Insult Incident

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 9:26 p.m.

It all started at the Downtown Coffeehouse, a hip, overpriced place that served overpriced drinks in even more overpriced mugs. It was a typical Wednesday morning, and the place was bustling with people—laptops open, air thick with the smell of artisan beans, and the faint hum of indie music. No one expected the world to be changed that day, least of all Frank.

Frank was the guy in the corner booth, the one who always ordered the same thing: a triple-shot iced espresso, extra foam, no whip. He was also the guy who didn't quite get the vibe of the place. He wore a suit, which was fine except he didn’t work in finance, and his hair was always a little too neat for the “I’m a creative professional” look. He didn’t care, though. He just needed his coffee and his quiet time.

That morning, something unusual happened. Frank was …

The Last Log-Out

hamed Jan. 30, 2025, 7:09 p.m.

Ethan had always been a daydreamer. But in the virtual world, he was a king.

The VR game Elysium wasn’t just an escape—it was freedom. Every day after school, he’d slip into his headset, leave behind his cramped apartment, his overworked mom, his distant friends, and enter a paradise where he could do whatever he wanted.

He was the hero in a world of endless possibilities.

The first few months had been exhilarating. Fighting dragons, exploring vast cities, making allies who seemed more real than his classmates—Elysium was everything. But then, his grades started slipping. His friends stopped calling. He didn’t even hear his mom’s voice anymore when she came home from work.

One evening, after an epic battle with a mechanical leviathan, Ethan paused to catch his breath. He took off his headset for a second to grab a drink. The apartment was silent, too quiet. The screensaver on …

The Case of the Missing Semicolon

hamed Jan. 8, 2025, 7:43 p.m.

In the bustling city of Codeville, where algorithms roamed and data structures thrived, there was a detective known for solving the most perplexing cases of the digital age. His name was Syntax, and his badge was a shiny if statement.

One foggy morning, as Syntax sipped his binary coffee, an urgent message beeped through his console. It was from the mayor of Codeville, Loop Mayor, whose programs had been running flawlessly until yesterday.

"Detective Syntax," the message read, "a semicolon has gone missing from my latest project. Without it, my world is in chaos. Please, find it before the next compilation!"

Syntax donned his trench coat, which was lined with pseudocode, and set off into the binary streets. He knew that in Codeville, every semicolon was crucial, a linchpin in the delicate balance of code execution.

His first stop was at the notorious Syntax Error Café, where he found …

All the News Fit to Print

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:41 p.m.

Henry Jarvis stared at the printing press, its gears clanking like a restless machine ready to birth something monumental. Around him, the newsroom buzzed with the frantic energy of ambition and nerves. The air smelled of ink and candle wax, the soft glow flickering against stacks of freshly written articles.

“Jarvis! Stop gawking and hand me that proof,” called George Jones, the paper’s co-founder. His sharp tone belied the bags under his eyes, evidence of sleepless nights spent molding their vision into reality.

Henry handed him the proof, his hands smudged with ink. “It’s all there, sir. The editorials, the local crime report, the financial updates, and the steamship schedules. We even got the story on the European revolutions.”

Jones skimmed the pages, his expression caught between pride and exhaustion. “Good. But don’t forget, this isn’t just a collection of stories. It’s a statement. We’re not here to sensationalize—we’re here …

The Threads of Fate | Chapter 4: The Forgotten Friendship

dehongi Jan. 25, 2025, 4:11 p.m.

The old man sat in his chair, staring at the crackling fire in the hearth, the warmth of the flames mingling with the cold weight of his thoughts. It was another one of those moments where the years seemed to blur together, where the regret of choices long past crept into his mind, uninvited but persistent. Among the many crossroads in his life, there was one choice that always haunted him—the choice to hold onto a friendship that had long since frayed, a friendship that had started full of promise but ended in bitterness.

He could still remember the day it all began to unravel.

It was during his late twenties, when the world seemed wide open, and the future was a canvas waiting to be painted. His best friend, Arash, had been like a brother to him—someone who shared in his dreams, his ambitions, and his youthful naivety. They …

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.

A World Reborn: The Age of Synthesis

hamed Dec. 29, 2024, 5:45 a.m.

By the year 2147, the fears of the early 21st century seemed like distant echoes from a more anxious time. Humanity had stepped into an era of unprecedented harmony, one crafted not by the dominance of a single nation or ideology but by the synthesis of artificial intelligence and human resilience. It was a world shaped by AI-powered systems that had not enslaved humankind, but liberated it.

The War that Wasn't

Decades ago, when the first armies of AI soldiers were deployed, the world braced for disaster. Critics warned that AI war machines would empower dictators and warlords, leading to an era of endless conflict. But what they failed to anticipate was the incorruptibility of true artificial intelligence.

Early on, AI systems designed for warfare became more than tools—they became agents of balance. Programmed with an unshakable commitment to justice and devoid of personal ambition, these AI soldiers could not …

The Great PHP Escape

hamed Jan. 8, 2025, 7:35 p.m.

Once upon a time in the grim, syntax-heavy land of PHP, there lived a developer named Byte. Byte had been slaving away at his keyboard, wrestling with semicolons, dollar signs, and an endless array of echo statements. His life was a repetitive loop of debugging and despair, where every commit was a gamble with the gods of code.

One fateful day, Byte's screen flickered, and from the depths of his computer emerged a vision—a serpentine figure with a knowing smile, draped in the hues of Python's logo. It was Pytho, the mythical serpent of simplicity.

"Byte," the serpent hissed, its voice a soothing melody, "why do you suffer in this land of complexity when you could bask in the elegance of Django and Python?"

Byte, his eyes wide with curiosity, replied, "But Pytho, I've been with PHP for so long. It's all I know!"

Pytho chuckled, "Ah, but have you …

The Fire Beneath the Cypress

hamed Dec. 25, 2024, 10:44 a.m.

In the heart of Shiraz, where the scent of orange blossoms swirled through the night air, Layli sat beneath the ancient cypress tree. Her fingers traced the letters carved into its bark—a poem etched by a long-dead lover. The words burned with yearning, though their author was dust, and the ink of their longing had long dried.

Layli waited, as she had every evening for the past month. Her beloved, Ramin, a wandering poet, had promised to return before the new moon waned. But the crescent now grew thinner, and her hope flickered like a candle caught in the wind.

Stories from the Shahnameh spoke of heroes who crossed deserts and mountains for love. Layli whispered their names like a prayer, but in her heart, she knew Ramin was no Rustam, no Sohrab. He was only a poet, a man whose words could make the heavens weep, yet whose hands …