Flash Stories

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 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 Rescue

hamed Jan. 8, 2025, 11:07 a.m.

We were on a ferry crossing the bay, a group of executives heading to a team-building retreat. The waves were choppy, the wind sharp and biting. As we huddled on the deck, a smaller boat trailing behind us suddenly capsized. Two men—passengers from the smaller boat—were flailing in the water, their cries barely audible over the roar of the waves.

Panic spread among the passengers. One of the executives, Mr. Rahimi, turned to the deckhand and shouted, “Save them both! I’ll pay you ten million tomans for each life you save!”

The deckhand hesitated for only a moment before diving into the freezing water. We all watched breathlessly as he reached one man, pulling him to safety. By the time he went back for the second, it was too late—the other man had disappeared beneath the surface.

As the rescued man gasped for air on the deck, I turned to …

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 …

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.

Ashes of Home

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 6:14 p.m.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the remnants of what was once a vibrant neighborhood. Now, all that remained were smoldering ruins and the smell of charred wood and ashes. The fire had come without warning, a merciless beast that tore through the community, leaving only sorrow in its wake.

Samantha stood on the edge of what used to be her street, staring at the hollow skeletons of homes. She had lived here for over twenty years—watched children grow up, witnessed countless barbecues and block parties, celebrated birthdays and holidays with neighbors who felt more like family than mere acquaintances. But now, the street was empty, the once-bustling community silenced by the flames.

She reached down and picked up a photograph, the edges singed but the image still recognizable. It was of her daughter, Emily, playing with the neighbor’s dog in the front yard. It …

Ashes and Rebirth

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 6:03 p.m.

The fire came fast.

It started on the ridgeline, a small spark igniting in the dry brush, but by the time Sara noticed, the flames had spread across the valley like a furious beast, devouring everything in its path. The smoke smothered the sky, turning the sun into a murky orb of red, and the air thickened with the scent of burning earth.

She stood at the edge of her property, staring at the inferno creeping closer, knowing the inevitable. Her home—the house where she had raised her children, where memories of laughter and sorrow intertwined in every corner—was about to be reduced to ash.

"I should've left sooner," she whispered to herself, but the truth was, she’d never imagined this moment would come. Not here. Not in the peaceful valley that had once felt so safe.

Her neighbors had already evacuated, their cars speeding down the winding roads, leaving …

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 …

The Weight of Choices

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 6:15 p.m.

Lena stood in the bustling airport terminal, the hum of departing flights a backdrop to her hurried thoughts. She had just returned from a business trip, her mind tangled with deadlines and unanswered emails. Grabbing her suitcase from the baggage claim, she didn’t think twice. It was black, like hers, the same size, the same worn handle from years of travel. She hoisted it onto the trolley and headed to the exit.

It wasn’t until she arrived at home, the evening sun casting long shadows over her apartment, that she realized the mistake. The suitcase wasn’t hers. Her stomach tightened. The zipper, usually stiff, was looser on this one, the fabric slightly worn in places. She opened it, expecting clothes, maybe toiletries. Instead, she found something far more disconcerting.

The first thing that caught her eye was a framed photograph, slightly smudged from travel. A young couple, arms around each …

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 …