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 …

Rumor Has It

hamed Jan. 29, 2025, 6:10 p.m.

Ashanti swirled her straw in her iced tea, watching Nelly smirk across the restaurant table. “So…” he started, dragging out the word like he was setting up a punchline. “You seen the blogs lately?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, you mean the Ashanti & Nelly Baby Watch 2025 nonsense?”

Nelly chuckled, leaning back. “Girl, they got full-on baby names picked out for us. ‘Lil’ Nelly Jr.’ and ‘Princess Shanti.’”

Ashanti nearly choked on her drink. “Not Princess Shanti!”

He shrugged. “Hey, at least they got taste.”

She shook her head, tapping her nails on the table. “It’s wild how I can just wear a loose hoodie one day, and boom—instant pregnancy.”

Nelly grinned. “That, or we just look too good together. Makes folks wanna manifest a whole baby.”

Ashanti tilted her head. “So… you saying you wanna manifest one?”

His smirk faltered for a split second—barely noticeable. But she caught …

The Water Wars

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 5:55 p.m.

The sun hung heavy in the sky, a merciless eye watching the land below. The river, once a lifeline, was now a trickle—a shadow of its former self. What remained of its waters had become more precious than gold, and the divide between the two communities on either bank had deepened into something unspoken, but understood.

Kara stood at the edge of the river, her hands clenched at her sides. Across the water, a group of men from the neighboring village gathered, their faces hard with suspicion and distrust. She could see them eyeing her, and she knew they saw the same thing in her: a representative of an enemy, someone who would do anything to take what little they had left.

"Talk to them," whispered Jamal, the elder of her community. His voice was rough, like stones grinding together. "If we don't, they'll come for the river. We can't …

The Last Note

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 8:30 p.m.

When the news broke, Reza felt the air shift in the small Italian café where he worked as a dishwasher. Trump had won again. The chatter of locals turned uneasy, blending with the clatter of espresso cups and muttered curses in a language Reza still struggled to understand.

He didn’t care about politics—not really. His life had been simple once, back in Iran. But sanctions and whispers of war had turned simple into impossible, and Reza, like so many, left to chase a dream that felt like smoke in his hands.

That night, walking home in the drizzle, he felt the stares burn hotter than usual. “Foreigner,” a man hissed, shoving past him on the cobblestone street.

Reza’s heart sank. He knew what came next. He’d seen it the first time Trump rose to power—a surge of hate that bled across borders like spilled ink. Back then, he had hope. …

Wall Street Exodus

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 4:21 p.m.

The email hit Andrew’s inbox at 9:03 AM, marked URGENT: “Effective immediately, GreenWave Investments will halt all ESG initiatives to refocus on core profitability.”

He stared at the words, numb. Just last week, he’d given a presentation on the firm’s commitment to sustainability, citing how their green portfolio had reduced carbon emissions by 20% while delivering steady returns. The applause had been polite, but now he realized it was hollow.

In the break room, the whispers were deafening. "It’s the market," someone said. "Investors want quick wins, not greenwashing."

But Andrew couldn’t let it go. He had joined GreenWave two years ago, driven by the promise of impact investing—real change paired with real returns. Now, it felt like he’d sold his soul to the highest bidder.

“Andrew, we need to talk,” his boss, Marcy, said, leaning against the doorway to his cubicle. Her smile was forced, her voice low. “You’re …

In the Waiting Room

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 5:05 p.m.

Mira sat at her cluttered desk, eyes scanning the screen in front of her, the cursor blinking beside another email from a supplier—another delay. The shelves in her small bakery, Sweet Beginnings, sat half-empty, a stark contrast to the days when her display case would be brimming with freshly baked pastries, warm bread, and vibrant cakes. Now, there were only a few sad loaves and half-baked attempts at new recipes, each more experimental than the last.

“Flour, sugar, eggs... where are you?” she muttered under her breath, clicking on yet another message about an estimated shipment. No guarantees. No exact dates.

The global supply chain crisis had made even the most basic ingredients difficult to source. Mira had spent weeks calling, emailing, and begging her regular suppliers to send the most basic things she needed—flour, chocolate, butter—but each time, she was met with the same cold, impersonal reply: delayed, no …

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 Days of El Salvador's Civil War

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:57 p.m.

The sun dipped below the hills, casting long shadows across the fields that stretched like a forgotten memory. José sat on the edge of the trench, the dirt under his fingers cooling as the evening breeze swept through. The faint smell of gunpowder still lingered in the air, though the battles had stopped for the day. In the distance, the silhouette of a soldier—a comrade, perhaps—was barely visible, a reminder that the war was far from over.

1992, the final year of El Salvador’s civil war. A war that had shaped him, broken him, and, in some ways, defined him. It had been more than a decade of fighting, of bloodshed, of choices that had no easy answers. He had once believed in the cause—the revolution, the idea of justice for the oppressed. But now, in the quiet moments before the ceasefire, doubt clung to him like the dust in …

The Eclipse of Whispering Shadows

hamed Jan. 25, 2025, 3:19 p.m.

It was the kind of small town where everyone knew each other's name—and secrets. Maplewood, nestled in a valley surrounded by thick forests, had seen its fair share of odd occurrences, but nothing prepared its residents for the total lunar eclipse that descended one quiet evening.

As the moon began to drift into the Earth’s shadow, something stirred beneath the surface of Maplewood. The town was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves in the cool breeze. But as the moon’s pale light dimmed, strange things began to happen.

It started with old Mrs. Hale, the town’s recluse. She’d always been a bit peculiar, but tonight, as the eclipse reached its peak, she stood in the middle of Main Street, gazing at the sky. Her face was vacant, her hands clenched in fists by her sides. She began to mutter words—ancient words that no one understood, words that sounded …

Carbon Copy

hamed Jan. 29, 2025, 6:17 p.m.

The receptionist at StarClone Inc. barely looked up. “And which version of Ms. Monroe would you like today?”

Jake hesitated, scanning the options on the sleek holographic menu. Classic Blonde Bombshell? Gentlemen Prefer Blondes Edition? The Misunderstood Artist?

“Uh… I guess Classic?” He felt ridiculous saying it. But then again, this was normal now. Everybody rented a clone for something—parties, brand deals, even fake relationships.

The receptionist tapped her screen. “One ‘Classic Marilyn’ coming up.”

A soft ding echoed, and a glass door slid open. She stepped out—Marilyn Monroe in the flesh, wrapped in a white halter dress, eyes twinkling.

“Hello, darling,” she cooed, looping an arm through Jake’s.

His stomach flipped.

The clone’s fingers, warm and real, trailed along his sleeve. “Now tell me, sugar,” she purred, tilting her head, “am I here for business… or pleasure?”

Jake swallowed. “Uh, actually—an ad campaign.”

Marilyn pouted. “Shame. I do love …