Flash Stories

The Changing Shift

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

Rafael wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, squinting at the conveyor belt that stretched before him. The hum of machinery filled the factory, a relentless buzz that had been his soundtrack for the past eight years. He adjusted his gloves, eyes flicking to the monitor above, where the digital readout of his daily quota flashed. Only a few more hours to go. A normal day, or so it should have been.

As he moved down the line, inspecting parts, tightening screws, a loud beep interrupted his routine. His stomach lurched. He knew that sound.

The robotic arm in the corner of the factory, one of the many that had been installed over the past few years, had malfunctioned. It was supposed to be performing his job—fixing the bolts and ensuring every part was secured properly—but now it was stuck, its metallic arm twitching in place.

"Not again," …

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 Last Coal Worker

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:21 p.m.

Adi stood on the edge of the empty mine, the vast crater stretching before him like an open wound. Dust clung to his boots and his hands, even though it had been months since the machines stopped roaring. The silence felt unnatural.

For thirty years, he had worked these pits, carving black veins from the earth that powered cities he’d never seen. The coal was life—it paid for his children’s schooling, his parents’ medicine, and the simple house in the village where his wife planted flowers. Now, it was nothing.

Indonesia was moving on. “Green energy,” they called it. Solar farms and wind turbines were sprouting where smokestacks once stood. The government offered training programs, new skills for a cleaner future. Adi had attended one last week, sitting awkwardly in a classroom filled with younger men and women. They talked about batteries and circuits, things he barely understood. …

Smoke Signals

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:33 p.m.

The evacuation order came at 3 AM, but Sarah Henderson had been awake since midnight, watching the orange glow creep closer to Pine Valley. Twenty years in California had taught her to read the signs: the shifting winds, the ash coating her windshield, the nervous rustling of animals in the canyon.

"The Martinez family still hasn't left," her husband Mark said, lowering his binoculars. From their hillside home, they could see most of their neighbors loading cars and securing homes.

"Rosa won't leave without her mother's ashes," Sarah replied. "And she can't find them."

What Sarah didn't say was that she'd seen Rosa's teenage son, Miguel, hiding something in the old Peterson shed last week. The same shed where their neighbor, Mr. Peterson, had stored his "collection" before his death last spring. Everyone knew he'd been a hoarder, but nobody knew what he'd hoarded.

The fire sirens wailed closer. Sarah …

The Notice

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

David pinned the notice to the break room wall with trembling hands. "Minimum Wage Increase - Effective Next Month." Around him, the convenience store hummed with its usual fluorescent drone, but the air felt different. Lighter, somehow.

"Maybe I can quit the night shift at the warehouse," Maria whispered, mental calculations playing across her face. "Actually help Tommy with his homework instead of falling asleep over his math book."

Tommy was in David's sister's class at the community college. She taught developmental math there – the remedial classes they'd added after the state made tuition free at public colleges. Her classroom was full of students like Tommy, brilliant kids who'd worked jobs instead of joining study groups, who'd chosen shifts over tutoring sessions.

The bell chimed as Mrs. Chen from the dry cleaners next door entered, clutching her grandson Kevin's hand. "Did you see?" she asked, pointing at an identical …

The Line in the Sand

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:23 p.m.

Leila sat at her father’s kitchen table, the faint smell of tobacco clinging to the curtains. The radio hummed with angry voices, a populist politician railing against “elitist climate agendas.” Her father muttered in agreement as he stirred his tea.

“You know they want to take our jobs,” he said without looking at her. “Shut down the factories, ruin what little we’ve got left.”

Leila’s chest tightened. “That’s not true, Baba. The factories could transition to clean energy—there’s funding for that.”

Her father scoffed. “You’ve been reading too many of those articles again. Climate action is just a way for the rich to keep us poor.”

It wasn’t the first time they’d had this argument, but tonight felt heavier. Leila had been invited to speak at a town hall meeting tomorrow, to represent a grassroots climate initiative. She was proud of the work they were doing—installing …

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. …

Seams of Power

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:31 p.m.

Isabella Martinez slammed her sketchbook shut as her assistant rushed in with the news. "Did you hear? The First Lady-elect chose Dominique for the inauguration gown."

Three months of sketches, sleepless nights, and carefully orchestrated "chance" meetings at charity events—all wasted. Isabella glanced at the red silk draped on her mannequin, a dress that would now never see the lights of the National Mall.

Her phone buzzed: a message from Sophie Chen at Vogue. "Need comment re: Dominique announcement. Deadline 1 hour."

Isabella's fingers hovered over the keyboard. She had dirt on Dominique—everyone did. The "ethically sourced" fabrics that actually came from sweatshops, the designs suspiciously similar to young indie creators. One phone call to the right blogger...

But then she remembered last year's Designers Guild dinner. Dominique had pulled her aside after Isabella's divorce hit Page Six. "The vultures are circling," she'd warned. "Watch your back." That night, three …

The Last Storm

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:12 p.m.

The smell of damp wood hung in the air as Nia picked through the wreckage of their living room. The roof had collapsed during last night’s storm, and sunlight streamed through the jagged gaps, illuminating a house that no longer felt like home. Her husband, Mateo, sat on the edge of what used to be their sofa, cradling their daughter, Sofia, who was fast asleep despite the chaos.

“It’s getting worse,” Mateo said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Nia didn’t answer. She stood by the broken window, staring at the street outside. The asphalt was cracked, littered with debris. Their neighbors, faces weary and hollow, shuffled through the wreckage of their own lives. The storm had been the third this month. Floodwaters had come and gone, leaving behind the stench of decay and the gnawing realization that they were losing the fight against nature.

“We could …

The Unseen March

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

In the quiet town of Pine Ridge, where the roads were dusted with memories of a slower time, the protest felt out of place. Pine Ridge was a town that barely made it onto maps, let alone news headlines. But when the world’s rage over police brutality ignited, it didn’t stop at the boundaries of the big cities. It seeped into small towns too, to places like Pine Ridge, where people might not always raise their voices, but when they did, it was hard to ignore.

Samantha was the first to show up, walking alone toward the town square. Her sneakers kicked up the dirt as she glanced at the empty street. It felt like an impossible thing to do in a town where everyone knew everyone else’s business. She wasn’t sure how this would go, but after months of scrolling through the news, watching videos of people whose lives …