Flash Stories

Across the Divide

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 4:23 p.m.

“Rent just went up again,” Sam typed, the words heavy on the screen. She stared at her phone, sitting in the corner of her tiny Brooklyn apartment. The radiator hissed, and the faint smell of burnt toast wafted from the neighbor’s kitchen.

Moments later, the reply came: “I can’t imagine. Here, rents have been capped since the crisis. Have you thought about leaving?”

Sam sighed. “Where would I go, Marta? The U.S. is like quicksand. Once you’re in, you can’t afford to get out.”

Across the Atlantic, Marta sat in her sunny Lisbon flat, sipping espresso. Outside, the pastel buildings of her neighborhood gleamed in the afternoon light. Her job as a remote UX designer paid enough to cover rent, groceries, and even a weekend trip to the Algarve now and then. But she didn’t say that to Sam. She didn’t want to widen the gap between them.

“I heard …

Finding Hope Through Connection

hamed Jan. 27, 2025, 4:26 p.m.

Mira sat alone in her small apartment, staring at the blank canvas on her easel. She hadn’t painted in months, not since her younger sister, Ayla, passed away. Ayla had been her muse, her confidante, and, in many ways, her reason to create. Without her, Mira felt untethered, drifting between grief and a hollow kind of existence.

Her days blurred together, filled with the motions of life but devoid of meaning. Every interaction with her friends left her feeling smaller, overshadowed by their laughter and success. Mira avoided their calls now, unsure if it was out of resentment or shame.

One evening, Mira found herself scrolling through Ayla’s old social media account, revisiting their shared memories. Ayla had been the light of every room, radiating warmth and joy. Mira began to compare herself, questioning her worth. Why hadn’t she been the one with the charisma? Why did Ayla’s absence feel …

Between the Shelves

hamed Jan. 30, 2025, 7 p.m.

Lena hid in the library’s poetry section, pretending to read Neruda while her parents argued over the phone. She traced the lines of a love poem, wishing her own life had that kind of beauty—soft, simple, certain.

Across the aisle, Adam sat hunched over a tattered physics textbook. His father wanted him to be an engineer; Adam wanted to be anything else. The library was his escape, the only place where expectations didn't weigh him down.

They had seen each other before—silent nods exchanged between the aisles, shared glances over book spines. But today, as Lena sighed over her book, Adam finally spoke.

“Rough day?”

She looked up. His brown eyes held something gentle, something that said I get it.

“More like a rough life,” she admitted.

He smirked. “Yeah. I know the feeling.”

For the first time in a long time, Lena didn’t feel alone.

That afternoon, they didn’t …

Love Born from Ashes and Embers

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 6:25 p.m.

The air was thick with smoke and the lingering scent of charred wood. A soft, eerie silence hung over the once-vibrant neighborhood, now reduced to a patchwork of rubble and scattered remnants. The fire had come quickly, devouring everything in its path. But amidst the destruction, there was a quiet resilience, a sense of rebuilding not just homes, but lives.

Lena stood at the edge of what had once been her house. Her fingers brushed the edges of a melted frame, its corners blackened, the photograph inside forever lost. She had come here hoping to find something—a token of the past that could somehow remain untouched by the flames. But everything was gone. Her heart felt heavy, crushed by the weight of what she'd lost: not just the house, but the life she had once known.

But it was then, as she stood among the ruins, that she saw him.

The Curse of Love and Immortality - Chapter 5: Yasmin and the Prince of Winter

dehongi Jan. 16, 2025, 12:11 p.m.

The king’s voice carried a chill that matched the story he was about to tell. The flickering flames in the hearth seemed to dance slower as he began, their warmth struggling against the weight of the tale.
“Tonight,” he said, “we speak of Yasmin, the Pari who gave her heart to a prince cursed by winter—a man whose life was bound to frost and snow, who could never feel the warmth of spring.”
The princess tilted her head. “A curse? Was it magic?”
The king nodded. “It was. The prince, Darian, had once been beloved by the gods of the seasons, but his pride earned him their wrath. He dared to say he needed no one—not even the gods themselves. For his arrogance, he was cursed to live in perpetual winter. Snow followed him wherever he went, and ice bloomed under his touch. No fire could warm him, and no sun could thaw …

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 …

Whispers from the Attic

hamed Jan. 30, 2025, 7:13 p.m.

The attic smelled like old books and dust, a heavy, musty scent that made Emma and Noah sneeze as they dug through boxes of forgotten treasures. Their grandmother had passed away last month, and now, it was their job to clear out her house.

"No way she kept all these old things," Noah muttered, tossing a faded scarf into a pile. "Who even needs a hundred-year-old picture frame?"

Emma shrugged, her hand brushing over the surface of a worn wooden box tucked in the far corner. "Maybe there’s something valuable in here."

They opened it carefully, the hinges creaking in protest. Inside were stacks of yellowed letters, tied together with a faded ribbon. Emma’s fingers trembled as she untied the bundle, the weight of the moment sinking in.

“Who’s this from?” she asked, scanning the first letter. It was dated 1947.

Noah leaned in, squinting at the neat, flowing handwriting. …

The Last Trade

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 5:44 p.m.

The bell over the door jingled one final time. Sofia looked up, her fingers idly tracing the floral patterns carved into the counter. It was a relic from her father’s era, the oak stained with decades of varnish and sweat. In walked Mrs. Devlin, her scarf pulled tightly around her face against the January chill.

“You’re really closing, Sofia?” Mrs. Devlin’s voice was soft, almost mournful.

Sofia nodded, forcing a smile. “Last day. The shelves are nearly bare, anyway.”

She glanced around the store. The jars of Italian olives, the French soaps, and the Turkish tea sets had been replaced with emptiness. The new tariffs had priced her loyal customers out, and soon even her suppliers had stopped calling.

“I thought I’d at least make it to spring,” Sofia said, her voice cracking despite herself. She cleared her throat. “Guess not.”

Mrs. Devlin set a tin of local honey on …

The Last Decision

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:22 p.m.

The email came at 8:04 a.m. sharp.

Subject: Job Role Adjustment Notification
Dear Clara, effective immediately, your position as Senior Marketing Strategist will be reevaluated by AXIOM, our autonomous decision-making AI. Your presence is not required during this process.

Clara stared at the screen, coffee cooling in her hand. Presence not required. That stung. It felt like being erased.

She’d spent eight years climbing the corporate ladder at Nexus Corp, crafting campaigns that turned products into household names. Now, AXIOM—an algorithm housed in a fortified server farm—would decide if she still mattered.

Clara marched to the observation room where AXIOM’s interface pulsed on a wall-sized screen, a shimmering flow of charts, recommendations, and decisions. Technicians milled about, barely looking up as she entered.

"Clara Fisher," she announced, voice tight. “I want to speak to it.”

A technician raised an eyebrow. “You can’t speak to AXIOM. It’s not designed for direct interaction.”

The Inheritance

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:59 p.m.

At forty-five, Lisa's inheritance arrived in three forms: her mother's arthritis, curved spine, and empty savings account. She recognized them all – they'd been coming for years, wrapped in double shifts and missed doctor's appointments, in grocery store mathematics and deferred dreams.

"Just like your grandmother," the doctor said, studying Lisa's x-rays. "The wear pattern's identical. Housekeeping work?"

"IT support," Lisa corrected. "But Mom cleaned houses. Grandma too." She didn't mention the weekend cleaning jobs she'd taken after the tech company switched to contractors, cutting their health insurance. Or how her daughter Ashley now cleaned offices after school, despite Lisa's promises that things would be different for her.

Her college roommate Rachel posted photos of her daughter's Stanford graduation. Their paths had diverged slowly at first – small differences in starter homes, vacation choices, preventive care. But time was an amplifier. Rachel's parents had paid for her education; Lisa's debt …