Flash Stories

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 …

Numbers Don't Lie

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:36 p.m.

Numbers Don't Lie

Adnan's screens flickered with red numbers as the lira fell another twelve percent. His trading desk at First Capital Bank, usually bustling with energy, had grown eerily quiet. Everyone was watching their own cascading displays, running their own calculations, making their own choices.

His phone buzzed: a message from Zhang at Goldman. "Position still open. Window closing. Decision needed within hour."

Adnan's fingers hovered over his keyboard. The trade was perfectly legal—a massive short position against his own country's currency. He'd make enough to buy his parents a house in London, get his sister into Harvard. The money would be safely in dollars before the worst hit.

But he thought of his father's small textile factory, of the workers who'd been there since Adnan was a boy. They'd be the ones who'd suffer when the currency collapsed. Their savings would evaporate, their jobs would vanish as imported …

The Last Road

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

Maya gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, as the miles stretched before her like an endless blur. The car’s air conditioning had long since failed, the inside of the vehicle suffocating from the heat. The fire was close now—too close. The sky was no longer blue but a molten orange, the sun obscured by smoke as thick as tar.

The radio crackled, barely audible through the static: "Evacuate immediately. Avoid Highway 12. Alternate routes advised. Do not delay."

She wasn’t on Highway 12. She wasn’t on any route, really. Maya had taken the back roads, hoping to escape the gridlock, but it seemed the whole town was trying to do the same thing. Traffic was at a standstill—cars creeping forward in fits and starts like a slow-motion stampede. The smell of burning wood filled the air, sharp and choking.

Maya glanced at her phone—no service. It had been that way …

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 Ping

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 5:12 p.m.

Maya sat on the couch, the soft hum of the evening settling around her as she picked up her phone. Her two-year-old son, Liam, was in his room, his giggles muffled by the walls. She smiled, scrolling through pictures of him playing in the park earlier that day. It was supposed to be her time—her quiet evening, a rare moment when work was not supposed to follow her home. But then, the ping.

It was a Slack notification. “Can you take a look at this document? Need it updated by 9 a.m. tomorrow.”

Maya stared at the screen, the words blurring before her eyes. She tried to push it away. “Not now,” she whispered to herself. It’s just one evening.

She glanced over at the clock. 7:30 p.m. The kids would be asleep soon, and she had promised herself she would be fully present with her family tonight. The thought …

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 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 …

A Helping Hand

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 6:09 p.m.

The sun was a dim, burning orb in the sky, barely visible through the thick smoke that had settled over the town. In the distance, the crackling roar of flames was relentless, a reminder of how fast the fire had spread. Evacuation orders had come hours ago, but for some, leaving wasn’t as simple as driving away.

Grace was already packed, her small suitcase sitting at her feet, but she couldn’t leave—not yet. She stood at the door of her house, hands trembling, her gaze fixed on the orange glow creeping closer to her street.

Then, she heard it. The sound of desperate barking from next door.

"Charlie..." Grace whispered, heart sinking. Her neighbor, Mr. Harris, was elderly and lived alone, and his dog, a scruffy terrier, was always glued to his side.

She quickly grabbed her purse and ran next door, banging on the door with frantic urgency.

“Mr. …

The Changing Desk

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 5:20 p.m.

In the early years, Ellen’s desk had been a small, solid oak fixture by the window. It was a place where she could feel the sun streaming in during the morning, warming her as she sorted through the day's tasks. Her files were stacked in neat rows, a small picture of her family on the corner, a few potted plants for decoration. The desk was hers, personalized—an anchor in an otherwise uniform office. The walls around her were beige, the carpet a muted shade of gray, but it didn’t matter. The routine was hers to control.

But over time, things started to change. The fluorescent lights above her desk buzzed more insistently, as if in sync with the shifts happening beneath them.

It started subtly—new colleagues, young faces with bright eyes and a certain energy she couldn’t quite name. Then, the open-plan office layout arrived. The walls came down, literally. …

The Art of Choosing

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:23 p.m.

Sarah's mother always said grace before dinner, even when Sarah stopped bowing her head. Her father always asked about her grades, even when she'd long graduated. Her brother always made the same jokes about her being single, even when they stopped being funny years ago.

That Thursday evening, like every Thursday for the past decade, she sat at Luna's cramped kitchen table instead of her family's formal dining room. Luna handed her a steaming mug of chai, made exactly how Sarah liked it—more cardamom, less sugar.

"Rough day?" Luna asked, noticing Sarah's wrinkled blazer and untamed hair.

"Mom called again. Asked when I'm going to 'settle down' and 'give her grandchildren.'" Sarah wrapped her hands around the warm mug. "Said I'm wasting my life running an art gallery."

"Ah yes, how dare you follow your passion and become successful?" Luna rolled her eyes, pulling out leftover lasagna from her fridge—Sarah's …