Flash Stories

A Day in Belarus

hamed Jan. 26, 2025, 7:41 p.m.

The sun barely pierced the fog that hung over Minsk, but Anya had already been awake for hours. Her phone buzzed incessantly, messages from Telegram channels lighting up her cracked screen. Updates, warnings, meeting points. She stuffed the device into her pocket and tightened her scarf, bracing against the icy wind.

This was the day that could change everything—or nothing at all.

The election loomed like a storm cloud. Everyone knew the outcome had already been decided, but that didn’t stop them. The streets were alive with whispers, defiance blooming in graffiti scrawled across walls: “Жыве Беларусь”—Long Live Belarus.

Anya reached the rendezvous point, a dingy park with frozen benches and barren trees. A small group had already gathered, their faces a mix of hope and fear. They were students, teachers, factory workers—ordinary people who had grown tired of the endless cycle of lies and repression.

“Anya, over here.” It …

The Tariff Tango

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 9:02 p.m.

At the International Trade Summit, held in a glitzy Vienna ballroom that smelled faintly of cigars and strained diplomacy, President Trumph strode to the podium. His signature red tie swung like a pendulum, warning of the chaos to come.

“I’m telling you,” Trumph began, pointing at the gathered delegates, “the EU’s been ripping us off for decades. Tariffs are coming, big ones. Huge ones. You won’t believe it!”

The French delegate, a silver-haired man named Jean-Claude, leaned over to whisper to his German counterpart. “Is he serious?”

“I think he is,” said Angela, sipping her mineral water with the calm of someone who’d seen worse. “Though I must admit, his economic theories are as unpredictable as his hair.”

Trumph jabbed his finger toward the Chinese delegation. “And you! Ten percent on imports if you don’t start playing fair!”

Ambassador Li smiled serenely. “Mr. President, we only play Go. You’re the …

A Letter to G.H. Hardy

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 6:06 p.m.

Srinivasa Ramanujan sat in the dim light of his small room in Kumbakonam, his hand trembling slightly as he dipped the quill into the ink. The weight of the paper before him felt impossibly heavy, though it was no thicker than any other sheet he had written on. He stared at the blank page for a long moment, the words caught between his heart and his mind, unsure how to bridge the gap between his passion and the world he was about to reach out to.

He was no stranger to the vastness of mathematics. To him, numbers weren’t just symbols on a page; they were living, breathing things, a language of the universe he had been listening to since childhood. But it had never been easy. His education had been fragmented, his talent unrecognized by those around him. For years, he had worked alone, writing out formulas and theorems …

Shifting Frontlines

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:33 p.m.

Captain Elena Rojas stood on the edge of the crumbling seawall, her boots coated in salt spray. The Atlantic was rising faster than their projections, swallowing what used to be prime farmland. Behind her, the remains of Hampton Base stretched like a ghost town—abandoned barracks, rusting radar towers, and hastily packed-up equipment.

She flipped through the latest report from Central Command. It wasn’t about enemy missiles or covert operations. It was about freshwater shortages and migration patterns, about destabilized regions where floods and droughts had upended lives and governments alike. The language had changed over the years. “Combat zones” were now “climate corridors,” and “defense strategies” focused on food security and rebuilding infrastructure.

“You ready for this?” came a voice behind her.

It was Sergeant Webb, her second-in-command. He pointed toward a cluster of civilians arriving on foot—a mix of families, young men, and elders carrying their …

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 …

The Memory Collector

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 5:36 p.m.

Daniel's grandmother left him an old smartphone when she died. Not money, not jewelry, not her cherished recipe book – just an iPhone 6 with a cracked screen and a Post-it note that read: "One photo every day. You'll understand."

At first, he thought dementia had finally won. His grandmother had never owned a smartphone; she could barely operate the TV remote. Yet here was this device, its battery somehow still holding a charge, filled with 4,380 photos – exactly one per day for the past twelve years.

The first photo was of a half-eaten toast on a blue plate. The second, a pigeon on a windowsill. The third, his grandfather's reading glasses left on yesterday's newspaper. Mundane moments, captured with trembling hands and poor framing.

He almost deleted them all until he noticed the pattern. Every photo had a story, written in the Notes app with surprising technological proficiency:

The Red Line

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 8:57 p.m.

Admiral Sarah Chen stared at the holographic display floating above her desk in Pearl Harbor. Red dots pulsed along the disputed maritime borders - each one representing a potential flashpoint between vessels. The Quad's latest warning to China had stirred up the hornet's nest, just as she'd predicted during the ministerial meeting last week.
Her wrist console buzzed. A message from Captain Rajesh from the Indian Navy: "Activity near the Andaman Sea. Three unmarked vessels crossed into international waters. Your thoughts?"

Sarah rubbed her temples. After thirty years of service, she'd learned to read between the lines of diplomatic speak. The Quad's statement had been firm but measured. China's response, predictably defiant. But it was these small provocations that worried her most - the kind that could spiral out of control before anyone could intervene.
Her screen lit up with another alert. A Japanese Maritime Self-Defense Force vessel was tracking suspicious movement …

The Cherry Blossom Waltz

hamed Jan. 25, 2025, 3:17 p.m.

The World Expo in Osaka was a celebration of progress, a meeting of cultures, and a shining beacon of human achievement. Nations from around the globe had gathered, each pavilion showcasing their most advanced technology and traditions. But amidst the steel and glass, one pavilion stood out: a small, unassuming booth representing a tiny village in southern Italy.

Giovanni, the elderly village elder, was dressed in his finest suit, his back hunched with years of life’s wisdom. He had been invited to the Expo to share his community’s proudest tradition: the ancient art of dancing beneath cherry blossoms, a centuries-old ritual that was said to bring good fortune and harmony to those who danced.

As Giovanni prepared to demonstrate the dance in the Italian pavilion, something unexpected happened. A Japanese tourist named Aiko wandered in, drawn to the soft music echoing through the room. Aiko, a young artist from Kyoto, …

The Mirror Breaks

hamed Jan. 9, 2025, 5:29 p.m.

I first saw them in the reflection of a storefront window – my best friend Anna and my husband Mike, their fingers intertwined as they walked down Madison Avenue. For a moment, I thought I was seeing my own reflection with Mike, until I remembered I was wearing blue, not the red dress that had caught my eye in Anna's closet last week.
"It's just a sample sale," she'd said when I asked why she was headed downtown. "Nothing exciting."
The same lie Mike had told me this morning.
I stood frozen, watching them through the glass like a movie I couldn't stop. Fifteen years of friendship reflected back at me, distorted now. Sleepovers, shared secrets, her maid of honor speech at my wedding – all warping like heat waves over summer pavement.
They stopped at the corner, and Mike brushed a strand of hair from her face – the same gesture he'd used …

The Water of Life

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:25 p.m.

The late shift at the hospice always brought quiet moments laced with a strange intensity, like waiting for something unseen to arrive. For Leila, it was the time she felt most connected to her patients, their whispered fears and confessions filling the void of the night.

Mr. Aram was her favorite. At 92, his body was frail, but his mind burned sharp, filled with stories of a life that spanned wars, revolutions, and empires. He often spoke of his youth in the Alborz Mountains, his voice soft and wistful, like a breeze brushing against worn pages.

That night, as Leila checked his vitals, he caught her wrist with surprising strength. "Sit," he said, his hazel eyes gleaming like polished amber.

She hesitated but pulled up a chair beside his bed. “What is it, Mr. Aram? Are you in pain?”

He shook his head. “No pain. Just time.” He glanced at …