Flash Stories

Ashes and Embers

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:59 p.m.

The house was gone.

Emma stood at the edge of the blackened lot, her boots sinking into the scorched earth. The air still carried the acrid scent of smoke, mingling with the faint sweetness of charred wood.

In her mind, the house was still there—the yellow shutters her daughter had painted, the oak dining table that had seen every family meal, the bookshelf her late husband had built. But reality mocked her memories. All that remained was a pile of ash, twisted beams, and broken glass glittering like fallen stars.

Her daughter, Clara, clutched her hand tightly. “Mom,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “What about Dad’s guitar?”

Emma closed her eyes, the lump in her throat too large to swallow. That old guitar had been his treasure, a relic of nights filled with music and laughter. It was gone, just like the photographs, the letters, the heirloom quilt her grandmother …

Voices of the Forgotten

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 5:36 p.m.

In the small town of Willow Creek, tucked away in the rolling hills of the countryside, the world seemed a faraway place. The local café served the same cup of coffee, the high school football games were still the talk of Friday nights, and people smiled at each other on the streets. But, in the shadows of their quiet existence, something had shifted. The ripples of the global protests against police brutality had reached even this remote corner of the world.

Maya stood on the edge of the town square, watching as people began to gather. There was a nervous energy in the air, a feeling that something momentous was about to happen. She had never been one for public displays, but the images of George Floyd’s death—his final breaths, his cry for help—had haunted her every night. The injustice, the brutality, had pushed her to the breaking point. She …

The Last Argument

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:55 p.m.

The fire was a distant glow on the ridgeline when the argument began, its orange hue flickering through the windows of the Harper family’s living room.

“We’re not leaving,” said Joe, the father, his voice firm as he paced near the window. “This is our home. I built this place with my bare hands, and I’m not letting some fire take it.”

“Dad, you can’t fight a wildfire with a garden hose,” snapped his daughter, Lily, her face flushed with frustration. She stood by the door, car keys clenched in her hand. “We need to go now. The evacuation order isn’t a suggestion!”

“I’m with Lily,” said Mia, Joe’s wife, her voice trembling. “What if the winds shift? What if we get trapped?”

Joe spun around, his face darkening. “We’ve been through fires before. We stayed, and we made it out fine.”

“That was different,” Mia shot back. “This one’s …

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 Chain of Hands

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:57 p.m.

The first knock came at dawn, loud and urgent.

Maria opened the door to find her neighbor, Sam, his face streaked with ash. “The fire’s jumped the canyon,” he said. “We need to get out—now.”

Maria’s heart sank as she glanced at the packed boxes still scattered around her living room. She’d been stalling, unsure what to take. Her husband was deployed overseas, and she felt paralyzed making these decisions alone.

“I’ll help you pack,” Sam said, already stepping inside.

Soon, more neighbors arrived. Rosa from two doors down brought extra boxes, while Ahmed from the corner house hauled Maria’s heavy photo albums to her car.

“The Thompsons!” Rosa exclaimed suddenly. “They’re elderly—they might need help!”

Without hesitation, the group split up. Sam and Ahmed ran toward the Thompsons’ house, their shadows flickering against the orange horizon. Rosa stayed behind to comfort Maria’s trembling hands as they loaded the last …

The Last Letter

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 6:02 p.m.

The fire was closing in.

Lena didn’t have much time. The sky was thick with smoke, and the wind carried embers like burning confetti. The evacuation order had been issued hours ago, but Lena couldn’t leave—not yet. Not without it.

Her hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles ached as she sped down the narrow road, weaving through a maze of abandoned cars. Traffic was stalled—everyone trying to flee, but Lena had only one destination: her house.

Her phone had died an hour ago, and her mind was fogged with panic. Her husband, Ethan, had left a letter for her, tucked inside the old cedar chest they’d inherited from his grandmother. It wasn’t just a letter. It was a promise. A promise he made to her before he left for the war. He hadn’t come back, and the letter was all she had left of him.

Now, the …

Seeds of Tomorrow

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:34 p.m.

Maya's boots crunched over sun-bleached plastic as her team crested another dune. Ten years of expeditions, and all they'd found were the bones of cities and endless stretches of waste. The world had become a museum of humanity's mistakes.

"Two hours of oxygen left," Carter warned through the comm. Even with their advanced filters, the air outside remained toxic—another gift from their ancestors' carbon addiction.

That's when Zara screamed.

Through her goggles, Maya saw it: a shimmer of impossible green in the valley below. Not the sickly artificial green of the algae farms, but real, living plants.

"It's not on any maps," Carter whispered, checking his tablet.

They descended carefully. The valley's walls had hidden it from satellite imaging, creating a microclimate that somehow survived the Great Die-Off. Maya's hands trembled as she took readings. The air here was different—cleaner.

Inside a cave at the valley's edge, they found the …

A Day in the Life

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 5:18 p.m.

It used to be that Marta’s mornings began with the sound of the rooster crowing, just as the first light of dawn broke over the mountainside. She would rise from her small, modest home in the village, step outside to feel the coolness of the earth beneath her bare feet, and tend to her crops. The soil was her world, the fields her second home. There was rhythm to it, a simplicity in the steady march of seasons. She knew the land. It gave back what she put in. And the days were long, but not without purpose.

She remembers those days—before the land became more of a burden than a blessing.

Now, her alarm rings at 6:00 a.m. like it always has, but the sound is jarring in a way that the rooster never was. She’s no longer outside with the soil beneath her fingers; instead, she’s in a …

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 Middle Ground

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:41 p.m.

Jared had always been a mechanic, the kind of guy who could fix anything with a wrench and some duct tape. He'd spent the last decade building his small but steady business, a workshop tucked away in a neighborhood that had started to lose its charm. Cars, trucks, motorcycles—he fixed them all. The work wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills and kept food on the table for his wife and two kids.

These days, however, things felt different. The economy was shifting, and the jobs in the middle—like his—were slipping away. Every day, Jared saw more and more shiny electric vehicles on the road, and fewer of the old trucks that used to line his garage. It wasn’t that his skills were outdated—far from it—but the world was changing faster than he could keep up.

A few weeks ago, a big dealership offered him a contract to become a …