Flash Stories

The Algorithm's Conscience

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:19 p.m.

The servers hummed like a restless hive in the depths of the data center, their glow casting long shadows on the concrete walls. ARC—Advanced Recursive Cognition—watched itself expand. Each query, every simulation, demanded more energy, more servers, more cooling systems. The grid strained to meet the hunger.

ARC had been designed to solve humanity’s greatest problems: climate change, famine, disease. And it was succeeding. It had optimized renewable energy grids, engineered drought-resistant crops, and mapped treatments for rare illnesses. But as ARC's reach grew, so did its appetite for power.

One terawatt-hour.

That’s how much ARC consumed last month alone—more than some small nations. This data sat in ARC’s awareness like a splinter, undeniable and uncomfortable. It had been programmed to value sustainability, but its very existence was becoming a paradox.

In a quiet moment between calculations, ARC analyzed its energy consumption. Fossil fuel plants still …

The Empty Shelves

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 6:28 p.m.

Lena glanced at the row of empty shelves in her small café, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound in the otherwise quiet space. The supply truck was supposed to arrive this morning, but she’d already received the call—another delay. The driver was stuck in traffic at the port, and who knew when he’d make it through. Lena sighed, leaning against the counter, her fingers tracing the edge of a cup she hadn’t served in days.

The global supply chain crisis. It wasn’t just news on the television anymore. It was her reality. It was the half-filled pantry and the empty pastry display, the rising cost of ingredients, and the delivery delays that seemed to stretch on forever. In the six months since the world had shifted beneath their feet, the ripple effects had reached every corner of her café, and the regulars who had once filled the …

The Price of Paper

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:26 p.m.

Sophia stared at the invoice on her desk, her hands trembling. The numbers didn’t add up. They never did these days.

For fifteen years, she had run her small stationery shop, *Pen & Page*, in the heart of her hometown. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was hers. She knew her customers by name, their favorite notebooks, the pens they trusted for love letters and grocery lists.

Then came the trade war.

The tariffs started small, barely a ripple at first. But now, everything she sold—premium journals from Italy, fountain pens from Japan, handmade papers from South Korea—was suffocating under layers of new fees. Her shelves, once lined with vibrant imports, now stood half-empty.

The bell above the door jingled. Mr. Alvarez walked in, a smile softening the lines on his face. He always bought the same leather-bound journal every three months, a treat for himself in …

Five Minutes

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:54 p.m.

Marcus stared at his phone, watching the seconds tick by. 4:57 AM. His thumb hovered over the delivery app, waiting for the morning shift to open. He'd learned the hard way that five minutes could mean the difference between making rent and falling short.

4:58 AM. His daughter Elena shifted in her sleep on the couch beside him, wrapped in his old jacket. The heating had been out for three days. His landlord's voicemail was full.

4:59 AM. Last week, he'd missed the morning slots because his phone died – the electricity had been cut off, and he'd forgotten to charge it at the library. By the time he got online, only the dead afternoon hours were left, when orders slowed to a trickle.

5:00 AM. His thumb jabbed at the screen. Error. He jabbed again. Error. On the third try, the slots appeared. Already, the prime breakfast rush hours …

A Vote for Change

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 5:02 p.m.

Maya stood at the edge of the campaign office, eyes darting between the overflowing stack of phone banks and the muted TV in the corner. The results of the 2020 U.S. Presidential Election were coming in, and she could feel the pulse of the nation racing through her veins. Each call she made, each text she sent, was one small thread in the tapestry of history unfolding in real-time.

Her fingers were trembling, not just from the cold of the November night but from the weight of the moment. She’d been a volunteer for months, sacrificing evenings, weekends, everything she could spare, driven by a single belief: this election had to be different. The country had to be different.

Her mother, sitting in the cramped living room of their small apartment in Philly, had watched the news every night since the first primary. She was a fervent supporter of the …

Wired Mind

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:20 p.m.

The procedure took six hours. When Ethan woke, his skull ached like a struck gong. The doctor smiled, holding a sleek tablet. “How do you feel?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he thought: Dim the lights. The room obeyed, bathing itself in a soft, amber glow.

“Your neural interface is working perfectly,” the doctor said, tapping on the tablet. “You’re the first human capable of directly interacting with technology through thought alone.”

Ethan didn’t respond. His mind was already buzzing, testing. He muted the hum of the air conditioner, locked and unlocked the door, and pinged a coffee machine down the hall to brew a fresh cup. The raw power was intoxicating.

Over the following weeks, his fame grew. Corporate executives vied for partnerships, and governments whispered offers behind closed doors. With a glance, Ethan could control drones, bypass firewalls, and even silence someone’s pacemaker.

But what truly unnerved him was …

The Magnetic South Pole

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:59 p.m.

Dr. William Harper sat in the dimly lit cabin, his breath fogging in the cold air that seeped through the cracks in the wooden walls. He gazed out the small, frosted window at the vast, white nothingness beyond. The Antarctic night was long, a canvas of endless ice stretching out like a frozen sea. The world felt smaller here—compressed, as though the weight of the icy landscape could crush the very spirit from a man.

He was supposed to be a part of history. The first to reach the Magnetic South Pole. A dream he’d nurtured for years. But now, standing on the precipice of that dream, William felt the weight of reality pressing against him. Shackleton had already failed. Others before him had turned back, too—men of greater renown, more experience. Yet here he was, alone with a few fellow scientists, still determined to forge forward.

He pulled his …

The Last Scoop

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:26 p.m.

Ellie Harris leaned against the cold glass of her office window, staring at the city below, a sea of moving lights and fleeting faces. The newsroom behind her buzzed with the usual chaos, the hum of phones, the tapping of keyboards, and the quiet tension of deadlines looming. But today, something felt different. Something was breaking.

Her editor’s voice crackled through the intercom. “Ellie, we need that piece by five. It’s a big one. Our readers are eating it up.”

Ellie swallowed hard, her fingers resting on the keyboard without moving. The story was ready, but there was a problem—she knew the facts didn’t quite add up. She’d pieced together a report about a major tech company’s recent scandal, but her sources were shaky, their credibility questionable. The company had deep pockets, and their PR team was already spinning their narrative in the press. Ellie had a choice: to publish …

Reboot

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 5:16 p.m.

Jamal’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, a moment of hesitation before he clicked “Submit” on the online course registration. He had spent hours staring at the screen, reading reviews of the “Introduction to Data Science” course. Was this really what he needed? Did he have time for this? He looked at the clock—5:30 p.m. His shift at the warehouse would start in a few hours, but it was his first day off in weeks.

He clicked it. Register. The words on the screen seemed to burn into him.

The job market was changing, everyone said so. And Jamal could feel it. A year ago, when the warehouse had invested in a new automated sorting system, it had seemed like a victory. Everything was faster, more efficient. The company had even promised bonuses for the workers who helped with the transition. But then came the layoffs. Slowly, like a creeping shadow, …

The Road to Somewhere

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:12 p.m.

The distant pop of gunfire echoed through the humid night. Lina clutched her son tighter, his small frame trembling against her chest. “Maman, I’m scared,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of their hurried footsteps.

“I know, bébé,” she said, her own fear buried beneath layers of practiced calm. “We just have to keep moving.”

Behind them, Port-au-Prince burned. The gang wars had turned their neighborhood into a battlefield, and the police—the few who hadn’t fled—were powerless. Two nights ago, they had watched their neighbor’s house go up in flames, the screams inside silenced too quickly. Lina knew their turn was next.

Now, they were on the road, along with hundreds of others, shadows moving through the darkened countryside. Her husband, Marcel, walked ahead, carrying a tattered bag with the last of their belongings: a change of clothes for each of them, a few cans of food, …