Flash Stories

The Book Beneath the Pomegranate Tree

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:52 p.m.

Lila had always loved the smell of old books. It was a scent she grew up with, the ink, the leather, and the parchment, all blending into something magical. Her father, the town librarian, would tell her stories about the books in the back of the library—the ones that weren’t checked out, the ones too fragile to touch. He always warned her not to go near them, but curiosity was in Lila’s blood, and it wasn’t long before she discovered the hidden section of the library where the rarest books were kept.

One evening, as the sky turned a dusky orange and the air was thick with summer heat, Lila sat under the pomegranate tree in her backyard, flipping through a leather-bound book she had found that afternoon. The pages were old and yellow, and the ink was fading, but the tales within were like nothing she had ever read. …

The Last Pari

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:48 p.m.

The narrow alley off Tehran’s bustling Valiasr Street smelled of roasting chestnuts and damp stone. Beneath a flickering neon sign, an elderly woman sat cross-legged by her modest cart. She wore a faded chador, her hands delicate as she polished tiny glass bottles that glimmered like trapped rainbows. A crooked wooden sign hung from the cart:

"For wishes you didn’t know you needed."

Most passersby barely noticed her. Those who did usually smirked, muttering about old superstitions. But not Leila.

Leila was late for her shift at the hospital, her worn sneakers slapping against the pavement, but something about the woman made her stop. Maybe it was the faint scent of roses that seemed to hang in the air around her, cutting through the diesel fumes. Or maybe it was the way the woman’s eyes—strangely bright for someone so old—seemed to meet hers as though she’d been waiting.

“Do you …

One Thousand Clay Birds

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:26 p.m.

Aiko’s hands were raw, the tips of her fingers covered in the dust of clay. The studio, usually filled with the soft hum of life and color, had become her sanctuary of silence. Only the sound of the clay breaking as it fell into shape, then the rhythmic pressing of her thumb against each delicate wing, filled the space. She would hold each bird to the light, inspecting it for flaws, before setting it down to dry.

Her partner, Haruto, lay in the room across the hall, his body still, trapped in a coma that had lasted nearly a year. Doctors said there was no hope. They told her that it was a waiting game now, a matter of time before his body would give way. But Aiko refused to listen.

She believed in the old stories, the ones her grandmother had whispered to her when she was young. One …

Kay Khosrow's Mirror

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:50 p.m.

The antique shop sat on a forgotten corner of Tehran, sandwiched between a shuttered bakery and a mechanic’s garage. Its owner, Arman, liked it that way. He preferred customers who wandered in by accident, drawn by the faded sign that read “Treasures of Yesterday.”

On a rainy Tuesday evening, as he was locking up, a man in a black coat appeared out of nowhere. He carried a cloth-wrapped bundle under his arm. His face was obscured by the brim of his hat, but his voice was sharp.

“I was told you might appreciate rare things,” the man said, placing the bundle on the counter.

Arman hesitated. Over the years, he’d seen enough fakes to know that rare things usually came with strings. But something about the man—his urgency, or perhaps the way his hand trembled as he unwrapped the object—kept him silent.

The cloth fell away, revealing a goblet-like object …

The Forgotten Gate

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:41 p.m.

Dr. Parisa Shirazi stood in the biting wind, staring at the jagged ruin jutting out of the barren mountainside. The gray stones, weathered by centuries, bore intricate carvings—a language she didn’t recognize, yet somehow felt she had always known.

“It’s just a wall,” her assistant Navid muttered, kicking at a loose rock. “An old fort, maybe.”

Parisa shook her head, brushing dirt off one of the carvings with trembling hands. The swirling patterns were unmistakable. “This isn’t just a wall,” she whispered. “It’s the wall.”

Navid frowned. “You can’t mean—”

“Yes. Alexander’s Wall.” Her voice was reverent. “The barrier that held back Gog and Magog.”

The legend had been a fascination of hers since childhood: a gate forged by the Great Alexander to imprison ancient forces of chaos. It was dismissed as myth by scholars, but the unearthed carvings told a different story.

Parisa traced a line of script with …

The Red Thread Merchant

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:28 p.m.

Jin Mei sat in her office, the soft hum of city life seeping through the cracked window. The walls were lined with shelves of old books, trinkets from her travels, and a few fading red silk ribbons. She was known in the city as the “Red Thread Merchant,” a modern matchmaker who could see the threads of fate that bound people together. Red threads—ancient, unbreakable, invisible to all but her—wove through the fabric of life, tying souls to one another. She could follow these threads, find their knots, and untangle the mess of love and destiny that kept people apart.

Her clients came to her with their hopes, desires, and broken hearts, seeking guidance. Jin Mei never failed to find the right person for them. No matter how complicated or tangled the threads seemed, she always knew how to untie them. But Jin Mei herself, despite being a master of …

The Instagram Rumi

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:45 p.m.

Layla’s feed was everything: perfectly curated photos of sunsets, lattes, and glossy flat lays of her latest book finds. She had built a small empire around her “self-love” brand, offering advice on everything from skincare to soul-searching. But after one particularly grueling day of posting, she found herself at a crossroads. The likes, the comments—they were all so… hollow. She craved something deeper, but she didn’t know where to begin.

That’s when she stumbled upon a Rumi quote in her inbox. It came from an unfamiliar account—@Rumi_Whispers.

"You were born with wings, why prefer to crawl through life?"

She wasn’t a spiritual guru, but there was something about the simplicity and depth of it that felt like a sign. Maybe she could post it. Maybe this was the direction she had been subconsciously searching for.

She shared the quote to her story, paired with a soft sunset filter. She tagged …

Mirror Maker's Daughter

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:36 p.m.

In the quiet town of Kota Bharu, beneath the shade of ancient trees and the hum of the marketplace, lived a craftswoman named Amirah. She was known for her skill in creating mirrors—silvered glass set in ornate wooden frames—but these were no ordinary mirrors. They held a secret, passed down through generations of women in her family, a secret that Amirah was only beginning to understand.

Her grandmother, an old woman with silver hair and eyes that seemed to hold a thousand stories, had taught her the craft when she was young. “A mirror,” her grandmother would say, “is not just a reflection. It holds memories, and in the right hands, it can bring them back.”

As a child, Amirah thought her grandmother's words were nothing more than a metaphor for the delicate art of mirror-making. But on the night of her twenty-first birthday, something changed. A visitor arrived in …

One Thousand Demons

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:38 p.m.

In the dusty glow of the weaving room, Mina ran her fingers over the half-finished carpet. The air smelled of wool and dye, a familiar comfort in her family’s workshop. The intricate pattern shimmered under the light—a labyrinth of vines and symbols that had been passed down for generations.

Her grandfather’s voice echoed in her mind: “Each thread, each knot, has a purpose. The pattern isn’t just for beauty—it’s a story, a shield.” As a child, she’d thought it was just superstition, the way her family whispered prayers as they worked. Now, at 19, it felt like a relic of a past too distant to matter.

But that changed the night she found the letter.

Hidden inside an old wooden loom was a brittle parchment covered in delicate Persian script. Mina held it carefully, reading by the dim light of an oil lamp. The words spoke of King Solomon’s divs—demons …

The Coffee Shop Mystic

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:40 p.m.

Samir had lived in Silicon Valley long enough to know the routine. Get up, code, debug, deploy, repeat. His life had become a series of neatly ordered lines of code, each day blending into the next. His routine was simple: wake up, grab a latte from the corner coffee shop, and head to the office to face the ever-increasing demands of the tech world.

But lately, there was something about the barista, Kian, that made Samir pause. Kian was always quiet, a man of few words, but his presence had a calmness that seemed to seep into the very air of the shop. His movements were fluid, precise, as if each action was a prayer or meditation. Samir often found himself watching, intrigued by the way Kian would carefully grind the beans, time the pour, and smile at the steam rising from the cup as if he were witnessing something …